Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  “Ha. Not quite. But I am still here.”

  “Well, go ahead. Tell me all about it.”

  She recounted the highs of the previous weeks—from her initial awkward shots to The Bottoms, the canoe shot, the darkroom, and even helping some of the new artists get settled when they arrived for their own retreats. When she finished, he laughed. “What is it?”

  “I’ve just never heard you like this. You’re almost giddy. It’s like a vacation high and a creativity surge all rolled into one big ball of energy. I’m a little jealous, I’m not going to lie.”

  “What do you have to be jealous about? You have all the time in the world to focus on your photography. It’s your passion and your career. That’s my goal. It’s why I stayed.”

  “I get it. I do. I think you’ll get there one day, and this is a great first step. How are your daughters doing with your sister?”

  “I think they’re doing just fine.” The day before, she’d talked to Betsy from that same porch swing. Betsy had been taking a nap when Jenna called. She could hear the fatigue in her sister’s voice, even though Betsy denied it. She’d said the girls had been up extra early that morning, asking for chocolate milk and tractor rides.

  “That’s good,” Max said. “How are you doing without them?”

  She stretched her legs out on the coffee table in front of the swing. Another strong breeze lifted the hair from around her face and blew a stack of napkins to the ground. Jenna closed her eyes. “I miss them. A lot. But I’m trying to be someone they can be proud of. And I’m doing good things here, Max. You’d be proud too.”

  “I’m always proud of you, sweetheart. You can’t do a thing to change that.”

  twenty-eight

  Betsy

  Everything Betsy knew about gardening could fit into a teacup, but even she knew late July wasn’t an ideal time to plant anything other than maybe some heat-tolerant petunias and hope for the best. Still, she kept finding herself standing in the middle of her long-abandoned garden at odd times, imagining clouds of pink and red, mounds of white and yellow, stalks of green. Soft petals, smooth leaves, a sweet aroma of life and jasmine on the breeze. She had an urge to dig her hands in the dirt, to rip the dead roots and twiggy stalks from the earth and start over.

  Unable to sleep once her mind began churning with ideas and the day ahead, she rose early one morning and padded to the kitchen. She was at the kitchen table with a pile of old Southern Living magazines and a thick stack of gardening books when Ty shuffled into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” he mumbled, then kissed her cheek, his face still warm with sleep.

  Ever since the night of the festival, they’d been polite with each other. Kind, gentle—casual, even. But there’d been a vein of tension running through all their interactions. They’d yet to go back to the conversation they’d had that night. Conversation, argument, fight—she didn’t know what to call it, only that it felt like they’d stuck their toes into untested waters. The morning after, he’d slipped out of bed early, and neither of them had brought up the topic again. Now, almost a week later, she wondered if they should just let it drop altogether.

  His eyes scanned the table, taking in the array of books she’d dog-eared and pages she’d ripped out of the magazines: “Flowers for Southern Home Gardens,” “Plant These Now to Reap a Fall Harvest,” and “Planting in the Dog Days of Summer? It Can Be Done!”

  Ty smiled.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not laughing,” he said. “I think it’s great. It’s about time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He poured coffee into a mug. “I’ve seen you poking around out in the garden. I figured it wouldn’t be long before you decided to give it another go.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop thinking about getting in there and getting my hands dirty.”

  He smoothed his hand down the back of her head. “Whatever you decide to do with it, it’ll be great.” He opened the porch door and slid his feet into his boots. “What about peas? Is it the right time to plant those?”

  She leaned over and pulled a book toward her. Southern Vegetables for Every Season. “I don’t know, but I’m sure this will tell me.”

  “I’d love some field peas. Oh, or purple hulls.” He closed his eyes and she knew he was imagining the meals his grandmother used to cook. He’d told her about them—piles of field peas, collards, butter beans, fried okra, thick hunks of cornbread. She’d never cooked like that, but maybe some late-season peas would be a good place to start.

  After a field trip from ABC Daycare that afternoon, Betsy buckled the girls into the car and drove up the road to Sweet Peas Nursery. She could have driven farther to a big box garden center, but she preferred the smaller garden shop that only folks in Elinore and the surrounding small towns knew about. Plus, the owner, Marjorie Clarke, was an old friend. She and Marjorie had grown close back when Betsy worked in the garden often. She used to visit Sweet Peas at least once a week to purchase plants or seeds, or sometimes just to chat. Marjorie had lived in Elinore for seventy-five of her eighty-two years. She knew everyone and, in Betsy’s estimation, everything about both gardening and life.

  Betsy parked in the dirt parking lot and helped the girls out of the car. A tire swing and a small plastic slide were set up in the shade under the low arms of a live oak to the side of the shop. The girls made a beeline for the tree, squealing and yelling.

  “Y’all be careful on that swing,” Betsy called. “I’ll be just inside.”

  She stepped onto the creaky front porch of the shop. Inside, Marjorie was ringing up a customer while her great-grandson Malik, who was at least a foot taller than the last time Betsy had seen him, slid a pallet of butter daisies into a brown paper sack. While Marjorie finished up, Betsy walked through the shop, trailing her fingers on pots of ivy, small hand-painted birdhouses Marjorie’s husband, Moses, made, and delicate wind chimes that clinked together in the blast of air from the window AC unit.

  Behind her, Marjorie sent the customer out the door with one of her customary strong-armed hugs that belied her age and small stature and a few last words of wisdom. “Now, don’t forget to water those sweet things. They’re not fussy, but they might rebel if they get too thirsty. Just like Mo if I don’t keep enough sweet tea in the house.” She laughed and patted her friend on the back, then turned to face Betsy.

  “My dear.” She held her arms out. “It has been much too long.”

  Enveloped in Marjorie’s soft arms, Betsy smelled fresh soil and the faint aroma of Bengay. It was a familiar scent she’d missed. “It’s good to see you, Marjorie.”

  “Mm-hmm, it is.” Marjorie pulled back and held Betsy by the shoulders, looking her up and down. “You don’t look any worse for the wear, although with those two young’uns running around out there, you have some explaining to do. It’s been a while, but not that long.”

  Betsy smiled. “They’re my nieces. They’ve been spending some time with us this summer.”

  “Well, that’s nice. Always good to have family around. Isn’t that right, Malik,” she called.

  The young man popped his head up from behind the counter and slyly hid his iPhone behind his back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Your daddy’s out on a delivery, but when he gets back, I imagine he won’t want to see you sitting there playing on that phone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sighed and grabbed a spray bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels. “I’ll be in the back if you need me, Nana.”

  “Good boy.” Marjorie rolled her eyes at Betsy. “Those phones, I tell you. Now, I know you didn’t come out here just so those girls could play on that old tire swing. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I let my garden go, which is probably obvious since I haven’t been here in ages. I know it’s not a great time to plant, but I’m ready to get back in there. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Honey, it’s always a good time to plant. God gave
us enough variety that we can always find something to stick in the ground and grow. It may take extra work in this heat, but you’re not afraid of a little hard work, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t think so. Come on, let’s see what we can find.”

  Marjorie took Betsy’s elbow and led her through the shop toward the back door. On the way she gave Betsy’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Last time you were in here, you mentioned going to see a doctor.”

  Betsy smiled. Marjorie wasn’t one to beat around the bush. She thought back to the last day she’d visited Sweet Peas. She’d come in for some marigolds to keep rabbits from eating her flowers, but instead she sat in Marjorie’s back office and cried. After a year of trying to get pregnant on their own, she’d just called to book an appointment for her and Ty with Dr. Fields.

  Marjorie had tried to get her to look at it as a step in the right direction. “He’ll get you fixed up in no time. Healthy girl like you, you shouldn’t have any trouble at all.”

  But even then, weeks before they started any kind of real treatment, Betsy had sensed it would be an uphill battle. She just didn’t realize her garden would be an accidental casualty.

  “Did you end up going to see him?” Marjorie prodded.

  “I did. We spent a lot of time in his office over the last two years. Can’t say it did any good though. I don’t think we’ll be going back.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Marjorie murmured. “In my experience, no time spent on a worthwhile goal is ever wasted, even if you don’t get what you want right then.” She patted Betsy’s hand before pushing open the screened door to the greenhouse. “You never know what may happen down the road, my dear.”

  The walls of the greenhouse were lined with shelves of terracotta pots, some empty, some bursting with blooms and herbs. Marjorie had a green thumb like nothing Betsy had ever seen. In even the driest, hottest summers or the coldest winters—cold for south Alabama, anyway—Marjorie coaxed blooms from the ground, pots, even old feeding troughs. She never used commercial fertilizer, just natural, organic fertilizers she mixed herself. She said she used the same recipes handed down from her grandmother and great-grandmother, all plant whisperers just like her.

  She led Betsy to a table in the courtyard outside the back door of the greenhouse. “Now, remind me, how sunny is your garden? All day sun, a few hours, dappled shade . . . ?” Marjorie poked around in various pots and containers, checking tags and markers as she spoke.

  “It’s full sun until about midafternoon. Then it’s partly shaded by our big oak tree.”

  “And you’re wanting flowering plants or edibles?”

  “Both? I was thinking flowers, but Ty asked for peas. Maybe I could plant some flowers in with some vegetables?”

  “Yes, this’ll work well.” She pulled a few pots out and set them on the ground. Then she crossed the courtyard to a rack of seeds inside the greenhouse. She spun the rack until she found what she was looking for and pulled a handful of packets down. A few minutes later, the ground by Betsy’s feet was covered in pallets and pots of various sizes.

  “Let me tell you what we’ve got.” Marjorie handed her the seed packets. “Pinkeye purple hulls for your husband. An inch deep, two inches apart. Winter butternut squash, some Champion collards. These General Lee cucumbers are good for salads. And carrots—it’s a little early, but you could try them. I grabbed the Thumbelina variety. Figured your little nieces might have fun with those, and they’ll be great for roasting and stews in the fall.

  “Now for flowers, these mix just fine with veggies and take the heat pretty well.” She nudged each pot with the toe of her Nikes. “Lantana, salvia. Your sweet potato vine might get a little leggy in the heat, but you can just pinch it back. Make sure they get enough water. I have hibiscus and mandevilla. You could use either one, but make sure they have something to climb up on—a trellis or porch rail. Even some fishing line strung up tall would work.”

  Betsy reached down and touched the bright-orange hibiscus petals. “They’re beautiful.”

  Just then, Addie and Walsh came running around the side of the shop. “Aunt Betsy?”

  “I’m out here, girls,” Betsy called.

  “Wow.” Walsh peered down to sniff the flowers.

  “None of these have much of a scent,” Marjorie said. “But go try those big white blooms over there.” She pointed to a large gardenia bush planted at the side of the shop. The girls ran over and stuck their faces up to the blooms.

  “That bush came from a single cutting of my grandmother’s gardenia,” she said to Betsy. “I planted it there when Moses and I first married and we started this nursery. I gave it a little plant food here and there, but I mostly left it alone and let it do its own thing. Never could have imagined it’d still be here sixty years later. Just goes to show good things can happen even when you’re not looking for them.”

  Malik helped Betsy load up the plants in the back of her car. When Betsy called the girls to come back to the car, he ran inside and brought out a bowl of lollipops. The girls each chose one—red for Addie, blue for Walsh—and gave him shy thank-yous.

  Betsy hugged Marjorie before she climbed in. “Thank you. For the plants and the chat.”

  “You know you always have a friend here, my dear. As long as I’m still ticking along, you’re welcome anytime. Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out two pairs of kid-size gardening gloves. “Give these to those two sweet girls. And let me know if you have any questions about your seeds. Best to plant them early morning or late evening, when the sun’s not too strong. No need to burn them up when they’re just getting started. And please tell your husband I said hello.”

  Betsy smiled. “I’ll do that.”

  After a bright start, the afternoon grew overcast, and now, in this space between dinner and the girls’ baths, thunder rumbled in the distance. Betsy was glad for the reprieve, even a slight one, after a week of relentless heat.

  “Okay, girls, are you ready? Everything’s gotta go.”

  “Ready,” Addie said, her eyes on the dirt.

  “On your mark, get set . . .”

  “Go!”

  And with that, Addie and Walsh were off, tearing through the abandoned garden wearing their new gardening gloves. Betsy had instructed them to pull out everything but the dirt, and for a few minutes, they took the job seriously. Addie knelt over a patch of daylilies that had long ago dried up and pulled with glee, flinging clods of dirt as she went. But when she dropped the first pile of weeds and plants into the wheelbarrow, she grabbed its handles and pushed it through the yard, her mission forgotten. Walsh yanked fistfuls of weeds before discovering a line of roly-polies in a muddy spot at the back of the garden.

  As the girls played and yanked a few weeds here and there, Betsy did the real work. Remnants of her years-ago project—nurturing a garden that would produce both a bounty for their kitchen table and blooms they could sell in bouquets to farm visitors—fell away beneath her fingers, loosened by the roots.

  She’d once been determined to carry on the gardening tradition passed on from Ty’s grandmother, a woman known for her luscious blooms and vegetables she shared with neighbors. As the newest Franklin woman to live on the farm, Betsy had felt the pressure to be the best farmer’s wife she could be, and that meant doing things just as they’d been done before her.

  Much to her surprise, she discovered she enjoyed gardening: the immediate satisfaction of pulling weeds, creating a clean space for plants to thrive. Seeing tiny sprouts pop up where the day before there had just been small mounds of soil. Bright green in spring, deeper emerald green in summer. Gardening had been a comforting outlet, a distraction from monthly disappointments.

  Yet the pressure remained—an internal drive to work hard, to bring forth life out of the hard ground, to not fail the women who had come before her. When she resorted to making an appointment with Dr. Fields, the garden became too much life, too much vitality, and she�
��d walked away.

  This time around, she’d work the garden for herself, no one else. Maybe they’d end up with some vegetables later in the year, maybe not. Maybe they’d have flowers, maybe they’d have nothing. Betsy would do what she could to claim her own green thumb, but it wasn’t up to her, and this time she was okay with that. It would depend on the generosity of the hard-packed dirt, the summer rain and sun, the survival of these plants in this garden.

  For Betsy, it was already a success. Her hands in the dirt, the quiet twilight around her, new life waiting to be sunk down into the ground. Just doing something purposeful—something solely for her—felt good.

  As she pulled the last of the old plants from the ground, the porch door slammed. A moment later, Ty called to Addie and Walsh and handed them watermelon Popsicles. While they raced against the heat—trying to lick the Popsicles faster than they melted—Ty joined her by the garden.

  She stood, then laughed when her knees popped. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Ty picked up a pot and inspected the label, then placed it back on the pallet. “A lot has changed since you were last out here.”

  Betsy stared at the fresh plot of earth, her mind on the past, her heart drifting toward the future.

  “You done for the night?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I want to get all this in the ground before I head in. The garden deserves to be full again. And as you can see, Marjorie loaded me down today.”

  “Do you want any help?”

  “I don’t think so. It shouldn’t take me long.”

  “I’ll take the girls for a spin then. Let you finish up here in peace.”

  He whistled and pointed to the Gator sitting in its shed by the barn. The girls cheered and ran ahead of him through the gate and out to the field beyond. By the time the engine roared to life a few moments later, Betsy had begun digging the first set of holes—one inch deep, two inches apart, just like Marjorie said—and dropped in the purple hull peas. Collards came next, then carrots and squash.