had psychoanalyzed a snake and could honestly make that comparison.
She kept her eyes wide open while she finished her coffee, but there were no more surprises. Her plan for the morning—pre-snake—had included a visit to Leah’s garden. Yesterday Cissy had stopped by with freshly baked biscuits and a well-thumbed paperback she had bought at a book sale in Woodstock.
“It’s about herbs and such,” she’d said. “I thought you might like it. Look, it has pictures.” She’d paged through, pointing out the illustrations. “You might find something in that garden that looks like these. You know, something still growing from when Ms. Spurlock lived here.”
Kendra had been touched by the girl’s thoughtfulness. And the biscuits had been impossible to resist. She’d already eaten three.
Now it was time to decide who was master of this property. If she was really going to remain here any length of time, she had to come to terms with the wildlife.
Inside, she pulled on her oldest jeans, a long-sleeve linen shirt, a brimmed straw hat and hiking boots that laced well above her ankles. She had to do this before the sun came out in earnest. Book in hand, along with an old weed cutter she had found hanging on a nail at the back of the house, she made her way down the steps and over to the garden.
Leah had been an ambitious gardener. That much was clear. Of course, Kendra knew ambition and survival often went hand in hand. Leah had lived on poverty’s doorstep. This garden had surely fed her as well as provided remedies for her neighbors and others in the community.
Although she knew too little about the woman, she did know that after marrying Tom Jackson, Leah had eventually moved into a modern house in New Market, about twenty-five miles to the south. But Kendra wondered if Leah had come back afterward to tend this garden. She had been dead for twelve years, so it was difficult to tell when the garden had been abandoned. Mother Nature could stage a takeover in just a year or two.
For a moment, teetering at the garden’s edge, she reconsidered her decision. Then she made the plunge. The weed cutter—at least that was what she called it—had a rectangular blade with serrated edges. The blade was attached to the bottom of a broomstick-like handle. Under better circumstances she would have found it lightweight, but even a dinner plate felt heavy these days. She set the book on the ground and began to swing at the nearest weeds, cutting a path through the dead stalks of last year’s foliage. Today, a simple path. Soon enough, a look at what was left of the garden beds.
By the time she trimmed a section three feet by about six, sweat was pouring down her cheeks. She was so exhausted that she wondered if she would make it back to the house. The beds flanking the path had been built up for drainage. After carefully checking the ground, she sank down on the bed at her right. Face in hands, she breathed deeply.
The sun was higher now, but the air was still cool. She was shaking from her efforts, and her arms felt as if she had been lifting fifty-pound weights. She’d had pneumonia. She’d barely survived two bullets. She’d had major surgery. Of course she was weak. Of course she had no stamina.
Of course she wanted to feel normal again, to be the fearless, energetic woman who had never taken no for an answer.
She sat that way until the trembling began to subside. It was time to stop for the morning. When the sun started its afternoon descent, she would try to cut another swath, only smaller this time.
She leaned back and realized that she was resting on newly emerging foliage, silkier and softer than the weeds at the edge. She turned around to examine it. The patch surprised her. It was crowded with the same plant—too crowded, of course, since no one had dealt with it in at least a decade except to mow weeds in fall. But the new leaves were a soft green oval with a pointed tip, and they emerged directly from
She kept her eyes wide open while she finished her coffee, but there were no more surprises. Her plan for the morning—pre-snake—had included a visit to Leah’s garden. Yesterday Cissy had stopped by with freshly baked biscuits and a well-thumbed paperback she had bought at a book sale in Woodstock.
“It’s about herbs and such,” she’d said. “I thought you might like it. Look, it has pictures.” She’d paged through, pointing out the illustrations. “You might find something in that garden that looks like these. You know, something still growing from when Ms. Spurlock lived here.”
Kendra had been touched by the girl’s thoughtfulness. And the biscuits had been impossible to resist. She’d already eaten three.
Now it was time to decide who was master of this property. If she was really going to remain here any length of time, she had to come to terms with the wildlife.
Inside, she pulled on her oldest jeans, a long-sleeve linen shirt, a brimmed straw hat and hiking boots that laced well above her ankles. She had to do this before the sun came out in earnest. Book in hand, along with an old weed cutter she had found hanging on a nail at the back of the house, she made her way down the steps and over to the garden.
Leah had been an ambitious gardener. That much was clear. Of course, Kendra knew ambition and survival often went hand in hand. Leah had lived on poverty’s doorstep. This garden had surely fed her as well as provided remedies for her neighbors and others in the community.
Although she knew too little about the woman, she did know that after marrying Tom Jackson, Leah had eventually moved into a modern house in New Market, about twenty-five miles to the south. But Kendra wondered if Leah had come back afterward to tend this garden. She had been dead for twelve years, so it was difficult to tell when the garden had been abandoned. Mother Nature could stage a takeover in just a year or two.
For a moment, teetering at the garden’s edge, she reconsidered her decision. Then she made the plunge. The weed cutter—at least that was what she called it—had a rectangular blade with serrated edges. The blade was attached to the bottom of a broomstick-like handle. Under better circumstances she would have found it lightweight, but even a dinner plate felt heavy these days. She set the book on the ground and began to swing at the nearest weeds, cutting a path through the dead stalks of last year’s foliage. Today, a simple path. Soon enough, a look at what was left of the garden beds.
By the time she trimmed a section three feet by about six, sweat was pouring down her cheeks. She was so exhausted that she wondered if she would make it back to the house. The beds flanking the path had been built up for drainage. After carefully checking the ground, she sank down on the bed at her right. Face in hands, she breathed deeply.
The sun was higher now, but the air was still cool. She was shaking from her efforts, and her arms felt as if she had been lifting fifty-pound weights. She’d had pneumonia. She’d barely survived two bullets. She’d had major surgery. Of course she was weak. Of course she had no stamina.
Of course she wanted to feel normal again, to be the fearless, energetic woman who had never taken no for an answer.
She sat that way until the trembling began to subside. It was time to stop for the morning. When the sun started its afternoon descent, she would try to cut another swath, only smaller this time.
She leaned back and realized that she was resting on newly emerging foliage, silkier and softer than the weeds at the edge. She turned around to examine it. The patch surprised her. It was crowded with the same plant—too crowded, of course, since no one had dealt with it in at least a decade except to mow weeds in fall. But the new leaves were a soft green oval with a pointed tip, and they emerged directly from
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