Page 33 of Shit Happens in Ivydell

“Perfect. I can put them in little pots at the base of my sign. If there’s enough, I’ll put some by Jensen’s new sign, too.”

“Why does he need a sign? His casita doesn’t have a name.”

“It does now. I named it. Vintage Vibes. Josephine is helping me with the sign. It will be something to remember me by in Ivydell after I’m gone.”

Her eyes cloud, and her gaze quickly drops to the marigold she’s packing dirt around. “That’s nice.”

Her tone doesn’t match her words. I hadn’t thought about her being sad when I have to leave, but I’m a connection to someone she loved and lost. She lost Gran long before I did. She had to lose her twice.

“Yeah, he wasn’t all that into the idea at first. I had to convince him to let me name it.”

“You can stop there.”

“I was going to.”

She looks up and smiles. I don’t think she really hates the idea of Jensen and me being together. She’s just protective of her people. Gran was like that, too. For all their differences, I see more and more similarities between them every day.

I wonder if she and Gran would’ve lasted if they’d met somewhere other than here.

The orange flower in my hand is going to be more than a functional plant to me after my experience here is over. It’s going to be a key to the memory of planting these. To the pots under our signs if we have extras. I hope Myrna overbought.

“How do you water these?”

“Jensen connects several hoses to reach out here from his shop. He takes care of watering them.”

“He waters the flowers?” My voice sounds like I’m about to faint. I’m not, but damn. That’s a good-guy thing for sure.

“Oh, Jesus. It’s not an act worthy of the fucking Nobel Peace Prize. Get a hold of yourself.”

There’s a certain charm to her roughness. I like it. A lot.

“If you were giving superlatives to the residents of Ivydell, which award would you give Jensen?”

“None. I wouldn’t feed his ego.”

“He doesn’t have a big ego.”

“Because I don’t go around telling him he’s a god for doing simple shit, like watering a plant.”

“I don’t think it would hurt him to hear he does a good job. I’m not sure he heard it much growing up.”

She stops and stares at me. “He’s a pretty private person. I have to assume you surmised that on your own.”

“He’s opened up a little. I may have read between the lines.”

“I’m not saying you got it wrong, but I’m not sure how much praise he would put up with.” She rolls her eyes before she adds,“From anyone aside from you, I mean. I’m sure he can’t get enough of you telling him how pretty he is.”

“I have never said that to him.” I blow a dead leaf off a marigold as I lift it from the ground. “But, goddess, he is beautiful.”

“Pant less. Plant more.” Her tone is still grouchy, but a grin quirks at the corners of her mouth. “Did you pick that up from your grandmother? Saying goddess instead of god?”

“Yeah. She never said god. Always goddess. I think I mimicked all her sayings from the time I could talk.”

“She had some good ones.”

“So many. She was a wise woman.”

“Yep.”

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