Page 11 of I'll Keep Her Safe

I return to my room and unpack the rest of my clothes, set a few picture frames along the mantel, arrange my cookbooks on the shelves, and scatter a couple of throw pillows on the bed. I haul my weighted blanket onto the foot of the bed and roll out my rug on the wooden floorboards. It’s a dark red and purple design I found for a steal at a flea market in Brooklyn last year. Already the room feels like my own.

Unpacking doesn’t take long, then I sit back on the bed and glance around my new space with a smile. Nothing left to do but go downstairs.

Except… the thought of going to sit in the living room with Bailey’s dad—without Bailey there—feels weird. I get the sense he’s not comfortable having me in his space. Bailey was so worried about me finding somewhere to live she’s probably browbeaten him into taking me in, and while it was kind of him to allow it, he doesn’t seem thrilled about having to deal with me. That’s hardly surprising, especially given his history with Bailey. I don’t think he’s the nurturing type.

Well, I won’t get in his way. I’ve got the new business to focus on, plus work. My mind drifts to my job at the coffee shop in upper Manhattan, the one that cut my shifts in half last week. That’s a problem, as is the fact that my place of work is now an hour-long subway ride from here. Maybe I should spend this afternoon giving my résumé to local coffee shops and restaurants, see if anyone is hiring. There must be a Staples I can swing by to make copies. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

I rise from the bed with renewed vigor. That will take several hours and keep me out of the house, away from Mr. Mathers until Bailey arrives later.

And after that… I’m sure I’ll think of something.

5

Wyatt

The metal gate to the Fruit Street Community Garden closes behind me with a creak, and I exhale a sigh of relief. Work has kept me from visiting for a few days, and I hate leaving my garden unattended for so long. Instead, I’ve spent my time running from one job site to the next, trying to make sure everything is going smoothly, meaning I haven’t had my hands in the dirt for days. I miss it.

My cart bumps along behind me as I walk the gravel path that separates the individual garden patches. It’s a little red wagon you’d picture a kid with in the 50s, carrying my seedlings, gardening tools, and the most essential thing of all—my cooler. After another long day in the relentless New York heat, the only way I can stand to be out here this evening is the promise of a cold drink.

It’s not like I want to be at home, anyway. Poppy will no doubt be there, and that is proving to be a problem. She’s as gorgeous as I remember, despite my efforts not to notice, but you’d have to be dead not to notice those scarlet lips, the way her fiery red hair frames her heart-shaped face. And don’t get me started on the loose, flowy, sage-green dress she wore when she moved in yesterday. It was perfectly modest, covering her arms to the elbows and stopping just above her knees, but that didn’t stop my eyes from straying to her shapely calves, following the delicate line of her wrist. She has a small tattoo of a lotus flower in black outline there that caught my eye, even though I know I shouldn’t look. Believe me, it won’t happen again.

Since last night, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid her. Bailey came over for the evening, and after an awkward hour of trying to juggle being both polite to Poppy and not making eye contact, I excused myself upstairs and left the girls to it. Besides, Bailey and I had already done our movie night a couple days ago, so I figured she could use the time with her friend. I promised her I’d fly out to San Francisco to spend more time with her as soon as she gets settled.

I might need to, if Poppy is still around.

A slight breeze stirs me from my thoughts. My garden plot is to the right, and I’m pleased to see the plants looking healthy and happy as I kneel to inspect them. There’s an assortment of vegetables because I like to grow as much of my food as possible, supplementing my diet with fresh produce from one of the local farmer’s markets. Though I don’t cook nearly as much as I’d like in the summer, given how busy I am with work.

I pick a couple of bell peppers, placing them in the empty basket waiting in my wagon. My rhubarb is finally ready, so I harvest that too. There’s a lot more than I realized, and I’ll have to figure out how to use it.

Grabbing a tray of seedlings from my wagon, I set about planting them into the garden bed. A sigh of satisfaction escapes me as my fingers dig into the soil, and I’m transported back to my childhood on Long Island. My mom got me gardening at a young age, probably to distract me from the absence of my father. We spent many summer afternoons transforming our bland backyard into a suburban jungle, complete with towering sunflowers and rows of fresh vegetables, and in the process, it transformed me.

I’ve run my own landscaping company for over a decade. We’re highly sought after, and several of my designs have won awards. Each summer we take on more projects and I hire more people. I never expected we’d reach the heights of success that we have, and it’s a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it means I have the money to do whatever I want, like paying for Bailey’s college tuition when her mom couldn’t, but on the other, the more success we garner, the more time I spend managing people and projects, and the more it feels as though I’m straying from what I originally set out to do: spend my days with my hands in the soil.

I dig a few shallow holes, then carefully lower my seedlings into place, patting the soil gently around them before watering each one. The weather has been incredibly hot lately, and I hope they can withstand the heat out here.

The gate to the garden creaks open behind me, and I turn to see Marty shuffle along the path, his wicker basket on one arm. At ninety-two, he’s surprisingly spry, popping in to tend to his own veggie patch most days. Marty has lived in the neighborhood since the 60s, and was instrumental in getting the Fruit Street Community Garden started. He’s somewhat of a legend among the plot-holders here, and the person I enjoy chatting to the most.

“Hey, Marty,” I call, rising to my feet and brushing the dirt off my hands. Every time I say his name, I’m reminded of Marty McFly fromBack to the Future, and while this Marty may not be as young or mischievous as Marty McFly, he has the same energy. Today, though, he’s not walking with the usual spring in his step.

“Evening, Wyatt.” His wispy white hair lifts in the breeze, and he pauses in front of my vegetable patch. “Those leeks are looking good.” He produces a paper bag from his basket. “More lemons?”

“Thanks.” Marty has a huge lemon tree in his yard and frequently brings me some. “These make great lemonade.” I go to pull a glass bottle of the homemade drink from my cooler to hand him one, but pause at the way he hobbles past me. “Is everything okay?”

“Ah, it’s my hip. Been giving me trouble lately.” His brows tug together as he surveys his patch. “I was hoping to check on my radishes,” he murmurs, lifting a shaky, gnarled hand to gesture to the plants.

“Why don’t I do it?” I motion to a wooden bench behind him. “Take a seat.”

He nods gratefully. “Thank you. Things aren’t as easy as they used to be.”

I uncork the lemonade, passing it to him. He thanks me with a nod, then takes a sip, releasing a long “ahhh” as I kneel in the dirt to check his radishes. The leaves are over four inches tall, which means it’s time to harvest.

“These are ready,” I say. He nods his agreement, and I tug a few from the soil. They’re the perfect shade of magenta, promising the ideal peppery, spicy taste. I hold them up to show Marty, but he’s gazing wistfully at the lemonade in his hand.

“I wish Joyce could taste this,” he murmurs, deep creases beside his sad eyes. “She always loved your lemonade.”

“She did.” I busy myself dusting the dirt from the radishes, allowing him a moment to reminisce. His wife of seventy years died last fall, and for a while he didn’t show his face much in the garden. He hasn’t been the same since returning, and my heart aches for him. What must it be like to lose the person you spent your entire life with?

Hell, what must it be like to spend your life with one woman?

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