Page 60 of Welcome to Murder Week

Ten points for Dev for knowing another Brontë.

“Don’t remind me,” I say. “She was ghastly.”

“She was wild with emotion,” he says.

“Exactly.”

He laughs. “I meant it as a good thing.”

We move through the rows, Dev bending down from time to time to pull out a weed. He disentangles a delicate stem from a bushy plant as tenderly as a mother pushing an errant curl off her baby’s forehead. He picks up a tray of tiny seedlings. “These are ready to plant.”

“Can I help?”

Dev hands me the seedlings and points to an empty patch ofground. He tells me how deep to dig and how far apart. I kneel in the dirt and start to scoop away soil with my hands. Dev asks if I want a spade, but I like the feel of the damp earth.

“Full disclosure,” I tell him. “I have the opposite of a green thumb.”

“It’s not rocket science. It’s water plus sun, a bit of manual labor, and patience.”

“Is that all?”

“And faith.”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” I say.

“Let me show you.” Dev gets down next to me, takes a seedling out, tips it from its plastic pot. “Pull out the root strings gently like this.” He teases them out, holds the whole thing in one hand while he moves more dirt away with the other. He sets the plant down and pushes dirt around it and pats it down.

I’m extra careful as I take one of the seedlings and repeat what Dev did, conscious of him standing above me and watching. But then he moves on and I lose myself in the task, tipping and scooping and patting. The breeze moves through my hair. I wipe a fly from my face. At the other edge of the garden, Dev resumes digging. Birds chirp, and the wind sashays through the bushes. A dog barks; a car shifts gears as it climbs the hill.

When all the seedlings are in the ground, I stand and brush the dirt from my hands and jeans. Dev pulls a hose from the side of the house and hands it to me. I put my thumb on the nozzle and spray the ground where I planted.

“I think they’ll do fine,” Dev says.

I imagine it will take weeks, if not months, for these plants to grow and bear fruit. The sun will rise and set and rise and set, rain will sprinkle down, and the seedlings will push their way into plants, stems thickening until they are sturdy and strong. And onemorning, perhaps as sunny as today, there will be tiny buds, little vegetables beginning their journey. I see it with astonishing clarity: I’m walking through the garden with a wicker basket, filling it with tomatoes, and green peas, and thick bunches of chard. I hoist the basket on my hip like I’m carrying a toddler and bring it inside the cottage to Dev.

A gust of wind brings me back. It’s sudden and strong, like a rogue wave, prodding me to attention, if not like an electric shock, then like a spark.Wake up. I look around the garden. It all looks the same. And yet, something is different and unsettling. The wind picks up again and now I hear her voice.This, this is it, Cath. This will be perfect!

A coo of a bird, a morning dove, and the breeze pushes the plants, makes them bow. I can see her too, eyes shining with excitement, talking about fate, and stars aligning, and divine justice, and even jiggery-pokery, putting right on my path, among all these villagers and dowdy tourists, a man like Dev. My mother may as well be squeezing my hand.This is what you must run toward. Leave everything for this. It is everything.

I don’t realize my hand is trembling until I see the hose shake. I drop it, watch it flip on the ground like a wounded snake. The iciness in my gut spreads to my chest, my hands.

“I don’t feel well,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” Dev says.

“I have to go.”

The water from the hose is making a puddle.

“Do you want some water? Some tea?”

“I don’t like tea.” It comes out too loud, emphatic. “I have to go.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Dev says, brushing the dirt off his hands.

“No, you garden, I can walk.”

I rush inside, pick up my bag.

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