Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Graham
I find Dad in the garden at sunrise, stubbornly bent over his tomato plants despite the early spring chill. His walker stands abandoned by the back steps.
"You're supposed to use that," I say, handing him a mug of coffee.
"Been gardening longer than you've been alive." He straightens slowly, joints creaking. "Folks need to stop telling me how to do it."
The morning light catches the silver of his hair, matching the strands I’ve been finding in mine. We stand in comfortable silence, watching the sun paint the mountains gold. My coffee goes cold in my hands and I’m sure his isn’t faring any better.
"You seeing Lila today?" he asks finally.
"Got a small crew starting on the Carlton Place garden." I try to keep my voice neutral, though something in Dad's tone tells me I'm not fooling anyone. "I’m sure she’ll be around. The festival's coming up fast."
He nods, eyes on the horizon. "Your mother would've loved that, you know. You and Lila, working together again."
The mention of Mom hits me like it always does, a dull ache behind my ribs. She never got to see the man I became, and never knew if I'd make something of myself after my failed attempts at playing professional baseball. Never got to tell me if leaving was the right choice.
"It's just business, Dad."
He snorts. "Nothing's ever 'just' anything with you two." He takes a sip of his cold coffee and grimaces. "Help me inside? These old bones aren't what they used to be."
I retrieve the walker, pretending not to notice how heavily he leans on it. The house creaks around us as we make our way to the kitchen, every sound familiar yet strange. Mom's collection of rooster figurines still watches from the windowsill, though dust has dulled their colors. My old height marks still climb the doorframe, stopping abruptly at sixteen, the year she got sick.
"You planning to hide in the guest room forever?" Dad asks as I pour him fresh coffee.
"I'm not hiding." But the boxes of my life still sitting unpacked in my childhood bedroom say otherwise. "Busy with work."
"Mmhmm." He settles into his chair at the kitchen table, the one that still has a slight wobble from when I crashed into it learning to ride my skateboard indoors. "That why you're up at dawn? Work?"
Before I can answer, there's a knock at the back door. Hazel Elliott lets herself in without waiting for a response, carrying a covered dish that smells like her famous coffee cake.
"Joe Hart, you better not have been out in that garden without your walker again," she says, setting the cake on the counter. "And you, Graham. Sit. You look like you haven't had a proper breakfast in years."
"Yes, ma'am," Dad and I say in unison, a habit thirty years hasn't broken.
Soon the kitchen fills with the scent of coffee cake and fresh coffee. Hazel moves around the space like she belongs there, which I suppose she does. She's been checking in on Dad since before I moved back, though she never once guilted me about not being here sooner.
"So," she says, setting a plate in front of me. "I hear you're helping Lila with the community center garden."
I focus on my coffee cake. "News travels fast."
"It's a small town, hon. Always has been." She sits beside Dad, her eyes kind but knowing. "Sometimes the things we run from are the very things we need to run toward."
"I'm not running from anything." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I'm here for Dad."
"Of course you are." Hazel pats my hand. "But maybe you're also here for yourself. For the boy who used to throw balls out back until long past dark.”
"I remember that boy," Dad says quietly. "He had big plans."
"He left," I remind them.
"And now he's back." Hazel stands, gathering empty plates with efficient movements. "The question is, what's he going to do about it?"
I think about Lila in the diner yesterday morning, the way sunlight caught in her hair, how she still takes her coffee the same way after all these years. How the sight of her bent over that proposal, all business-like and professional, made me want to reach over and tuck the stray strand of hair behind her ear like I used to do in high school.
"I'm going to build a garden," I say finally. "A good one."
"For the community center?" Hazel asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.
"For Juniper Falls." I meet Dad's eyes across the table, see the understanding there. "For home."
Dad nods, just once. Then he pushes back from the table, reaching for his walker. "Well then, son. Better get to it. Those weeds won't clear themselves."
I stand to help him, but he waves me off. "I'm not completely useless yet. Go on. Just..." he pauses at the kitchen door. "Come home for dinner? We could order from Sarah's. Like we used to."
"Yeah, Dad." My throat feels tight. "Like we used to."
"Those azaleas are staying." Lila's voice carries across the garden, firm despite the early hour. She's wearing practical jeans today instead of her usual floral dress, but there's still something distinctly feminine about the way she's planted herself in front of the overgrown bushes, arms crossed.
"They're half dead," I point out, wiping sweat from my forehead. The morning sun is barely up, but clearing decades of overgrowth is heavy work. "We could replace them with something more durable. Evergreen shrubs would?—"
"Be boring." She kneels beside the nearest azalea, gently parting its branches. "Look. There are healthy buds under here. They just need some care."
I lean on my shovel, trying not to notice how the sunrise turns her hair to burnished copper. "Some things are too far gone to save, Li."
Her hands still on the branches, and I realize how that sounds. "The azaleas," I add quickly. "I meant the azaleas."
"I know what you meant." But she won't meet my eyes. "And I'm telling you they'll bloom. Trust me on this."
Trust. There's that word again. I drag a hand through my hair, probably leaving dirt streaks. Baseball was simpler than this. You either hit the ball or you didn't. Made the catch or dropped it. Here, every decision feels loaded with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack.
"What about there?" I gesture to the corner where we've already cleared away a tangle of dead vines. "I'm thinking a row of boxwoods. Clean lines, easy maintenance?—"
"Wildflowers." Lila stands, brushing dirt from her knees. "Purple coneflowers, black-eyed susans, maybe some butterfly weed. Something that makes people smile."
"Something that needs constant attention, you mean."
"Is that such a bad thing?" She turns to face me fully, challenge in her eyes. "Some things are worth the extra effort, Graham."
Behind her, my crew pretends to be very interested in their work, though I catch Michael hiding a grin. I'd warned them this morning that the owner of Petals & Posies might have some strong opinions about the garden. I hadn't mentioned she was my high school sweetheart, but in Juniper Falls, everyone knows everyone's story anyway.
"How about a compromise?" I pull out my notebook, flipping to a fresh page. "We keep the azaleas—" her face brightens "— if they show signs of life after pruning. And we split the corner. Structured plantings on the outside, wildflowers in the center. Like a..." I sketch quickly, letting the design flow. "Like a surprise when you round the path. Practical meets whimsical."
Lila moves closer, peering at the drawing. A strand of her hair brushes my arm, and suddenly I'm seventeen again, showing her my baseball stats in this same notebook, her hair carrying the same honeysuckle scent.
"That could work," she says softly. "If you add?—"
"Coral bells along the edge?" I'm already sketching them in. "For texture?"
Her startled laugh makes me look up. "You remember."
"That they were your grandmother's favorite? Hard to forget." I don't add that I've caught myself planting them in every garden I've designed over the years, like some kind of horticultural habit I couldn't break. "So, do we have a deal?"
She studies the sketch a moment longer, then nods. "Deal. But I want to be here when you prune the azaleas."
"Wouldn't have it any other way." I tear out the page and hand it to her, careful not to let our fingers brush. "I'll let you know when we're ready for that part."
"Good." She tucks the sketch into her back pocket and starts toward her shop. At the garden gate, she pauses. "Graham?"
"Yeah?"
She looks back at the azaleas. "Sometimes things just need a second chance to grow."
Before I can respond, she's gone, leaving me with a shovel in my hands and the sense that we weren't just talking about plants anymore.