Chapter 11 Paige
PAIGE
Sycamore Avenue is heaving with morning traffic as I motor my van through the busy intersection, scanning for a parking spot.
Now we’re rushing to get back for my next appointment, and this one’s too important to do without coffee.
There’s a loading zone just past Sweet & Strong, which has the best coffee in town, and I pull the van in.
After I hop out, I open the backseat to unbuckle Noah.
“No!” He swipes at me, his forehead pulled down in an angry line. “I stay here.”
“Sorry, buddy. You’ve got to come in with me.” I dodge his flailing limbs, and his whines turn to all-out cries as I pull him from the car seat.
I march with a struggling Noah to the cafe, ignoring the passing stares. I’m too used to it by now. Living in a small town as a single mom means there’s always gossip and eyes following me.
The smell of roasting beans and pastries hits me, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. Rachel sees me and gives me a nod, from one working mom to another. She knows my regular order, and she understands how quickly I need my coffee and how strong.
Noah wiggles in my arms and complains to be let down. I hold him tight, not trusting he won’t run out to the sidewalk, and I don’t have time for a toddler chase today. The little guy is getting fast.
I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand as I wait for my coffee. I was up until midnight last night revising the plans for the Huntington job, which would have been fine if Noah had slept through the night. But he got up twice, which means I need my coffee extra strong.
“And a ham croissant,” I call to Rachel, gaining a cross look from the smartly dressed woman at the front of the line.
I get it. No one likes a line-jumper, but I’m too busy thinking about what the reporter I’m meeting with might ask me and whether the Huntingtons will like the new plan.
Not to mention, given Noah’s restless night and general grumpiness today, I’m worried he might be getting sick.
With all that on my mind, I’m not about to care what she thinks.
Noah stretches his tubby hands toward the box of colorful toys Rachel keeps in the corner. But I don’t have time to wait for him to play.
“Not today,” I tell him firmly.
Noah goes rigid in my arms and lets out an almighty wail. Every head in the cafe turns our way.
I shrug apologetically. “Toddlers.”
I turn to Rachel as she waves the pay machine at me and swipe my card.
A few moments later, she plunks the takeout cup on the counter along with a paper bag carrying the croissant.
As Noah’s tantrum starts to build, I shout a thank you and head out the door, wanting to cause as little disruption as possible.
Noah is in full-blown tantrum mode now, his face red and his cries at full pitch. Poor guy is really going for it, and all I can do is wait for his emotions to subside.
As I reach my van, a familiar figure glares at me. “Can’t you control your kid?”
Rowena Evans lives a few houses down the road from me and is just as unpleasant as I remember her being when I was a kid. I never understood why Mom swore under her breath when she was around, but I sure do now.
“He’ll be fine,” I say breezily. “He’s just having a tantrum.”
She glares at me. “What he needs is discipline. Teach him to stop that racket.” Her clipped voice is raised just enough to reach people walking past on the sidewalk.
I rest my coffee cup and paper bag on the top of the van and fish my car keys out of my pocket, which is not easy while holding a distressed toddler in one arm.
Noah wiggles so much that he ends up upside down facing behind me.
I keep a firm grip on him as I push past the woman to get to the back door.
“Honestly, I don’t have time for this,” I tell Rowena as I try to maneuver an upside down, backwards, crying toddler into his car seat.
She tuts at me, actually tuts, and my smile stretches to its breaking point.
Being upside down seems to have calmed Noah, because thankfully he stops crying. I kiss his tear-stained cheek as I strap him into his car seat while trying to ignore the women behind me, but she keeps hovering.
“That boy has no discipline without a father.” She pitches her voice so I hear it even as I’m bent over Noah with my head in the car.
My fingers freeze on the car seat buckle as my pulse spikes. Noah sniffs, and his eyes find mine. His tubby face, even tear-stained and red, calms me so that when I straighten up, I don’t punch Rowena Evans in the face.
“This boy is none of your business.”
I brush past her and continue around to the driver’s side, where I open the door. But the damn women won’t let up.
“If there was a man around…”
Anger flares in my veins. I’m tired of being judged for being a single mom. I don’t see her taking on any of the single dads in town. “Why don’t you just fuck off?”
She gapes at me, and I grab my takeout cup and croissant from the roof and slam the door. I stick the van in reverse and ignore the amused spectators on the sidewalk as I pull out into traffic.
My hand shakes as I bring the coffee to my lips. As I take a long sip, my anger turns into annoyance at myself for losing it at the old biddy. I can’t afford any more scrutiny, not now that my livelihood depends on the people of this town.
My gaze catches Noah’s in the rearview mirror.
“Fuck,” he says in his baby voice and giggles.
“Oh no. You don’t say that.”
“Fuck,” he says again. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
Great. I’m judged enough in this town, and the last thing I need is a two-year-old who swears like a sailor. But at the same time, there’s something so joyful about the way he says it, with his chubby cheeks dimpling as he cusses.
I exhale and avert my eyes before he sees me laughing.
I’m swearing at old ladies and teaching my son bad words, and it’s not even 9 a.m. I’m not getting any mother of the year awards.
Ten minutes later, I pull onto my street. There’s a sleek hybrid parked outside my place with a woman sitting in the front seat who can only be the reporter.
I drive my battered and dusty van past her shiny car and pull into my driveway.
My mood lifts as I pass the Rose & Thorns Garden Designs sign that’s hammered into the front lawn.
It’s been eight months since I started my own gardening business with the help of a small business bank loan and a lot of late nights.
And that sign, with its thorny rose logo outside my home, makes me proud every time I pass it.
I converted the old garden shed into a workroom and installed a greenhouse as a nursery.
So far, I mow a lot of lawns, but my talent really lies in landscaping design, which is why the Huntington job is such a big scoop.
My first major client, or paid one anyway, if you don’t count the work I do for Joel at Jake’s Retreat.
“Paige Hayes?” The woman has followed me up the drive. Her smile is as bright as the sheen on her car. “I’m Daphne Willcocks from Hope Matters.”
I wipe the coffee off my hand and shake hers. “Sorry I’m late. It was a rough morning.”
I pull open the backseat door and unbuckle Noah. He squirms to be let out, and I swoop him into my arms and onto my hip.
The woman’s smile softens. “He’s adorable.”
Noah gives her his best dimpled grin, all signs of the tantrum gone, and I offer a silent prayer that he doesn’t curse. But my good little man stares wide-eyed at Daphne and waves his chubby little fingers.
“Hello,” he says in his baby voice.
“He is so cute.” She smiles so hard I can practically hear her ovaries popping.
“You wouldn’t think that if you’d seen him this morning.”
I grab my purse with my spare hand and shunt the door closed with my hip. “Where do you want to start? I converted the shed to a workspace, and there’s a greenhouse out back.”
“Let’s take a peek in the shed.”
The shed is nestled next to the house. When Mom owned the place, it held her rusty gardening tools, piles of old pots, and an army of spiders.
I cleared it all out and painted it vibrant green, and Hudson helped me install a workbench and shelves.
Now, flowerpots line the outside, adding a splash of color.
“You really built this up all on your own, with this one to look after too?”
I fish the keys out of my pocket and unlock the padlock that secures the door to the shed. “Sure did.”
I push open the double doors, and light floods the place. The smell of lavender hangs in the air, and a stray spider scuttles across the floor, one of the lucky survivors.
Sketches are strewn over the workbench, and a corkboard is plastered with images—my mood board for the Huntington design. On the other side of the shed are my gardening tools, hanging on hooks to save space.
“Let me get this out of the way.” I wheel the lawnmower outside, making just enough room for the three of us.
After I plunk Noah down on the floor, he finds his favorite truck and a planter of dirt, which is just his to play in. While he gets busy making brrrrm brrrrm noises and digging in the dirt, I take Daphne on a tour of the small space.
“I’ve had to make the most of the area,” I explain, wondering how my small operation stacks up to other businesses she’s seen. “This is both the workroom and my storage shed.” I indicate the sketches stacked up on the bench. “Sorry it’s a mess. Cleanliness isn’t my strongest point.”
She takes notes, and I cringe inwardly, thinking of the headline. “Slovenly single mom thinks she can run a business.”
I shake the thought out of my head and do what I’ve been doing for the last two and a half years. I put on a confident smile and pretend like I know exactly what I’m doing.
“You’ve made great use of the space.” Daphne’s glance goes to the hooks on the ceiling where clumps of lavender are drying. “I love how innovative entrepreneurs can be.”
I’ve never been called an entrepreneur before, and my chest swells with pride. I like Daphne. Some women aim to tear others down, but she generally seems impressed.
“Thank you. I had to get creative. I needed to make it work at home so I could pop out here whenever I get the chance. You have to be flexible when you’re a single mom.”
She nods thoughtfully, making more notes, and I hope like hell the Hope Matters readers aren’t judgy and like an underdog.
“Let’s take a look at the nursery.”
I lead her out of the shed and to the greenhouse where I keep my cuttings, scooping up Noah on the way. “I use local suppliers, but I grow the most sought after plants myself.”
I plunk Noah down by the doorway, and he plays happily with a stack of empty plastic pots.
Daphne asks me about the business and my background, and I tell her how I studied horticulture, leaving out the part about missing the last few weeks of my degree and never getting around to finishing it.
“I hear you’re doing work on Jake’s Retreat, the new veterans’ center.”
“I’ve been working with Joel since the beginning, planning a garden that prioritizes rest and healing. We’ve made every area accessible, and there are quiet spaces, an herb garden, and a Zen garden. My brother is ex-military, and there are a lot of veterans in the area.”
A memory slams into my thoughts—another soldier from another time, rough hands, and the scrape of stubble on my thigh.
Daphne’s peering at me intently, and I realize I’ve stopped speaking and my cheeks have heated.
“It’s a cause close to my heart.” I swallow hard and turn away to rows of potted plants. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about That Weekend, and I walk down the rows of plants until the tightness in my chest eases.
“It sounds like meaningful work.”
“It is and all voluntary. They only pay for the materials, which most businesses sponsor, and my time is free.”
She makes more notes, and I wait and smile, hoping I’m coming across okay. A write-up in the local paper could bring in new customers, which I desperately need.
“Who are your competitors, Paige? There are already landscaping businesses in Hope. Are you treading on anyone’s toes?”
I think about the shocked look on Alan Winter’s face when the Huntingtons awarded me the contract to redesign their gardens and not him.
He turned up at my door red-faced and blustering, spluttering about how he’d done the original designs, and I knew nothing.
That I wouldn’t last a year in this business.
“There’s a bigger firm, Wild Landscapers. They’ve been around forever. If you want cookie cutter lawns, they’re good. But if you want something different, come to me.”
She raises her eyebrows. It’s not smart to goad the competition, but I need to be bold. No one ever made friends by being bold, but mine and Noah’s livelihoods depend on this business.
“Momma.” Noah toddles over to me, clutching a watering can. “Water plant.”
“You want to help me water the plants?” He holds up the watering can, and I take him to the tap to fill it with water.
There’s a pot of flowers near the door, and I steady his hand as he tips the can up and water trickles out.
When I glance up, Daphne has her phone out and aimed at us. “Do you mind if I take some pictures of the both of you?”
Noah smiles, and she takes a shot before I can answer. “It’s a great angle, a single mom and small business owner helping veterans.”
Noah tips the watering can too far, and water splashes out onto our shoes.
He looks at me, then giggles, and we both smile.
She’s right. I need to use everything I’ve got to make this work.
And if being featured in Hope Matters as a single mom and business owner brings in customers, then I’ll do whatever it takes.
“Take as many pictures as you want.”
Daphne snaps away as Noah and I water the row of flower pots.
“When will the story be up?” I ask ten minutes later as I walk her to her car.
“It will be in the next print edition of Hope Matters and on the website in a few days.”
Daphne pauses before she gets into her car. “I hope it gets you new customers, Paige. It’s a good thing you’ve started here. Good luck.”
Her genuine warmth disarms me, and I lift Noah into my arms. Noah waves until the car disappears down the driveway.
“Single mom and business owner.” I plant a kiss on Noah’s head. It still smells milky if I breathe in deep enough. “Who needs a father anyway? We’re doing just fine on our own.”