Chapter 12
Twelve
Girl panics
Dixie
“I’m not going.”
“You said you would.” Jack leans against the doorframe of the guest room, arms crossed over his chest. The Monday afternoon light catches in his beard, turning it from dark brown to something warmer. His look says he’s trying not to smile at my refusal and it’s annoying.
“I said I’d think about it,” I correct. “What kind of name is ‘Dirty Girls’ anyway? Sounds like the world’s most disappointing stripping troupe. ‘Watch as Marjorie removes her gardening glove…very…slowly.’”
“It’s a garden club.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “They plant things.”
“Revolutionary.” I flip through my notebook without reading it. I’ll be honest: it’s surprisingly hard to write when people actually like the last thing you wrote. “Do they also water them? Groundbreaking stuff.”
He doesn’t take the bait. Just waits. Patient as a saint, which he basically is.
I hate that I like that about him.
“Fine.” I slam the notebook shut. “But only because I’ve written zero songs today and need human interaction that doesn’t involve a preacher or his judgmental chinchilla.”
“Georgia Peach will be devastated.”
He does not say that he will be devastated. Duly noted, Jack. Duly noted.
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking down Main Street. It’s quiet except for the occasional truck and I’m feeling twitchy.
“They’ve been meeting for years,” Jack says. “Dee wanted to beautify the town but couldn’t get funding, so she rallied friends.”
“Vigilante gardeners. Do they wear masks and carry bolt cutters to ‘liberate’ plants from corporate nurseries? ‘This petunia deserves to be free!’”
He laughs. “I once watched Dee go full John Wick on a squirrel that was terrorizing her hydrangeas.”
His hand brushes mine and I get that stupid electric shock feeling. My body is apparently sixteen years old.
“The choir needs something special for the talent show.” I’m desperate for safer topics that don’t make me imagine him touching more than my fingers.
“They’ll have you.”
My heart does a stupid somersault. “I’m serious. Your competition has been doing this for years. I googled them.”
“So what do you suggest?” His voice sounds closer, like he’s stepped in nearer. Or maybe I drifted toward him. That seems likely—Jack’s the magnetic north for my compass.
“Something unexpected. Something that makes the judges sit up and notice.”
“Like ‘Highway to Hell’?” he deadpans.
I bark out a laugh. “That would shake things up.”
“We’re here.” He stops in front of a bungalow with fairy lights and way too many plants on the porch. “Run your ideas by the girls. They’re all active in the choir, except for Dee—she hides in the back and mouths the words.”
“You’re not coming in?”
“Ladies only. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
Ladies only is as outdated as garden party gloves, but I’ll save that revolution for another day.
“I can walk myself home. I’m not five.”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking like he’s fighting some internal battle. “But maybe I want an excuse to find you under the stars later.”
Whoops. There goes the careful distance we’ve been maintaining.
Our eyes meet, and I watch him realize exactly what he just said.
His cheeks turn pink and he looks like he wants to crawl under the nearest rock.
For a second I think he might actually kiss me right here in the middle of Main Street anyhow.
Part of me wants him to, part of me wants to laugh my ass off at how mortified he looks.
I don’t think he meant to say that at all.
Then the front door bursts open.
“Is that our country star?” Dee calls out. “Get in here! We need your opinion on cocktails!”
Jack steps back quickly. “Nine o’clock.”
“It’s a date,” I say without thinking, then wince.
“Yeah. It is.” His smile could power the town.
I’m screwed.
“Ladies!” Dee announces as she drags me inside. “Our newest Dirty Girl! And yes, I saw that moment with the Reverend. We’re not discussing it until wine.”
The living room is packed with women of all ages.
Tilly, Dee’s twin sister, waves from a corner where she’s arranging pots in precise rows of four.
Where Dee’s hair bounces in its pixie cut, Tillie’s longer brunette waves are pulled back in a complex braid, and she’s wearing a soft green cardigan that’s got flour on one cuff.
The coffee table is loaded with wine bottles, cheese plates, and what might be gardening catalogs but could be porno for all I know about plants.
“We’re not actually that dirty,” says a woman with silver hair, handing me a glass of the aforementioned wine. “More dirt-adjacent.”
“We also gossip, drink, and make questionable plant purchases at two a.m.,” Tilly adds calmly.
Where conversation with Dee is like being hit with a fire hose, Tilly’s more of deep, slow river.
“I now have seventeen different kinds of hostas.” She holds up a small potted plant.
“This little guy was inspired by a romance where the heroine was a botanist. Completely unnecessary purchase, but the book made me do it.”
“Don’t forget man-bashing as an alternative to plants,” someone calls out. “That’s forty percent of today’s agenda. Fifty percent in the summer when they all refuse to wear shirts while mowing lawns but still expect dinner at six.”
The room erupts in laughter.
“Dixie doesn’t need to bash men,” Dee says with an aggressive wink. “She’s got our resident holy man wrapped around her finger tighter than clematis on a trellis.”
“Wait a minute—” Tilly squints at me over her wineglass. “Are you the one who wrote that song? About the preacher? I’ve been playing that on repeat!”
Half the room starts humming the melody, and someone calls out, “Sing it!”
“Absolutely not.” I’m grinning despite myself. My first fans!
“She’s living in the rectory,” someone stage-whispers.
“In the guest room,” I clarify. “Different zip codes. My vagina’s Fort Knox. I sleep with the door locked, a chair under the knob, and a moat full of crocodiles.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Dee’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. “How’s that working out? Need some chicken? A drawbridge?”
“Can we talk about plants instead? I was promised dirt.”
They mercifully change subjects. For the next two hours, I learn more about plants than any human should know. Tomatoes have feelings and hate peppers. Some soil is fancy five-star hotel dirt, some is the equivalent of a highway rest stop bathroom and we do not go there.
Weirdly, I don’t hate it. Plants don’t care if you chart on Billboard. They grow—or die—regardless of your Instagram following or how many venues you play. They have the audacity to exist without a five-year career plan.
“So,” Dee says, sliding next to me as I murder a succulent with my repotting skills, “what’s your next move?”
“Not killing this plant.”
She swats me on the arm. “With Jack.”
I focus on my dirt. “There’s no move. I leave when my van’s fixed.”
“That’s what you keep saying. But I see the way you look at him, too.”
“Like he’s my temporary landlord. A breathing, walking rental agreement with excellent beard conditioner.”
“Sure, Jan.”
I snort. “Did you just meme me?”
“I’m young and hip,” she says mock-seriously. “I know all the cool-cat slang. Yeet. YOLO. The kids still say ‘on fleek,’ right?”
“Every day.” I grin despite myself. There’s no way she’s older than me. “But I’m not in the man market. I’m more window-shopping. From across the street. In the dark. With no plans to ever buy.”
Someone across the room squeals, “Look who’s here!”
Slate looms in the doorway. He’s holding a toolbox and scowling. Apparently, he’s the exception to the ladies-only rule.
“Slate!” Dee goes pink. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Sink,” he grunts, holding up the toolbox like a shield. “Leaking.”
“Right. The sink.” She tucks hair behind her ear. “That I mentioned.”
“Three weeks ago,” Tilly observes quietly. “She’s mentioned it approximately forty-seven times since then.”
Dee skips toward the kitchen. “Ladies, don’t wait for me. This could take a while. Slate is very thorough.”
The moment they disappear, the room erupts.
“Ten bucks says he needs to order a part.”
“Twenty he stays for dinner.”
“You’re both wrong,” Tilly says matter-of-factly.
“The sexual tension is thick enough to frost a cake with, but it’s been going on since high school.
Sometimes I think about locking them in the walk-in freezer at the bakery and not letting them out until they’ve worked through whatever’s keeping them apart.
” She frowns contemplatively. “There’s an emergency latch but he won’t know that. It would be safe.”
I smile into my wine. Church ladies have zero chill.
The doorbell rings, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Nine o’clock already?” Tilly checks her vintage floral watch. “Your carriage awaits, Cinderella. Try not to lose a shoe on your way out—though it might be fun to see Reverend Jack going door to door with a strappy sandal.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart does stupid backflips as I collect my jacket and the potted succulent Tilly insists I take home. “It’s an elephant bush,” she says, handing it to me. “Practically indestructible. Just ignore it and it’ll be fine.”
Jack’s waiting at the bottom of the steps, hands in his pockets. When he sees me, his chagrined smile could stop traffic.
“Have fun?”
“It wasn’t terrible. Don’t tell them I said that.”
“Your secret’s safe.” He eyes my plant. “Nice succulent.”
“It thrives on neglect and is hardy as fuck. We’re perfect for each other.”
We start walking back. Close but not touching. Look at us putting our walls back up.
“Learn anything interesting?”
“Tomatoes and potatoes have a whole Romeo and Juliet thing going on. They die if you plant them next to each other. Also the whole town thinks we’re sleeping together.”
He misses a step. “Does that bother you?”
“Not really. For tonight at least, the big scandal is Slate fixing Dee’s sink.”
“That’s been going on for years.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes people need time to figure things out, even if it seems perfectly obvious to everyone else.”
He stops walking, turning to face me. The moonlight makes him look less minister, more dangerous.
“We should probably talk.”
“About Slate and Dee?”
“Dixie.”
“Probably.” My brain’s waving a dozen red flags. “But talking’s overrated.”
His eyes go dark. Once again, he’s going to kiss me. Right here where anyone could see.
A car drives by, headlights sweeping over us. He steps back quickly and I nearly drop my plant.
“Let’s get you home.”
The word feels weird. Temporary. Like borrowed clothes that fit but aren’t mine.
We walk in charged silence. When we reach the rectory, he holds the door like the gentleman he is.
“Thanks for the escort.” I’m aiming for lightness and missing by a mile. “Very chivalrous.”
“Anytime.” His eyes hold mine too long. “Dixie, I—”
“Good night, Jack.”
I cut him off before he can say anything more and hotfoot it to my room. Am I the murderous potato or the invasive mint in this little garden metaphor? Definitely team potato. I’m gonna kill the sweet tomato preacher if I stick around much longer.