Page 2 of Gardening and Gargoyles

“Wait, a surprise? A present? Aren’t those the same?” A summer in a mountain lodge with endless places to hike and tons of verdant scenery isn’t enough?

“Wait, wait, Junie Pie. First, the surprise, then the prezzie, and no, they’re two different things. I talked to the owner of the lodge. He’s a gruff old Scot with an accent so thick that he sounds like some cartoon character. Probably a put-on. Anyway, he says he doesn’t mind if you want to do up the garden. He says, as long as you don’t leave any holes and you intend to leave the plants at the end of the summer, so he doesn’t have to come behind you and fix it all up again, you can go mad. Plant hydrangeas, azaleas, rhododendrons, the lot. Lilac trees?”

I squeal, and it’s tempting to run to my sketchbook full of “Someday Garden Ideas” and pull up Pinterest. But I hesitate. “That’s amazing! But I don’t know the boundaries of the land, I don’t know where anything in this town is, and the money—”

“Well, that’s why I insisted on getting you a duplicate card for my account. You’re allowed to use it as much as you like, and there’s a place in Pine Ridge called Kane Garden Center, I think it is. Make it lush, darling. Who knows, maybe we’ll honeymoon there. Hm? Married at White Pines, honeymoon at the Pink Lodge?”

Pink is my favorite color, and I snicker, because I have a stupidly juvenile mind. I could easily turn this into a dirty phone call with references to lodging him in something pretty and pink, so I stop and focus on being a mature adult. “I love it, and I promise not to go wild. I don’t know about honeymooning here. Renting it out again next summer? Yes, please.”

“Perfect. I’m sure that’ll keep you nice and busy, nice and distracted, and stop you from missing me too much. As for the boundaries, Mr. Fenclan can tell you. You have his number in the rental contract in your email. I’m sure you can at least go right along the house to start.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“I love you, too, Junie. You’re my dream girl.”

Do I actually hug myself and kick my feet a little? Yes, I do. So what? “So what’s the surprise? You know you can’t top an actual lawn and garden for me to go wild in all summer, don’t you?”

“Ohhh, I don’t know. What have you always wanted in your garden?”

“Um, a garden. Period. Apartment-dweller, remember?”

“In your fantasy sketchbook that you think I don’t look at, even though you leave it open on your kitchen table all the time, what is always in the center of your pink-to-the-hilt garden?”

I swallow down another juvenile comment about him being in my pink to the hilt in favor of gasping. “No! A fountain?”

“Well, bits of it. I know this isn’t our permanent place, but I got you the fountain head. It’ll be a nice bit of statuary in the meantime, until we find a house outside of the city. We can put it in storage until we have our own proper garden. Then, we’ll get the fountain set up and put him on it. We’ll have to drill up through it and figure out how to route the water. All of that’s a matter for later.”

“You know you make my dreams come true, Danny,” I whisper, choked up. “No one has ever been so good to me before.”

“Well, you’re my dream girl, Junie. My fantasy in the flesh. Now, I’ve got some boring dinner to sit through with the investors. I’ve got to go be terribly charming.”

“You don’t even have to try, baby. Knock ‘em dead.”

“Will do. Um, let me see... Ugh, I’ll just have to shoot you a quick text tomorrow. Our time zones and my meetings don’t mesh at all.”

“It’s okay. I’ll tell you when the present gets here.”

“All right. Good night, darling.”

It’s still sunny over here, but I smile and make a kissing sound. “Good night, lover boy.”

THE NEXT DAY IS LIKEmy version of Christmas. I drive Daniel’s car—a sleek, cream-colored Mercedes SUV—to the garden center in Pine Ridge, buy some tarps to cover the trunk and the upholstery, and load it up with everything that will fit, all in pinks, lavenders, light blues, and creams. Gentle colors for a girl who has to be tough all day—well, from late August to early June, anyway.

In case you're wondering, it’s not just growing up in a sometimes rough area. It’s my job. I’m a TSS at a middle school—that’s shorthand for Therapeutic Staff Support. The official job description in my employment contractclaimsI’m a highly trained support person for students with special needs, a person with educational and psychological training that helps kids regulate their behavior and emotions so they can learn their best. You know, making better futures for kids. (I mean, that’s the idea they were selling when I was like “What do you mean I can’t do anything with an associate’s degree, you bastards at community college?”)

My current position with an underfunded public school in the Philly area treats me more like crowd control and anger management for kids who aren’t getting the actual support they need within the classroom because the teacher is trying to teach pre-algebra while confiscating phones, vapes, and dodging actual blows, kids who are dealing with extreme sensory overload, many of whom may be off of their meds because their families couldn’t afford them. Every day I have to wear an ugly polo that’s made of scratchy material, shapeless khakis (well, not actually shapeless, because this ass is assin’), and sneakers that can race after kids escaping from their classes or starting fights.

What do you get paid for such a challenging and supposedly rewarding job, you ask?

Ha. Girl, you'd better sit. I have a year-round salary for a ten-month position, but that salary covers aboutsevenmonths of actual bills. Until I met Daniel at a Christmas tree lighting in Center City, my idea of a big splurge was grabbing coffee in the morninganddinner out the same night, not looking at a trunk full of baby hydrangeas and a front seat full of a healthy azalea bush. Don’t even get me started on the flats of white and purple irises and pink daisies in the backseat.

I text Daniel as soon as I’m bouncing along the mountain road north of town, up through the foothills over Pine Ridge. The road is curved and rugged, narrow in spots, with lots of twisty little paths and lanes off it, but in the Benz, it’s a smooth ride. “Hey, send a text to Daniel,” I tell the car’s Bluetooth system. “Just spent like six hundred dollars for plants. That’s my Christmas present taken care of.”

Daniel doesn’t text back, but I don’t really expect him to, what with his meetings and everything. I can’t help but enjoy a little moment of greedy joy when I think that I can go back again to the gardening center and get more tools, more flowers, and just plainmore, all because Daniel loves me, and he doesn’t care that I’m the “broke one” in the relationship. I’ve never met someone so generous and full of surprises.

And I can’t believe he’s even sending something else, something on a jet.

“Hey, send a text to Daniel,” I say again, turning up the windy road to our lodge. “You know you spoil me like crazy, right? Like this is too much. I’ve never had a guyflyme a present before. I love you, gorgeous. Back to our ‘summer home.’ Oh my gosh. Summer home. Okay, I have to go unload a couple hundred pounds of plants! Call me tonight if you want, I don’t care what time it is. Oh. And in case you forgot in the last sixty seconds, I love you.”