Page 19 of Must Love Flowers
Not just any name or any phone number, though.
It was the grief counselor Gennie had recommended shortly after Jared had been laid to rest.
If this wasn’t a sign from God, Joan didn’t know what was.
Wow. Talk about getting hit over the head. She set the paper on the kitchen counter and stared at it, her mind abuzz.
Tomorrow. She’d make the call tomorrow. Better yet, she’d wait until Monday, get a fresh start to the week. Her limit for change had been reached. She’d stretched herself as far as she could go for now.
Contacted a lawn maintenance company.
A hair appointment.
Dinner out with Nick.
Taking in a boarder.
That was far and away more activity in the last three days than she’d had in years.
Something she couldn’t name had taken hold of her on her birthday. The emptiness had hit her hard, and Joan realized she needed to make a change. She felt that God had just given her a giant shove in the right direction, and she had followed through. Next was meeting with Phil Harrison regarding her lawn. She looked forward to it, which was silly of her, really. He’d sounded friendly and kind. Human contact was something she’d beenmissing. Now Maggie was moving in with her, and Joan felt almost giddy, eager to get to know this young woman. Knowing that she was helping Maggie filled her with a certain pride. Which reminded her of something Steve had once mentioned. It had felt like it was coming out of the blue when he suggested she do volunteer work, thinking that might help her. She’d blown off the idea but realized now her son had been right; already she felt better about life, about the future.
Earlier, following the recipe, Joan had put the roast in the Crock-Pot. Now it was time to add the potatoes. She’d just finished dumping the peelings into the garbage when her doorbell chimed. Checking her watch, she saw it was fifteen minutes before her scheduled appointment with Harrison Lawn and Landscaping. She didn’t mind that he was early.
Wiping her hand on a kitchen towel, she headed to the front door. From force of habit, she checked the peephole first. A man stood on the other side. His shirt had his name embroidered on it: Phil Harrison.
Disengaging the deadbolt, Joan opened the door.
“Joan Sample?” he asked.
She nodded, warmed by his smile. “And you must be Phil Harrison.”
He nodded in return. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a few minutes early.”
“Not at all.” Stepping outside so that she stood on the porch with him, she noticed that the sun had come out after a shower earlier in the day. Wide swings in the weather in the spring weren’t uncommon in the Pacific Northwest.
Joan gestured toward the yard. “As you can see, the yard is in need of a little TLC.”
“That’s what we do,” Phil assured her, as though he looked forward to mowing it into submission. He held a pencil and clipboard.
He was around her age, Joan guessed, early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. Average height and looks, but definitely attractive. He wasn’t likely to make any fireman’s calendar, but kindness emanated from him. Even this early in the year, he was deeply tanned, a testament to the time he spent outdoors. What she noticed right away were his eyes, compassionate and gentle, a piercing blue.
“It shouldn’t take us more than a few hours to get this cleaned up. Are you interested in both the front and the backyard?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at the back?”
“Of course.” Joan started to head through the house when Phil stopped her.
“I’m filthy.” He glanced down at his boots, which were caked with dried mud. “Is there a side gate I can use?”
“Oh heavens, yes, I didn’t think about that.” Joan doubted she’d opened that gate once in all the time she’d lived in this house, and that was more years than she cared to remember.
“I’ll meet you in the back,” he said, and disappeared around the side of the house.
As he suggested, Joan went through the house and joined Phil in the backyard. At one time she’d grown a small garden there. Nothing much. Rhubarb on one side of the fence and tomato plants along the other. The flower beds where she’d once lavished her attention were in front of the house.
Volunteer tomatoes had sprung up last summer without Joandoing anything to care for them. The fruit was small, and the bushes flopped over from the weight of the bounty. Years before, Joan had proudly canned her produce. Perhaps she would again one day.
