Red Lily
Page 54
“In movies.”
“Right. We’re going to fill the hole, but we do it little by little and firm the soil down as we do. I don’t have any spare gloves. Here.”
“No.” She waved him back when he started to pull off his work gloves. “A little dirt won’t hurt me. Am I doing this right?”
“Yeah, that’s good. You just keep filling and firming, hilling it up toward the base and leaving a kind of shallow moat around the edge of the hole.”
“I like the way it feels. The dirt.”
“I know what you mean.” When they’d finished to his satisfaction, he took out his knife, trimmed off the exposed burlap, then pushed to his feet. “We’ll give it plenty of water, pour it into the rim around the mound, see?”
He hauled up one of the buckets he’d filled, nodded when she lifted the other.
“There, you planted a tree.”
“Helped plant one anyway.” She stepped back, reached out a hand for his. “It looks lovely, Harper. It’ll mean a lot to her that you thought to do this.”
“It meant something to me to do it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then bent to pick up his tools. “Probably should’ve waited until next spring, but I wanted to do it now. A kind of nose-thumbing. Go ahead and knock them down, we’ll just put them back up. I wanted to do it now.”
“You’re so angry with her.”
“I’m not a kid, charmed by lullabies anymore. I’ve seen her for what she is.”
Hayley shook her head, shivered a little in the close evening air. “I don’t think any of us have seen her for what she is. Not yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE GRAFTING HOUSE was more than a work space for Harper. It was also part playhouse, part sanctuary, and part lab. He could, and often did, lose himself for hours inside its warm, music-filled air, working, experimenting, or just reveling in being the only human among the plants.
A lot of times he preferred the plants to humans. Though he wasn’t altogether sure what that said about him, he wasn’t all that concerned about it.
He’d found his passion in life, and considered himself fortunate that he could make a living doing something that made him completely happy.
His brothers had to leave home to find theirs. It was the bonus round for him that he’d been able to stay where he loved, and do what he loved.
He had his home, his work, his family. Throughout his adult life he’d had women he’d liked and enjoyed. But none of them had ever made him think, had ever nudged him to consider the next step on the rung of what he’d thought of vaguely as The Future.
He hadn’t worried about that either. His vision of marriage was reflected in what he knew his parents had together. Love, dedication, respect, and tempering it all, like an alloy in steel, an unwavering friendship.
He understood his mother had found that a second time, with Mitch. Not so much lightning striking twice as a true and perfect graft that united to make a new and healthy plant.
In his mind, nothing less strong, less important was worth the time or risk.
So he’d enjoyed the women who’d passed through his life, and had never pictured any of them as The One.
Until Hayley.
Now, so much of his world had changed, while other parts of it remained, comfortably, the same.
He’d flipped on Chopin for his plants’ enjoyment today. And had P.O.D rocking the party on his headset.
The space might not appear efficient with its groupings of plants in various stages of growth, the buckets of gravel or wood chips, the scatter of tapes and twine, clothespins and labels. There were scraps of burlap, piles of pots, bags of soil, tangles of rubber bands. Trays of knives and clippers. But he knew where to find what he wanted when he needed it.
There might have been times he couldn’t put his hands on a pair of matching socks, but he could always put them on the tool he needed.
He walked along, airing the tents and cases that housed his plants, as he did every morning. A few minutes without their covers would dry off any surface moisture that might have condensed on his rootstocks. Fungal disease was always a worry. Still, too much air might dry out the union. As he aired them, he checked specimens for progress, for any signs of disease or rot. He was particularly pleased with the camellia he’d cleft-grafted over the winter. His specimens would take another year, perhaps two to flower, but he believed they’d be worth the wait.
The work required his passion, but it also required his patience, and his faith.
He made notes to be transcribed to his computer files. There was active, steady growth in the astrophytum seedlings he had protected under a bottle cloche, and the nurse grafts of his clematis looked strong and healthy.
Making the rounds once more, he retented the plants. He’d need to check the pond later to study the water lilies and irises he’d hybridized. A side and personal experiment he hoped would prove rewarding.
Plus, it would give him an excuse to take a cooling dip in the heat of the day.
But for now, he had several cultivars to see to.
He gathered the tools he’d need, then selected a healthy rootstock from his pot-grown lantana, made the oblique cut, then matched it with a scion of viburnum. The girths were similar enough that he was able to use the simple slant of each cut to place them together so the cambiums on each side met truly.
Using elastic bands, he kept the pressure light and even as he bound them together. Judging the graft good, he used grafting wax to seal the joining. He set it in a seed tray, covered the roots and graft with moist soil—his mother’s mix—then labeled.
Once he’d repeated the process several times, he tented the tray, and swiveled to his computer to log in the work.
Before he started on the next house specimens, he switched his music to Michelle Branch and pulled a Coke from his cooler.
By the time he’d finished, Michelle had played through and his morning’s work was completed.
He gathered a bag of tools and supplies, left his headset behind, and went out to check his field-grown and water plants.
There were a few customers wandering around, scouting out the discounted stock under shade screens or poking into the public greenhouses. He knew if he didn’t make his escape quickly, one of them might catch him.
He didn’t mind talking plants or directing a customer toward what they were looking for. He just preferred keeping his mind in the game, and right now that game was checking his field plants.
“Right. We’re going to fill the hole, but we do it little by little and firm the soil down as we do. I don’t have any spare gloves. Here.”
“No.” She waved him back when he started to pull off his work gloves. “A little dirt won’t hurt me. Am I doing this right?”
“Yeah, that’s good. You just keep filling and firming, hilling it up toward the base and leaving a kind of shallow moat around the edge of the hole.”
“I like the way it feels. The dirt.”
“I know what you mean.” When they’d finished to his satisfaction, he took out his knife, trimmed off the exposed burlap, then pushed to his feet. “We’ll give it plenty of water, pour it into the rim around the mound, see?”
He hauled up one of the buckets he’d filled, nodded when she lifted the other.
“There, you planted a tree.”
“Helped plant one anyway.” She stepped back, reached out a hand for his. “It looks lovely, Harper. It’ll mean a lot to her that you thought to do this.”
“It meant something to me to do it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then bent to pick up his tools. “Probably should’ve waited until next spring, but I wanted to do it now. A kind of nose-thumbing. Go ahead and knock them down, we’ll just put them back up. I wanted to do it now.”
“You’re so angry with her.”
“I’m not a kid, charmed by lullabies anymore. I’ve seen her for what she is.”
Hayley shook her head, shivered a little in the close evening air. “I don’t think any of us have seen her for what she is. Not yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE GRAFTING HOUSE was more than a work space for Harper. It was also part playhouse, part sanctuary, and part lab. He could, and often did, lose himself for hours inside its warm, music-filled air, working, experimenting, or just reveling in being the only human among the plants.
A lot of times he preferred the plants to humans. Though he wasn’t altogether sure what that said about him, he wasn’t all that concerned about it.
He’d found his passion in life, and considered himself fortunate that he could make a living doing something that made him completely happy.
His brothers had to leave home to find theirs. It was the bonus round for him that he’d been able to stay where he loved, and do what he loved.
He had his home, his work, his family. Throughout his adult life he’d had women he’d liked and enjoyed. But none of them had ever made him think, had ever nudged him to consider the next step on the rung of what he’d thought of vaguely as The Future.
He hadn’t worried about that either. His vision of marriage was reflected in what he knew his parents had together. Love, dedication, respect, and tempering it all, like an alloy in steel, an unwavering friendship.
He understood his mother had found that a second time, with Mitch. Not so much lightning striking twice as a true and perfect graft that united to make a new and healthy plant.
In his mind, nothing less strong, less important was worth the time or risk.
So he’d enjoyed the women who’d passed through his life, and had never pictured any of them as The One.
Until Hayley.
Now, so much of his world had changed, while other parts of it remained, comfortably, the same.
He’d flipped on Chopin for his plants’ enjoyment today. And had P.O.D rocking the party on his headset.
The space might not appear efficient with its groupings of plants in various stages of growth, the buckets of gravel or wood chips, the scatter of tapes and twine, clothespins and labels. There were scraps of burlap, piles of pots, bags of soil, tangles of rubber bands. Trays of knives and clippers. But he knew where to find what he wanted when he needed it.
There might have been times he couldn’t put his hands on a pair of matching socks, but he could always put them on the tool he needed.
He walked along, airing the tents and cases that housed his plants, as he did every morning. A few minutes without their covers would dry off any surface moisture that might have condensed on his rootstocks. Fungal disease was always a worry. Still, too much air might dry out the union. As he aired them, he checked specimens for progress, for any signs of disease or rot. He was particularly pleased with the camellia he’d cleft-grafted over the winter. His specimens would take another year, perhaps two to flower, but he believed they’d be worth the wait.
The work required his passion, but it also required his patience, and his faith.
He made notes to be transcribed to his computer files. There was active, steady growth in the astrophytum seedlings he had protected under a bottle cloche, and the nurse grafts of his clematis looked strong and healthy.
Making the rounds once more, he retented the plants. He’d need to check the pond later to study the water lilies and irises he’d hybridized. A side and personal experiment he hoped would prove rewarding.
Plus, it would give him an excuse to take a cooling dip in the heat of the day.
But for now, he had several cultivars to see to.
He gathered the tools he’d need, then selected a healthy rootstock from his pot-grown lantana, made the oblique cut, then matched it with a scion of viburnum. The girths were similar enough that he was able to use the simple slant of each cut to place them together so the cambiums on each side met truly.
Using elastic bands, he kept the pressure light and even as he bound them together. Judging the graft good, he used grafting wax to seal the joining. He set it in a seed tray, covered the roots and graft with moist soil—his mother’s mix—then labeled.
Once he’d repeated the process several times, he tented the tray, and swiveled to his computer to log in the work.
Before he started on the next house specimens, he switched his music to Michelle Branch and pulled a Coke from his cooler.
By the time he’d finished, Michelle had played through and his morning’s work was completed.
He gathered a bag of tools and supplies, left his headset behind, and went out to check his field-grown and water plants.
There were a few customers wandering around, scouting out the discounted stock under shade screens or poking into the public greenhouses. He knew if he didn’t make his escape quickly, one of them might catch him.
He didn’t mind talking plants or directing a customer toward what they were looking for. He just preferred keeping his mind in the game, and right now that game was checking his field plants.
