Page 5 of Beneath Southern Stars

And there we have it. The real reason behind this conversation and what some may call an abduction, considering I’ve been held partially against my will. With a smile on my face, I abandon organizing and moving around the display to stand in front of Ms. Linda.

“You know, the information you provided has been so helpful, I’m confident we’re on schedule.” I pause for effect. Even though I have immense respect for Ms. Linda and how successful she’s made the Jubilee, teasing her is still fun. “But I’ll never turn down your expertise. A few of the committee members will be over next week for a final meeting. Why don’t you join us?”

She exhales deeply, her shoulders dropping, a serene smile on her face. “That sounds lovely.”

I wrap her a quick hug and a wish her a good day before turning back to the display and helping customers. Time moves quickly the rest of the afternoon and when Zoey’s twins, Regan and Riley scamper into the store, their giggles make me think of the little girl next door. I spied the license plate on his truck this morning, wondering where in the miles between Tennessee and Alabama he left his manners. While that thought isn’t very kind of me, his inability to make eye contact or attempt simple niceties wasn’t either.

“Did you bring Steve?” the twins ask in unison.

Scrunching my face, I shake my head. “Sorry, ladies, Steve’s at home. Maybe you can come by soon and play with him. He’s missed you.”

Squealing at a decibel I thought only dogs could hear, I watch them scamper off to find their mom. The rest of the afternoon is steady with customers and, with Regan and Riley occupied in the backroom, Zoey and I manage to finish up with plenty of time for her to get the girls home for supper. When we step outside of the shop, the humidity is thick. I bid my friendgoodbye and maneuver down the sidewalk, smiling at familiar faces as I trek two blocks to my car. When I’m close enough, I slip the fob from my pocket and start the engine and, more importantly, the air conditioning. I should look up who invented the remote start and include his relatives in my evening prayers. He really did make a difference in the world. I cringe at my use of “him.” I’m a scientist. I am a woman. I shouldn’t assume it was a man.

Chastising myself the entire drive home, I still manage the obligatory smile and wave to neighbors before pulling into my driveway. In my family for generations, our home is modest compared to the mini mansion next door. While our lots are close to the same size, the actual houses couldn’t be more different. My great-times-four grandfather on my daddy’s side built this home with his own hands minus the glorious wrap around deck courtesy of my grandaddy. Or so the tale goes. Uncle Freddy says no man in our family built a darn thing other than a strong marriage and that our ancestor actually won the house and land in a poker game.

Whatever the case may be, it’s been my home since I was nine years old. Before that, it was where I spent many of my afternoons alongside my gran with our hands in the soil, tending to her garden. I owe my love of dirt and plants to her and those afternoons. Kicking off my shoes, I move to the kitchen.

Nails scratching on the floor and the jingle of his collar warn me of the impending attack. By attack I mean yelps of joy and ankle cuddles as Steve runs laps around me.

“Hi, buddy. Did you have a good time while I was out?”

Steve bounces like his toes are on fire and I say again, everyone should be greeted in their home with love and joy. Mine just happens to come in the form of a four-legged dachshund who is motivated by treats.

“You’re all kinds of excited today. Let me get myself something to drink then we’ll head outside to check on our work. Do you want a treat while I do this? Well, okay then. I’ll take that somersault as a yes.”

I pull one of his favorite little chew treats from the canister and toss it toward his bed. With my roommate occupied, I have a minute to sip some water and move to my bedroom and slip out of my “I have to work with the public” clothes before heading outside to the greenhouse. Before I can pull my hair back in a tie, a text alert chimes on my phone.

Laughing, I shake my head as I read the message.

OLIVIA: Did you really invite Ms. Linda to the meeting?

ME: Wow, that took a whole four hours.

OLIVIA: Only because I was busy

Of course she was. Newly in love, my friend is always busy in one way or another. I’m happy for her and so glad she’s back in town.

ME: I love that for you.

ME: But yes, I invited her. I buckled under the pressure.

OLIVIA: Honey said you have a new neighbor.

ME: Yep. I’ll tell you about it later.

OLIVIA: K. TTYL

With that diversion from gossip behind me, I slip the phone into my back pocket and move through the house. Steve, a furrywhirlwind of excitement, yips and bounces at the sliding door. Together, my four-legged buddy and I fall into our routine. Steve does laps around the greenhouse while I check the cells.

As a child I never thought I’d make my living, a very successful one to boot, by working with flowers. Uncle Freddy says it makes sense since I’ve always loved the why of everything. It’s a wonder my nickname isn’t “Why.” Science came easy to me, probably because it was a path to answering the why of most things. I love understanding complexities and finding ways to simplify them into daily life.

“These are going to be gorgeous, buddy.” A sense of pride fills my chest as I take in the vibrant colors of the dianthuses and violas. In a few days I’ll harvest the petals and create the confetti. Knowing that my flowers will be used by chefs and mixologists across the south excites me. I’d love to visit one of the restaurants and see how they’re utilized. “How much confetti do you think we’ll get this year?” I ask Steve. He doesn’t respond, a downside to having an animal as your roommate and co-worker.

I continue on with my work, checking the lights and temperature. Being in this space brings me complete peace. Humming along to the music wafting from the speaker set up in the corner, I grab a broom and spend a little more time cleaning and keeping myself busy. Steve’s given up and is settled in his bed. Time ticks by as I go about my business, and it’s only when my stomach rumbles I realize I’ve worked through dinner. This happens most days out here. Not that I’m complaining. Although when the Sullivan & Sons crew completes building the other two greenhouses, I’ll need to adjust my routine.

Finishing up, I click my tongue for Steve to follow and step out into the sticky air. Nature greets me with a symphony of sounds that reminds me of why I could never leave Magnolia Grove. Some may yearn for the fast-paced life a city offers orthe way the bright lights shine at night. But for me, it’s this: humidity causing my T-shirt to cling to my skin and the sounds of crickets and the occasional frog calling to its friend. In the distance I hear the hum of a boat’s motor on the river and I’m grateful for the simplicity of this life.

Before I can step across the threshold into the house, I pause. It’s quiet but in the distance I hear the strumming of a guitar. It’s a pretty tune. Familiar. Shrugging it off, I step into the house.

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