Page 1 of True Soil-Mates

1

JASMINE

The morning air is fresh and crisp as I pull a small, sad hosta out of the planter. Most people would probably throw it out, but I’m going to keep it.

Every plant deserves a chance, and maybe a month in perfect conditions will help this little guy get healthy so he can make it out to another planter someday.

I’ve always been pretty good at the hands-on stuff. That kind of work is easy to figure out. Unlike…sigh…people.

I replace the hosta with a slightly larger plant and pack the soil down gently. Then I’m careful to look up and down the sidewalk before getting up to water. The last time I was here, I nearly backed into somebody’s stroller. Oops.

Brody’s Books has an incredible coffee shop and bakery inside, so it’s busy all day: the earlier I do their gardening, the better. I shuffle over to the other side, dragging my huge box with its shoulder strap. It’s my own invention, and holds all the gear I need to care for the planters and window boxes of the stores we look after.

Palmer’s Potted Plants began as my mother’s flower shop Palmer’s Flowers, but it’s expanded to include all sorts ofgreenery, hence the name change. My sisters and I have each settled into the roles we’re best at: Iris takes care of the financials and planning, Violet the design and marketing. Our mom, Dahlia, oversees everything, and is friendly with everyone in the neighborhood. Me, I’m the one up to my elbows in soil most of the time. I also build simple outdoor planters like this one. There’s a garage behind our store with my woodworking tools where I love to putter around.

Out of the four of us, I spend the least amount of time in the front of the shop – partly because I’m often dirty or covered in wood chips, and also because people often baffle me. I’m not good with the customers like Mom is.

I notice the second planter has a rough spot on the edge, as if something heavy bashed into it. I pull out a square of sandpaper and smooth it down. That’s the thing with arrangements that are on the street – anything can happen.

Who knows, my poor little hosta might be on the verge of not making it because someone accidentally dumped the last of their sugary coffee on it. Some plants enjoy the acidity of coffee grounds, but I can’t think of a plant that likes sugar and dairy. Sure enough, there’s another small plant on this side that isn’t thriving. Aww, the poor little guy.

Today is unusual in that nobody has stopped to ask me gardening questions. I’m always happy to share knowledge when I can, even if it means I often end up getting back to the shop much later than expected. I figure if my expertise can save even one house plant, it’s worth it. Right?

I pull my things out of the way and step aside for a young couple walking by with a stroller. We nod good morning to each other, and I can’t help but notice the way the husband smiles at his wife. It’s a soulmate kind of glance that always warms my heart.

It’s funny… That kind of love seems common, since we see it in movies and on TV all the time. But it might be like those million-dollar sports cars: we see them in the media, and we all want one because they’re so gorgeous. Yet the reality is, they’re pretty rare.

Once the sidewalk is clear, I kneel down again and use a small trowel to dig out the coleus. Its bright green and deep red leaves are wilted on one side.

I replace it with another hosta, then pat down the soil around it. I stand up to grab the watering can, and something smacks me right in the shoulder blade. “Ow! What?—”

I spin around, then my mouth falls open. A tall, broad-shouldered man is holding a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, staring at me with horror in his eyes. “Th-that was my elbow,” he stammers. “You stood up right into it. I am so sorry. Are you okay?”

I rub my shoulder blade a little, unable to stop myself from noticing the wide expanse of his dark blue dress shirt. His strong jaw. His short, dark hair, obviously cut within the past few days. And those eyes! Such a deep brown they are almost black, and locked on mine so intensely that I have to remind myself to breathe.

“I’m fine, I think…” I certainly don’t want to make the poor man feel bad.

He looks down at the planter. “Did you just put these planters in today?”

“Gosh, no. They’ve been here for over a year now. I’m just keeping an eye on them.”

The way he looks so perplexed is kind of adorable. Also, wow – he must be a bodybuilder or weightlifter of some kind. This man isfit.

“You’re sure you’re all right? If there’s anything I can do…”

“It’s fine.” I roll my shoulder experimentally. It’s actually a bit sore, but I don’t want to tell him that. “I’m a lot tougher than I look.” I strike a superhero pose.

That makes his eyes twinkle, and he drops his phone into his pocket. “I truly am sorry. I’ll be more careful in the future.” He reaches out as if to shake my hand, then notices the dirt on my fingers and retracts his hand. “Sorry. I?—”

I burst into laughter. “Did you know that fresh soil is filled with good bacteria that’s great for your immune system?”

He blinks in surprise. “Really? Right, I think… I may have read that somewhere.” He stares at my hand again, then takes a half step back. “I’m so sorry. Have a good day.”

He takes off down the street, his long legs propelling him at top speed. There’s no chance of him turning around, so I take the opportunity to shamelessly check out his sculpted ass in those crisp dress pants.

He must work in an office nearby. Which means – oh! – I might see him again someday. That thought lights me up for half a second before reality snuffs it back out.

Of course, even if I saw him again, he probably wouldn’t seeme. I’m taking a wild guess, but that guy doesn’t seem the type to notice random women in the neighborhood. Heck, apparently he didn’t even notice these huge planters on either side of the doorway for over a year.

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