Page 87 of The Backup Groom
“I’m delighted,” he said. “I hope you like pasta.”
“I could eat it every day,” she said, smiling and sniffing the air. “It smells heavenly.”
My dad grinned. “I like her already! Another ten or fifteen minutes and dinner will be served.” He pointed to the sliding-glass door that led out to the backyard. “Eileen, show Amber your pot garden while I finish up here.”
Amber gave me a sideways glance as if asking, “Did he say what I thought he said?”
“Great idea!” my mom said, slipping on her John Lennon-style tinted sunglasses and leading us outside to the backyard.
Amber whispered, “She has a pot garden?”
I stifled a laugh. Everybody had the same reaction when my parents mentioned their pot garden. Amber was in for a big surprise and I wasn’t sure how she’d take it.
My parents’ backyard was my favorite place on the property by far. I took in a deep breath of the fresh air and the wonderful scent of eucalyptus and pine trees. I glanced around at the plants and flowers that went on for almost an acre. Their backyard was what they referred to as their little slice of heaven.
There were bird feeders, chimes, and five water fountains, for starters. When I was a kid growing up here, I loved to sit under the covered porch and listen to the water chimes hanging from the gutters. It was pure magic to me. They even had benches under several of the large trees, places where my mom loved to read, meditate, and watch the birds and butterflies flutter around her Zen garden.
“Over here,” my mom said. She led us down the stone path, stopping in front of her infamous pot garden on the side of the hill. “This is it.”
I chuckled when I saw Amber’s reaction.
She shook her head in amusement and bumped me with her shoulder. “Okay, you got me with that one. It’s not that kind of pot.”
My mom and I started laughing.
This wasn’t the first time we had done the same schtick to someone.
Amber admired the countless cooking pots that lined the side of the hill, all of them converted into planters for succulents and flowers. Each one had a unique, painted design that my mom had come up with: flowers, birds, butterflies, and landscapes. You name it, she’d thought of it.
“My mom hand-painted all of them herself,” I said. “And she drilled holes in the bottom of each one for drainage.”
“Wow,” Amber said. “Genius idea. And beautiful.”
“Thank you,” my mom said. “I get the old cooking pots from garage sales and flea markets. I also post on Facebook and Nextdoor, asking people not to throw them out. What started out as a little hobby has turned into an obsession, I guess you could say.”
“How many are there?” Amber asked.
“Seventy-seven, with plenty more to come,” my mom said.
“And that doesn’t count all the pots she has in her workshop,” I said. “She sells them on Etsy.”
“I never would’ve thought that this could turn into a business.” My mom shook her head in amusement. "People buy the craziest things, I’ll tell ya.”
“That’s amazing, and so very clever,” Amber said.
I pointed to one of the largest pots on the hill. “That’s my favorite one. My mom painted it this morning.”
Amber gave me a knowing smile. “Darth Vader. Why am I not surprised?”
I grinned and shook my head. “Not that one.” I kept smiling, waiting to see how long it would take for her to find it.
“No?” Amber said, studying the pots. “The one with the hummingbirds?”
I sighed. “Lower.”
Amber followed my line of sight and let out a belly laugh rivaling one of my mother’s. “You really had her make a Superman and Lois Lane pot?” Spontaneously, she lunged into my arms and kissed me silly.
Even in the middle of our lip-lock, Mom snickered. “Love is in the air!” She sighed and pointed toward the house. “Okay, let’s head back inside. Ryan makes the food with so much love that I want to make sure we’re seated when it’s being served.”
