Garden Audit

After five years, he just happened to be walking down her street? She clenched her smartphone tighter in her hand and peered cautiously around the blue paisley living room curtain. Scott was strolling down Mayfair Avenue, a Starbuck’s cup in hand and a crease pressed perfectly down the front of his high-waisted Dockers. “Who does he think he is, Jim Harbaugh?” Chloe thought.

Scott continued down the sidewalk in front of her garden gate. He was headed toward the Mission Inn. Chloe’s eyes narrowed and she considered texting Bonnie to alert her to the situation. Her palms were sweating. Scott was not to be trusted, and ever since he had been elected County Auditor last fall he had an excuse to poke around where he wasn’t needed or wanted. His smug grin and twelve-year-old’s haircut were showing up all over town: the coffee shop when she was trying to get a refill on her double shot, crossing paths on the Esplanade when she jogged before work, or, apparently walking down her street at 8:35 on a Sunday morning. Sliding her finger across the face of her phone, she tapped open the messaging app. She needed to get Bonnie in on this, stat.

Walking outside, she sat on the top step of her concrete porch. It had rained last night. She looked out at the front garden, where she had nearly finished replacing most of the ornamental plants with an edible installation. A mix of mesclun lettuces lined the central bed, while kale and chard formed a hardy border along the front wall. She had kept a few of the giant flowering annuals like dahlias and sunflower. The nasturtium was already halfway up the entry arbor even this early in March. It would be a good year for sweetpeas if the weather continued like this. Chloe looked again at her phone, the cursor blinking, waiting for her to start a message to Bonnie. She hesitated, looking out over the damp and glistening yard.

She knew Bonnie would want all the dirt on Scott’s whereabouts this morning. The two were locked in an epic battle. Just a month ago, at the county-wide clam-chowder cook-off, Scott “accidentally” dumped New England chowder instead of Manhattan chowder in Bonnie’s gluten-free bread bowl. Bonnie was so pissed she dumped the whole thing on Scott’s head and it was a wonder he didn’t press charges. Bonnie said she didn’t give a damn. Either way, it was worth it to see Scott standing there on the Wharf with stinking creamy chowder dripping down the neck of his polo shirt. Chloe imagined gulls circling like buzzards overhead and a hush falling over the crowd. She had missed the whole event; she didn’t go to the wharf if she could help it. The crush of strangers and mix of salty carnival smells overwhelmed her. She usually stayed close to home, curled up in the back hammock watching squirrels dig up their winter stash, or up to her elbows in garden soil. She preferred the conversation of nature to speaking with people. Small talk was a nightmare; words that didn’t lead to a deeper understanding of someone or something were useless to her.

She waited to text Bonnie, not just because it was early on a Sunday. Chloe looked down toward the Mission Inn. She did wonder what he was doing down there. Trying to convince Jeff to undermine his morals? Arranging a room for his mistress? Committing tax fraud? The list was endless. But what was she supposed to do about it? She pinched the dead heads off a nearby geranium, arranging the faded red flowers in a neat pile beside her.

Her garden was alive, she thought, but gardening was not like life. She could not bend it to her will, could not espalier problems up against the wall or prune people’s egos back hard to the ground each spring and fall. It occurred to her that toxic people like Scott and the drama that followed him were like an invasive species. She could create an environment that let the poison thrive and take over the garden, or she could systematically choke it out and limit the impact on her life.

Chloe stood and wiped grit off the butt of her jeans. She closed the messaging app on her phone. The sun, peeking over the neighbor’s roof line, warmed the front porch. A starling sang an intricate song of clicks, whirls, and whistles from high in the walnut tree. Golden morning light illuminated the garden, and Chloe turned and began to snap detailed photos of the golden poppies freshly blooming in her front yard.

I’m writing 750+ words a day of fiction and publishing them here for the next 100 days. These are written quickly with minimal editing and based off a daily prompt.

Day: 6

Prompt: (first line generator) After five years, he just happened to be walking down her street?

Originally published at stasiland.blogspot.com.