This was why making friends was a bad idea. You let people into your life, and they started to nose around. They got suspicious. Jumped to conclusions.
Fern snapped viciously with her garden shears, cutting back a weed her app had identified as belladonna and potentially poisonous to the root level. It was hard work, especially in the afternoon heat, dressed in clothing that covered every inch of her skin.
The afternoon air was silent except for the buzzing of bees around a clump of lavender that Fern had found growing next to the belladonna. She wasn’t afraid of being stung. The bees were focused solely on the little purple flowers with their intoxicating nectar. Even when she accidentally bumped into the lavender, they paid her no mind.
Once she’d leveled the belladonna, she carted all the branches to the burning barrel in the back yard. About a foot of old branches and twigs were already in the barrel. She dumped the green branches on top of them, then returned to dig out the root ball. Sweat trickled down her brow, then stung her eyes. She jabbed at the earth with her spade, sinking it as deep as she could. Then she leaned all her weight onto the shaft, hoping to pry up the root ball. She did this over and over, from each available angle.
Just like old secrets, these roots didn’t want to come clean. She was tempted to give up, but then the poisonous herb would just shoot up again in the spring. Why was this even in Odette’s garden? Did she know it was poisonous? She must have. Fern dug deeper. And deeper. Then with the blade as entrenched as she could get it, she sank her weight back onto the shaft.
And felt something give.
When it finally released, the root ball came out intact. A gnarly package of roots and dirt which she wheeled out to the barrel. She topped it with another bunch of dried branches and grass, then went inside to get a match.
Along with the matches, Fern dragged the hose with her to the barrel. They hadn’t had any rain for the past few weeks. She had to make sure not even a single ember escaped.
While the fire burned, producing thick, choking, dirty smoke, Fern watered the surrounding ground. She babysat the fire until there was nothing left in the barrel but cold, dead, soggy ash.
Then she went back in the house to take a shower. George would be here shortly to continue his work on the fence. He’d come yesterday to dig the holes for the posts. Today he’d be mixing concrete. She liked to watch him from the kitchen window as he worked. He was strong and capable, and he moved slowly but confidently. Not the type of fellow to make mistakes, she thought.
Yesterday she’d made tuna casserole for their dinner. Today she was going to grill steaks. She enjoyed cooking for George; it was nothing like cooking for her father. George complimented everything and he wasn’t a picky eater. Her father had a long list of foods he refused to eat, many of them favorites of Fern’s. No mushrooms, no legumes, there had to be meat and boiled potatoes with every meal.
On her way to the house Fern passed by the containers of perennials Bobbie had given her. Knowing the plants had originally come from Odette made them very precious to her. She would take great care transplanting them, making sure to enrich the soil before she placed them in the ground, and watering them thoroughly.
She would like to think that bringing these plants had been a friendly gesture. But she was afraid Bobbie had just been looking for an excuse to come and look around, to check things out.
Bobbie was an observant woman. Too observant. Fern would have to be extra careful around her.