One Spring Night

Chapter Ten

Wild in its disregard, the storm callously scattered debris across the drenched black roads. Ben maneuvered his SUV through the mess, around broken limbs, through pools that flooded the potholed pockets of Centennial Street.

They hooked a left onto Maple Lane, the windshield wipers working overtime.

Relief came when she saw her beloved house still standing behind the swaying curtains of weeping willows.

Before the vehicle came to a full stop in her driveway, she leaped out to check her baby over. Having just rehashed her fear of things shifting or ending without warning or preamble, she rushed around to the house, checking the perimeter, while shards of fear sliced into every vulnerable nook of her heart.

As she sped around the edge of her house to the backyard, she stopped in her tracks, sucking in a gasp. There was her greenhouse, her tidy little greenhouse, crushed by a thick limb from the ancient white oak. Most of the frame had been demolished, the greenhouse plastic torn to shreds.

Rain whipped against her face, slapping it raw, as she raced toward the shambles.

Ben followed closely behind and shouted something, maybe her name. But it didn't register in her mind that was busy swirling with sentiment.

Her husband had built the raised beds—he'd used his hands to construct the boards that were now splintered beneath the weight of the scraggly arm of the tree. He'd hammered in each of the nails, one by one. He'd been so proud that first day he'd filled them with soil. So happy, she remembered.

She stood surveying what used to be the door to the structure, wind roaring in her ears.

And here was the third piece of bad luck she'd known was on its way. Her car, then the damn puddle—both of which were ridiculously inconsequential in comparison the collapsed greenhouse—now this.

"We can rebuild it." Ben's voice rose over the beating rain. "No problem."

She was soaked through—her hair, face, clothes, all drenched. Among the ruins were the chipper marigold heads that had been severed, the vines of green she'd—until now—managed to keep growing. And when she leaned forward, her outside porch light streamed over the demolished Dalmatian figurine.

And tears streamed silently, steadily down her face.

"Hey," Ben said to her. "Hey, it's okay." He pulled her into his arms as he had outside the bank, holding her.

"It's not okay." She pushed away from his grip and roared right along with the storm. "This is all too much. It's a greenhouse, I know that, I'm not as crazy as I sound. Or maybe I am. But it's not just a stupid greenhouse to me!"

Ben squinted, staring at her, attempting to understand.

She ducked under the thickest part of the limb and retrieved black and white bits of the broken Dalmatian. It'd cracked into pieces under the pressure and so had she, she thought, tossing the remains back into the muddy mess.

"This greenhouse means a lot to you. We can fix it," he told her, realizing that the feeling of being shunned and left in the dark while around Kara was continuing, regardless of the day's progression of events. Would there be a day when that would change? he wondered. Could there ever come a time when he wouldn't worry about teetering on the edge of never seeing her again?

His voice remained calm but she heard the wariness in it. He was just as afraid as she was that she'd end things between them. End them before they began. End them before there was hurt to be had.

Drowning in rain and soggy emotions, she faced Ben. "I brought these raised beds from Boston with me because Josh built them. I kept some of his plants going, some of the herbs. It was a pain in the ass getting them here, but I did it anyway. It was the last part of him I had left. It was the last thing he gave life to. And I kept it going, the life, the best I could. I keep planting, trying to add to it each spring. I just planted some tomatoes yesterday. And those marigolds, I just put them in the soil yesterday too, and they were so pretty."