The Garden Witch

Huckleberry Lane

On the grassy shoulder on the right side of the road they saw a wooden welcome sign. Pleasant Town, it read, Pop. 2,018.

"No wonder you found a job here, Dad," said Roxy. "They're running out of people."

"Well, here come three more souls to boost their ranks."

The forest opened as the rooftops of a sleepy harbor town came into view. The houses were all quaint New England types, boxy with steep gables and soft colors, each home tucked under the warmth of autumn canopies. It was a scene that made you want to stop along the roadside and take pictures: lush green parks and farmers' fields were laid out like the patches of a quilt outside the quiet neighborhoods, and here and there slow rivers sparkled between drowsing white-trunked aspens and red maple trees—and all of it together nestled in the hollows of the mountain foothills.

"Pretty," Roxy said, despite her mood. Somewhere down there was the place where she would finish growing up. She looked out to the coast where distant toothpick-masts of fishing boats poked lazily against the blue horizon of the ocean. The Atlantic, she thought. She felt like she was half a world away from her old life.

The road wound to the outskirts of the town where many yards and porches had been strewn with decorations for October's harvest. Among these, and also tied to road signs or tall lampposts, Roxy saw some figures in old clothing stuffed with straw, and each one topped with pumpkins where their heads should be.

"What's with all the scarecrows?" she asked.

"Town tradition," said her father. "One of my new coworkers says that every family builds one at the start of fall and leaves them up till winter solstice."

"I like them," said Roxy's mother. "We should make one, too. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Mm," said Roxy, tapping on her phone again and once more disappointed by it.

They turned off from the main road and then crossed a long red covered bridge between two wooded riverbanks. The water down below looked deep enough to sink the pickup truck.

On the other side, there was an oak-lined country lane with about a dozen houses staggered on both sides among the tree trunks. Roxy's mother watched them pass like someone touring mansions of the stars. "These homes are all so beautiful," she said. "And look at the size of the properties—that's a long walk if you want to borrow sugar."

"I know. I love it," Roxy's father said. "No one's crowding each other or sharing walls or fences. Out here you've got room to breathe."

"Not like Santa Monica."

True, thought Roxy. It was nothing like it. She shook her head and put her phone away.

The pickup slowed and turned onto a gravel driveway. Outside Roxy's window was a huge and mustard-yellow house, colonial but well preserved it seemed, with two neat rows of windows with white frames and dark green shutters on them, and a front yard thickly carpeted with fallen leaves.

They parked in front of a clean wooden garage and then got out.

Roxy's father put his arms around them. "So, what do you think?" he asked.

"Oh, it's gorgeous," gushed Roxy's mother. "It's even better than the photos."

Roxy nodded, unable to fault the place. "Very yellow," she said.

Her father pointed out its virtues to them, speaking proudly of the house's style and location and square footage, and how he'd managed to use something he called equity from the sale of their much smaller California home to pay for it in full, and how they now had heaps of cash left over for new furniture and home improvements.