Pamela Morsi by Love Overdue Page B

said.
    What else, indeed?
    That first year he’d thought to put in half a dozen tomato plants. Everyone knew that homegrown tomatoes were far superior to any bought in the store. But why go to the trouble of tomatoes without some cucumbers and radishes? Squash and gourds practically raised themselves. Broccoli, onions, sweet corn and salsify—every season his garden expanded its borders and its variety. This year he had even planned space for turnips and okra, two vegetables that he would never eat voluntarily.
    There would always be people grateful to do that for him.
    It was the growing that was important. The satisfaction of planning what needed to be done, doing what you were supposed to do and, with a lot of sunshine and the right amount of rain, seeing your efforts return a harvest of pride.
    Scott walked carefully between the rows. Everything looked very good. Here and there he saw evidence of wildlife. He didn’t mind sharing with the occasional rabbit, raccoon or possum. But he knew how easily a great garden could be overrun with pests. He walked over to the shed where he kept a spray bottle filled with diluted pepper sauce. He sprayed down all the cabbage. The water was always welcome. As for the hot pepper, it didn’t deter the critters completely. But it did make them think twice about a casual salad at his expense.
    Looking around his garden, Scott was reminded that no man is an island. Humans need fellow humans, but they also need plants. Whether it was God’s great plan or nature’s joke, the most evolved species on the earth was at the mercy of the food chain and its foundation of fruits and grains to sustain life.
    Scott actually liked being a part of that. Gardening was a hobby. And he was pretty sure that a guy with no wife, no kids, no girlfriend and no social life needed hobbies.
    The ruminations of his job always followed him home. And if he made no move to stop them, he’d spend his entire evening second-guessing his actions of the day and anticipating what might need to be done tomorrow or next week. His father had warned him to “leave the store at the store.” His dad’s philosophy was that the job and the home should be two different places and that it could be dangerous to allow them to mesh together.
    You can run a business or a business can run you, Scott remembered him saying. Work hard and smart every minute you’re here. When you step outside, leave it all behind.
    That hadn’t always been easy, and not just in the aftermath of his father’s death.
    Certainly it had been difficult to shoulder the extra stress of running the family business without his father’s help or advice. But even before that. When he was still feeling the sting of his divorce. When he’d felt so unsure about what he’d wanted and so disappointed about facts he couldn’t change. The temptation to hide in his job, to allow all his thoughts and emotions to become absorbed in the details of his career was hard to resist. It felt like virtue and it was quite possible to be completely self-righteous about it. But it was, he knew, only cowardice in disguise. If you weren’t willing to face your life—all your life, including the rough parts—then you weren’t truly living. You were just making a living.
    He was startled from his thoughts by the excited yapping of a little dog. The sound came only seconds before the creature was barging into his onions.
    “Hey! Get out of here,” he said.
    Knowing obedience was unlikely, Scott grabbed the small ball of black fur that was intent on trampling his stalks. He recognized the librarian’s dog immediately.
    “You’re a long way from home for a guy with short legs,” he told the pup.
    Scott looked toward the house. He couldn’t see all of his drive, but he certainly hadn’t heard a car. He glanced in the other direction, toward the creek, to see his mother walking up the path. She was dressed in a kind of knitted pantsuit with heels more suited to one of her