The Rhubarb Patch Read online

  “Yes.” Mom laughed. “Totally crazy.”

  “You can say that again,” Scott agreed. He chose to leave out the argument he’d had with Phineas, because he still didn’t know what to make of it. Moving to the window above the kitchen sink, he brushed aside the curtain to reveal a perfect view to his neighbor’s house. “It was pretty funny, but then he got dressed and showed me around the—” He stopped midsentence in shock. “What the…?”

  “What is it?”

  Scott laughed. “You’re never gonna believe what he’s doing right now.”

  “What?”

  “He’s literally on his hands and knees picking grass.” He squinted. “Flowers maybe? Yeah, he’s on his hands and knees picking flowers out of the grass. Those little purple ones. What are they called again?”

  “Violets?”

  “Yeah, he’s picking violets out of the grass.”

  “That’s insane,” Mom said, laughing.

  “I know, right? I’m so gonna put this on my next Country Update: Crazy Mr. Phineas is picking the violets out of his grass and putting them in a bowl. Any idea why anyone would do this? Hashtag nutty neighbor.”

  A gust of wind picked up the bowl of flowers, and an arc of purple flew through the air.

  “Whoops, there went the flowers.” Scott laughed as Phineas frantically scrambled after them on all fours. “The wind knocked the bowl over, and now he’s chasing them.”

  “What do you think he’s doing with violets?”

  “I have no idea.” He shook his head, still watching Phineas. “The guy’s nice enough, but I think he’s a little nutso. I guess he and Nancy were pretty good friends, though.”

  “Were they?” Mom said, some of the genuineness fading from her laughter.

  “Yeah.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And he’s gay.”

  When his mother didn’t say anything, he asked, “Why did you always tell me she was some religious zealot? That couldn’t be true if her best friend was a gay man.”

  “People change, Scott. I told you about the woman I knew. And she used to use the F-word and talk about how much she hated gays.”

  “She talked about hating gay people?” Scott clarified, feeling like he’d caught her in a lie. “You told me she would want to convert me. You never said she hated gay people.”

  “It’s the same thing. I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions when you know what the Howes are like. They’re all white trash. Dale beat us. He went to prison. And when he finally got out, he died in a bar fight. His sister died in a drunk-driving car accident, which she caused. And your cousins are complete losers. Mike’s been to prison. And Amanda’s three baby daddies gave her three different-colored kids.”

  Scott’s brows shot to the top of his forehead. Jeesh! Could she make that sound more racist?

  “So you think I was supposed to let you get to know them?” Mom went on. “Like they would’ve been a good influence on you? Is your life so bad because you didn’t get to know the Howes?”

  He must’ve hit a hot button. “Mom,” he insisted, not wanting this conversation to escalate. “That’s totally not what I meant. I was just telling you I learned something new about Nancy.”

  “Whatever. Subject change.”

  Ever since he’d inherited the house, Mom had been asking him weird questions, wanting to know if his cousins had said anything about her.

  Why would they ask about Mom?

  The last time Scott saw his cousins, Amanda had been a snot-nosed toddler and Mike was getting spanked by their grandfather for stealing cigarettes. Scott had never been interested enough to even look them up on Facebook. They were just a blip in his memory, but Mom was acting like they’d become BFFs since Nancy died. She’d pestered him about whether they would be present when he talked to the lawyer. But the lawyer met with him privately about his inheritance. Scott had refused to let Mom go with him because she was acting fishy.

  Like she was hiding something.

  Did it have to do with the old woman who once lived in this house? A woman Scott barely remembered from Christmases past? Was there more to the story of why they never had anything to do with his father’s family?

  Or was he reading too much into it?

  “Okay, Mom,” Scott said with a weary sigh. “I should let you go. I have to figure out how to use the tractor so I can cut the grass. It’s been raining for two days, and I swear it’s a foot tall already. It looks like crap.”

  Mom gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Somebody’s all grown up. Worrying about how their lawn looks? I remember when I had to bribe you to cut the grass.”

  “Times have changed, Mom, times have changed.” And having his overgrown weed-filled yard juxtaposed to Phineas’s immaculate yard was embarrassing.

  “Just don’t let time change you too much,” she said. “I’m sending you Mama Love through the airwaves.”

  Despite his annoyance, he chuckled at her nickname for kisses and hugs. “Love you too. Bye.”

  He hit End and set his iPhone on the counter, feeling irritable and unsettled. He glanced out the window above the kitchen sink again. Phineas was still crawling around, plucking the heads off the violets.

  What is he doing?

  On top of being perturbed by another frustrating conversation with his mother, Scott was bothered by how he and Phineas had parted ways.

  Phineas had been angry that Scott hadn’t been in Nancy’s life. But he’d been a child. How was he supposed to be held accountable for his mother’s parenting choices after the divorce?

  As far as Scott was concerned, his abusive childhood was a mere footnote, a way to explain some of his dating issues and psychoanalyze himself. Like maybe subconsciously, Scott chose guys who treated him like crap because as an abuse victim he didn’t think he deserved better. Hadn’t he done that with Brent and pretty much all his boyfriends in some way, shape, or form?

  Well, Scott was determined to break the cycle.

  He would not fall back into old habits, doing whatever some man wanted him to do. He was his own person, dammit. He’d moved down here to learn how to be better at being himself, not get in touch with the Howes. Mom’s childish accusations were absurd. The only thing connecting Scott to his relatives was a last name. Heck, his dad had been so violent he didn’t even get visitation with Scott after they left. Then he got arrested for some scam he’d been operating. Thank goodness Mom had never taken Scott to the prison on visiting day!

  Talk about a memory he was glad he didn’t have. Seeing Daddy in his orange jumpsuit?

  Yeah, no thank you!

  After he and Mom moved back to Michigan, none of the Howes had contacted Scott. His grandparents never even sent a birthday card.

  In all honesty, he’d never given them a single thought until he read Nancy’s will. She’d actually stipulated, “My two ungrateful grandchildren, Amanda Howe and Michael Howe, don’t get a penny.” Scott inherited everything, including her practically brand-new Lincoln MKZ. The lawyer told Scott that Mandy had been pissed, cussing and screaming so much that he had to call the cops. Apparently, Mike hadn’t been there because he was on parole and couldn’t leave Kentucky.

  Yeah, like Scott wanted to be BFFs with either of them.

  Whatever, Mom.

  And if he’d had a desire to get to know Nancy, he’d lost that chance.

  Once again his gaze returned to Phineas crawling around the yard. Scott wanted to ask him what he was doing, especially when he began picking the tiny purple flowers out of Scott’s tall grass, but he didn’t. Rather, he poured a glass of water and watched the peculiar man with his bowl of violets.

  Chapter Four

  PHIN FELT like a real jerk.

  He knew he shouldn’t have been rude to his new neighbor, but it had been hard not to say what he really thought. Nancy had been his best friend. She was the only reason he wasn’t the same pathetic mess he’d been seven years ago.

  She’d taught him it was okay to be happy again
, even after loss.

  Shaking his head, he twisted the cultivator deep into the soil. The rich, wormy smell of spring filled the air, and he lost himself in the task of breaking up his garden. The faint cluck of chickens danced on the light breeze as his “girls” wandered the property, pecking the moist grass for bugs. It being mid-April, he was a little late on the cold crops. But going through the grief of losing his best friend had really messed with his head.

  How many people could one man lose in his lifetime and still go on?

  Beside the five-gallon pail with his hand tools and Ziploc bag of seeds, his little schnauzer lay snoozing. She’d gone deaf about a year and a half ago, but she was still just as sweet as she had been the day he inherited her from Aunt Nina.

  “So what do you think I should do, Katie?”

  She tipped her chin up, catching something interesting on the air, but she didn’t answer.

  You’re such a fool, talking to a dog.

  Living by himself was easier with someone to talk to—even if she was four-legged and deaf.

  He stood there for a moment, hand on his rake, watching her enjoy what would probably be her last spring.

  His heart gave another pang.

  He’d lost so much already. He didn’t know if he could take any more.

  Blinking back the stinging in his eyes, he knelt down by the old girl. Her little nubbin of a tail started wagging, and without getting up, she scooted closer for the pats she knew were coming. Phin picked her up and put her in his lap, sitting cross-legged in the grass, petting her and looking at his empty raised beds.

  Soon his life would be just as barren. When he lost Katie, winter would be upon him once more.

  Would he live through it this time?

  Since Nancy had come into his life, Phin had learned to live in summer again, to let go of the past and forgive himself for the unforgivable. But now autumn dawned on his happiness, and though spring had arrived in Ohio, he feared the emotionally dark days of winter ahead without someone to pull him out of it this time.

  Ever since leaving Scott by the fence, his mood had been dark and melancholy, a dangerously familiar feeling. He’d left before he said something he regretted. Phin always walked away when he was angry because words said in anger could not be taken back. He’d learned that one the hard way. And Scott’s flippant comments had pissed Phin off. Not only had Scott killed one of his rhubarb plants, but he was utterly clueless about the kind of woman his grandmother had been.

  Phin supposed that wasn’t all Scott’s fault. Nancy had been as stubborn as the day was long, surprising the hell out of Phin when she left the property to her youngest grandson. She hadn’t seen him in over two decades, yet she’d left him everything she’d owned. Phin supposed even Nancy knew her long-lost grandson was a better choice than her other two grandchildren, Mike and Mandy. They were more suited to be guests on Jerry Springer than decent neighbors.

  Katie pawed his hand because he’d stopped petting her. Chuckling, he scratched behind her ears, caressing her bony back. “You smell terrible, sweetie. I think you need a bath.”

  Of course, she didn’t hear a word he said, her tail wagging in response to his tender caresses. She wouldn’t be so thrilled when he put her in the tub later.

  Daylight was burning, so he set her back down in the grass, too much time already wasted. Eight raised beds filled the western side of his yard, each a practical three feet tall. He’d built them for easy harvesting by his six-foot-two frame, and deep enough his plants had plenty of good soil, considering his property was nothing but clay. Some people thought the nearby Shiloh River was dirty, but the clay bottom gave it that milk-chocolate color. The clay soil also made gardening a challenge.

  The day’s plan was to get his lettuce, spinach, swiss chard, radishes, and peas in. He was cutting it close for the peas, but it was definitely too late for brussels sprouts and broccoli. He never had good luck with them unless he got them in at St. Patrick’s Day, so he’d just plant those in August. Then he would have some winter crops under the cold frame he’d built for one of the boxes.

  The western side of all eight beds had trellises to protect the plants in the bed from the strong winds that came from that direction. If they had a stereotypical unpredictable spring, with a random ninety-degree week in May or June, the heat would cause his lettuce to go to seed, making it taste bitter. Once the peas started up the trellis, however, they provided shade to slow the lettuce’s bolting. But he was about three weeks late getting them all in, so who knew what would happen.

  Every year the garden had its ups and downs, its bumper crops and its paltry ones. Each season he learned new things too, storing them in his gardening journal, all in the hopes to make the next year better.

  Same as life, he supposed.

  He watched Katie sniffing around, moving as spry as her old bones allowed. Feeling his own joints creak and crackle, Phin set to work. That old mattress was killing his back, but he didn’t have the emotional energy to get a new one.

  It had been a while since he’d been out here, and a lot of weeds had already taken root. Halfway through tilling the first box, the bright green-and-purple of a couple of lettuce starts caught his well-trained eye.

  “Looks like we got us some volunteers, Katie.” Phin gave a pleasant smile.

  “Volunteers” were plants that reseeded in the garden from last season.

  Taking a trowel, he carefully dug up the tiny lettuce seedlings, six in all. He retrieved a plastic potting container and filled it with soft dirt, then watered it lightly. He transplanted the seedlings temporarily until he could get the entire box prepped. Depending on the weather this week, he might sow them in the earth or place them in his greenhouse window for a week or so.

  The pea trellises all needed to be restrung, so he tended to that next. When he’d built the trellises, he made simple square frames with eye screws along the insides so every spring he could attach new string for the peas to climb. Then, when the peas died off in the heat of June and he was ready for cukes and pole beans, rather than picking the pea plants off a wire frame, he could just cut the twine and toss the whole decomposable thing into his compost heap.

  It took him about two hours with his electric rototiller to soften the dirt, then sift out the weeds by hand. Once he finished, he filled his wheelbarrow with compost and churned it in by hand with his cultivating tool. The spring sun heated his back, but the cool air made it bearable.

  A damn fine day to be in the garden.

  Exhausted and filthy, his water jug empty, Phin decided to take a break. His stomach rumbled as he and his old pup headed back to the house. Inside, he washed up a bit and heated the leftover pasta and cheese he’d made. Setting out two plates, one full-sized and one tiny, he shared some of his lunch with Sister Mary Katherine.

  It was better than eating alone.

  She might be old, but her sniffer still worked, and before he set her tiny portion in front of her, she was already prancing. She loved human food, and the older she got, the less he worried about table scraps. Whatever made her happy.

  After he cleaned up lunch, he hauled out his bread machine and started a fresh loaf. Then he sliced off a piece of Thursday’s bread and popped it in the toaster.

  Yesterday he’d made violet jelly, his favorite of all the jellies, jams, and preserves he made. He’d almost lost the entire violet harvest when a gust of wind blew over his bowl. Thankfully, he’d been quick on his hands and knees to get back each precious purple flower. His mouth watered for the sweet treat. Each year he got roughly six half-pint jars of the flower jelly, and he savored every one. This year he’d gotten seven jars—plus a little extra that he’d have gone by this evening.

  After eating the buttered toast and violet jelly his middle didn’t need—damn, I need to drop twenty… er… thirty pounds—he poured a glass of water. He popped his afternoon prescriptions, then headed back outside.

  On his way to the first raised bed, Phin glanced at N
ancy’s—Scott’s house. He had to start thinking of it that way. Phin had seen him on a morning run, but they hadn’t spoken. After the off-and-on rain the past several days, Scott’s grass was almost eight inches high. Granted, Phin had gotten more violets than usual because Scott hadn’t mowed, but did the guy plan to mow it anytime soon?

  Telling himself to mind his own business—you already butted in enough—he took garden twine from his bucket and made the crisscross trellises for the peas. One could never have enough peas for the year, and despite the arduous chore of shelling them, they froze well, giving his February dinners the perfect balance of green.

  Katie was sprawled out in the grass, sound asleep after all the fresh air and cheesy pasta. He watched her for a moment, waiting to see the barely discernable rise and fall of her chest. Unable to stop himself, he walked over and placed his palm on her.

  Her eyes popped open, and she lifted her head, staring at him as if to say, “Why’d you wake me up?”

  He gave a relieved sigh. She’d gotten old enough that she slept harder than she used to, always making him nervous. Though he hoped she would have a peaceful passing in her sleep, he wasn’t ready for it today. He wouldn’t be ready for it when it happened either.

  Was anyone ever prepared to say a final goodbye to someone they loved?

  Putting his head back on the task at hand, he retrieved the pea seeds. When he dumped them into his hand, the little white seeds contrasted against the black soil staining his skin. Not one to bother with gloves, Phin loved getting his hands dirty. Nothing refreshed his soul more than a little bit of soil under his nails. Being out in his garden was just what he needed to get himself out of this “funk,” as Nancy had always called it.

  A garden was his happy place, and it always had been. He’d even had a green thumb back in Columbus with Tom.

  Another pain went through his chest as an old-but-never-forgotten memory returned to him. The townhouse they’d bought had a south-facing patio where Phin had excitedly planted a few containers of tomatoes. Glancing down at the pea seeds, he remembered how he’d never had good luck growing peas back then because he didn’t realize they preferred cool weather. Over the years he’d gotten rather prolific, stuffing gallon-sized freezer bags to put by for later.