“He always had flowers,” said Jake. “I remember that.”
They spotted the squirrel, glittery and golden, almost completely covered in the green mush from plants that had been cut back and left to rot. Jake leaped from the porch, and Rachel followed in her flip-flops. She crouched down, brushed away the detritus until it revealed itself: a squirrel statue, ceramic and spray-painted so thickly that the paint had dried in globs and drips. A golden squirrel, like a trophy, some special achievement in small woodland animals.
Jake went home and changed into what he felt was appropriate gardening clothing—khaki everything, including a beret. Bert had not returned from his retreat, Krystal was asleep with the baby in her arms, so Jake scrawled out a note and left it on the kitchen table.
Jake and Rachel knelt down in the soggy earth and began to scoop away all the leaves, some so mushy they disintegrated in their hands, almost decomposed into mud.
Under the cover of leaves, dark soil was studded with tiny green spikes. The green was so pale and new, so unaccustomed to light, that it made Jake slightly sad. He thought of Frank planting these things, hidden from the rest of the trailer court by the privacy fence, his secret garden. Maybe Frank had planted them for Jake’s benefit. Frank didn’t have grass in his yard, but he always had flowers. Jake didn’t know what kind they were, but he remembered the colors.
“I lived here my senior year,” said Rachel.
“I didn’t know that,” said Jake, as he scooped a handful of sludge and deposited it in a garbage bag.
“He didn’t have a garden,” she said. “This was where I used to put my lawn chair and suntan.”
“Careful,” said Jake. “The sun is not friendly to blondes. I’m amazed your skin looks as good as it does.”
Grayed stalks, cut down as close to the ground as possible, were hard as sticks. They offered more evidence of flowers here, and that Frank had made sure they were ready for winter, and maybe his death.
Rachel pointed at the grayed stalks. “So you don’t know what these are?”
“No,” said Jake. “I don’t know flowers. That’s a stereotype.”
“Sorry,” said Rachel. “I’ve never grown anything in my life. Just hair.”
“I know somebody who can help,” said Jake. “You have to trust me.”
“Of course,” said Rachel.
* * *
They drove through the nearly flooded streets of Quinn and Jake gave her directions, but Ginger Fitchett’s house was easy to find. It was the nicest house in town. Like Frank, Ginger surrounded her entire property with a privacy fence.
Jake pushed through the gate first, and sitting in the middle of her own secret garden, Ginger Fitchett was entertaining Diane Savage Connor. They sat at a glass café table, under a giant pink umbrella, drinking tea. Ginger already began the work of preparing her garden for spring, and it was magnificent. Every square inch of yard had been landscaped in exact beds, framed with railroad ties. Ginger’s bushes were enormous, testament to a woman who spent years and years on her yard. A tiny greenhouse nestled in the corner.
“Hello there,” Ginger said, and stood to greet them. Jake was slightly shocked that Ginger wasn’t asking what Rachel wanted, or even seemed perturbed that Rachel had gained entry to her yard. “Do you want some tea?”
“Sure,” said Jake. Rachel nodded. They sat down next to Diane, as Ginger entered her gorgeous house, all three stories of it, a giant sunporch, the whole thing painted the color of a sunset. She returned with two more cups of tea. Jake helped himself to sugar cubes, while Rachel craned her neck to take it all in.
“Diane is seeing her gynecologist,” announced Ginger. She took a sip of her tea, while Diane nibbled at a Lorna Doone.
“It’s nice to know you’re concerned about your health,” said Rachel, to break the silence.
“Dating,” said Diane, after she had swallowed her cookie. “Like really seeing him.”
“Oh,” said Rachel.
“That’s what we were talking about before you showed up,” said Ginger. “We think he might be the marrying kind.”
Jake couldn’t stand it any longer. “We need your help,” he said. “Frank had a garden. Neither one of us know what to do with it.”
“Frank?” Ginger was incredulous. Diane raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” said Rachel. “He kept it a secret, just like you. I don’t think anybody in the trailer court knew what was going on behind that fence.”
“I did,” said Jake. “He had the flowers for as long as I can remember.”
“He was a mystery to us all,” Ginger said, and she reached over and patted Rachel’s hand.
“I want more,” said Rachel.
“I really didn’t know the man,” said Ginger. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Rachel. “I meant more flowers.”