Yes, I knew talking to my plants might seem crazy to an outsider, but I’d read multiple studies that talking helped them grow. I knew logically that it was probably just the CO2 that we exhaled, but it didn’t matter. I liked talking to them.
Besides, who else was I going to talk to?
Your new neighbors, my mind whispered sarcastically. All five hundred of them.
Today was the day they broke ground on the massive housing development next door. I was still furious after trying to block the sale, plans, and permits of the place. I’d hit roadblock after roadblock every time.
Even worse, I became a shrew in the process, something I’d never imagined I would become. I was a friendly, easygoing sort of girl. Or at least I had been when it hadn’t felt like me against the world.
I sighed and looked at the greenhouse window.
“I moved out here to get away from people,” I grumbled to my reflection. “I just wanted to cultivate organic heirloom seeds. The plants don’t like noise and pollution. And neither do I.”
I could have cried. My safe little hiding place, the adorable cottage left to me by my paternal grandmother, was no longer so safe or quiet. It was the one thing I had left from my family. I was alone in the world.
I’d felt so battered by the world after David died. He’d been a good husband. A good man. Not exactly fiery in the passion department, but we’d had a safe, quiet life. And then, just a few months after his cancer diagnosis, he was gone. It was that fast. Neither of us had time to prepare ourselves, though there really wasn’t a way to prepare for that, was there?
Just like that, it was over. I was a widow. And I had to start again.
So I’d quit my job in the city, sold off most of my stuff back east, moved out all the way out here, and dusted off Grandma’s old slipcovers.
Out back, I’d discovered a beat-up old greenhouse. I’d forgotten it was there. It was painted white wood and old glass, many of the panes cracked.
It was perfect.
A sunny patch in the midst of all the trees. An oasis of calm. The ideal place for me to lick my wounds and my plants to thrive, eventually starting to become a real business. Hard work, pure, fresh rainwater, clean air, and blissful quiet. Three years of it.
Until now.
Now, it was all ruined.
I wrinkled my nose at the smell of fresh asphalt being laid. The roads that would connect the godawful McMansions they were undoubtedly building over there.
I could have cried. I had cried. Many times. But mostly out of frustration. I’d felt so powerful when I was in New York, with my stable career in marketing and my perfect husband and life. It had been an illusion though. I thought I could control everything. Until David got sick. Even the best doctors in the world hadn’t been able to help him.
I’d managed to avoid the world since then. It no longer seemed like a friendly place. I was better off just hiding out and puttering with my plants. I’d fixed up the greenhouse as best I could and was still trying to get the cottage into better shape. The business barely made any money so far, but it was a little more every year.
No matter what, I knew I didn’t want to go back to the rat race. David had shown me that life was too short for that. So I ran my tiny online heirloom seed business and that was enough. I lived frugally. I certainly couldn’t afford to have workmen come and fix the things that needed doing. So I made do, and I learned to live with imperfection. There was something kind of poetic in the peeling paint and cracked window panes.
Because that’s what life was, wasn’t it? Imperfect. At best, you had things good for a time. But in the end, it was a long and lonely crap shoot. It was better to stay safe and live small. Not attract attention. There were fewer chances of getting hurt in the process if you laid low.
Fighting the development had made me stick my neck out. But no more. It hadn’t done a damn thing to stop the monstrosity next door, anyway.
I grabbed a cup of coffee and shut all the windows. I could still hear the sounds of heavy equipment, but it was a little less invasive. I decided to take a break and do some paperwork. I slid into the rickety old chair behind my desk, which to be honest, was also pretty rickety.
The thing swayed so much that it sometimes felt like I was at sea.
I stared at the computer while I waited for the day’s orders to load. I was so proud of my little business, humble as it was. I’d even had one of my old marketing buddies do the logo. It was chunky antique black lettering with a burgundy and gold frame. It looked authentic and cool and old-school, just the way I wanted it.