‘Florrie’s,’ I said decisively.
Mel nodded in agreement. ‘Florrie’s it is then.’
I left a short while later, taking back the folder which Mel had already photocopied. I leafed through the papers when she handed it back to me, making sure I had them all, and almost dropped them in her hallway when I saw the chart of volunteers we’d drawn up to manage the shop. Among the names of my neighbouring shop owners was one that took me completely by surprise. Mel Gooding.
She must have seen my shocked expression that was quickly followed by one of thanks.
‘I’m not doing it for you. It’s a really good cause, and this kind of thing is right up my street.’
I successfully bit back both ‘I know’ and ‘That’s why I’m here’ because our truce was built on gossamer wings and could be crushed by a single thoughtless comment.
‘You’re a good person, Mel, and even though I know I’m still in the doghouse, I want to say again how sorry I am for how I behaved. And that if you let me back in, I won’t ever do anything to hurt this friendship again.’
‘Let’s just concentrate on Florrie’s for now,’ she said, not meeting my eyes or the wistful expression in them.
‘Agreed,’ I said, not sure if I should offer her my hand to shake or my cheek to kiss. In the end I did neither.
She closed the front door behind me with a click that wasn’t quite loud enough to hide her sigh. At least she hadn’t slammed it in my face.
It wasn’t a big win, but it felt like the world to me.
Chapter Fourteen
There ought to be some sort of rule about sneaking up on people in cemeteries. My heart was robust, I didn’t spook easily. But when you hear a voice in a supposedly deserted graveyard, it’s hard not to overreact. My pulse rate went sky-high and I gave a squawk of alarm. The trowel slipped from my fingers and I lost my balance, wobbling from my crouched position to land heavily on my backside, directly on top of the pile of soil I’d just removed from the hole I was digging.
I’d got there ridiculously early, still not entirely sure if I was breaking the rules, because to be honest the website hadn’t been at all clear on what was and what wasn’t permissible planting. I’d seen other graves with flowering shrubs beside them, and it had made me sad that everything I laid beside my mother’s plot was destined to wither and die. I wanted something there that would grow and flourish.
‘Peonies.’
That was what the man had said, in a totally non-threatening, non-scary way, but it had still thrown me into a mini panic.
‘Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,’ he apologised, stepping off the pathway and walking across the dew-damp grass to reach me. ‘Did I startle you?’
‘No. Not at all,’ I lied, trying to pretend it was always my intention to end up with damp soil smeared all over the back of my jeans.
‘Please, allow me to help you up,’ he said, holding out his hand. I saw neatly trimmed nails, and palms covered in callouses. If I had to guess his age, I would probably say early seventies, but his hand didn’t look frail, despite the smattering of age spots across the back of his knuckles. Even so, I declined his offer of assistance, holding up both my hands as though I was surrendering to arrest. My palms were smeared with dirt. My gel polish French manicure, only two days old, was ruined. These weren’t hands fit for touching anyone.
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit grubby.’
That was an understatement. Filthy was closer to the mark. If evidence was needed of my rookie status as a gardener, it was right there in the tools that were so new they all still had their price labels on them, and the fact that I hadn’t thought to pick up a pair of gardening gloves when buying the rest of my supplies at the DIY store.
I scrabbled to my feet, scattering displaced soil in all directions as I straightened up.
‘Peonies are an excellent choice,’ the man said, nodding slowly in approval and stepping back out of the danger zone. His shoes, I noted, were black brogues, polished so well they practically reflected the early morning sunlight in their gleaming leather.
‘They were my mother’s favourite flower,’ I admitted, surprising myself by sharing that information. I rarely spoke about my mum, even to people I knew well, so to do so now with a total stranger was more than a little unusual.
I bent to retrieve my dropped trowel, expecting the man to be on his way. Instead, I saw him turn towards the wooden bench nearby and lower himself onto it.
‘You don’t mind if I sit here for a moment or two, do you? Just to catch my breath.’
It would have been downright rude to point out there were probably a dozen other empty benches throughout the cemetery he could have picked. It would have been even more inappropriate to add that he didn’t look the least bit breathless or in need of a rest. The woman lying six feet beneath the soil beside me would have been mortified if I’d voiced a single objection. So, I didn’t.
I turned back to the area I’d been digging before the man had interrupted me. It was a bit late to realise I should probably have paid closer attention to the advice Beth had offered about planting the peonies I’d bought from her store when I’d purchased the olive tree. She’d definitely said something specific about the depth of the hole I should dig, or was it the distance between each plant?
I freed the first peony from its plastic pot and dropped it into the hole. I had a feeling that the man sitting on the bench was watching me. When I’d finished refilling the hole around the vibrant pink plant, I chanced a glance over my shoulder. The man’s face was tilted up towards the sun and his eyes appeared to be closed. I assumed he’d gone to sleep, and after a moment of hesitation, I began digging a second hole.
I was only two shovelfuls in when the man on the bench cleared his throat. I paused, then resumed digging. He cleared it again. I turned around, but he still appeared to be in exactly the same position; his eyes were still closed.