I backed off my smile. "How're the cookies?"

Dolly's eyes, which she directed over my shoulder and at the door to the main cafe, widened. "They just got considerably better."

I craned my neck, keeping the bill of my cap down, to see what had put the purr in her. My gray eyes connected squarely with Johnny Leeson's deep blues.

Somehow in the previous week I had forgotten how beautiful Johnny was, with his s.h.a.ggy, dark blonde hair, thick eyelashes, and soft, gently smiling mouth. His hands were strong and tanned, the kind of hands that you wanted moving slowly down your naked back and tangled in your hair as he pulled you in for a deep kiss. His broad shoulders tapered nicely to narrow hips, and it took all my willpower not to imagine what it would be like to have my legs wrapped around them. I crossed said legs to m.u.f.fle the excited whispering down below and gave him a short nod. Men had always been bad news for me, in a cheating and dying sort of way, and I had vowed to start listening to my brain more and my nerve endings less. It was high time I focused my energy on a more reliable form of entertainment. Like tornado chasing. I drew in a deep breath and concentrated on slowing down my heartbeat, which had revved at the sight of Johnny.

I wasn't surprised to see Jed follow Johnny out onto the Fortune deck. The two were the local odd jobs, taking on landscaping and heavy lifting work on the side, and they often hung out in their off hours as well. I hoped Jed wouldn't feel bad to see that I was still out. Johnny waved at me with one of his gorgeous hands and started to pull up a chair at a far table, but Jed loped over.

"Hey, Mira! You must be feeling better. And you know what I forgot to ask you? Now that someone stole the Chief, who you gonna crush on?" Jed smiled and slapped his knee.

Was my pitiful, make-believe love life written on my forehead? Or more likely, a billboard on the edge of town? "Good one." I tried to send out "go away" vibes because I didn't want Johnny to notice that I was dressed like a dorky tourist, and I especially didn't want him to hear that I thought Chief Wenonga was hot. If finding out that you like really big fibergla.s.s men doesn't turn a guy off you, then you don't want him.

Jed, as always, was oblivious to social cues. "You guys got two extra chairs. Awesome!" He signaled to Johnny.

He walked over and flashed his killer shy smile at me. "Hi, Mira. How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Mind if we sit here?"

"Not at all," Dolly said, indicating the chair nearest her. "I don't believe we've met."

I thought I detected a faint burning smell. It might have been the sizzling Dolly was directing at Johnny, or possibly my hopes of being the object of his unrequited love going up in smoke. I had no choice but to make the introductions. "This is Johnny Leeson. He works at the greenhouse here in town. And this is Jed." Jed smiled and nodded through a mouthful of our sugar cookies, but the doctor didn't bother to look his way.

"A horticulturalist? That's so fascinating! Where'd you study?" Dolly's smile was ear to ear, and she was leaning in to hear Johnny's response.

He pulled back a little, or maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part. "U of M. I'm going to grab a couple sodas. Can I get you two anything?"

"Soda?" Dolly asked. "You must have spent some time in Wisconsin. No one in Minnesota calls it *soda.'"

"Yeah, my grandparents are from Wausau. I spent a lot of summers at their place. So you two are fine?"

"Yeah, we're fine. Thanks," I said. When Johnny stood up, I caught a whiff of him. He smelled clean and solid, like a cherry Popsicle stick. I forced myself not to look at his firm-like-a-new-mattress rear as he walked away. If I had a pair of x-ray goggles, my willpower might not have been so strong.

"Hey, you're the Indian doctor, aren't you?" Jed asked.

"Close. I'm a professor of Native American Studies. What do you do?"

"I work at my parents' resort. It's a pretty good job, but ... oh, s.h.i.t!"

Before you could say "smoke," Jed leapt up and over the railing of the Fortune Cafe deck with surprising agility. I glanced behind me to see what had made him scurry, and was alarmed to make out the rear b.u.mper of a black and white pulling up in front of the cafe. At this angle, the police inside the vehicle wouldn't be able to see who was in back, especially in the dusky light. I was pretty sure that Gary Wohnt didn't have anything on me, but I didn't like the way he kept turning up. Maybe somebody had seen me at Halvorson Park, after all. I looked at Jed's retreating figure, then at the door Johnny had just left through. Would I rather risk going to jail, or leave Dolly alone to flirt with Johnny? Cripes. It's tough being single. I dropped a couple dollars on the table for a tip and jumped over the rail.

"I better go see what's up with Jed," I said. "Tell Johnny bye from me."

Dolly smiled, but didn't respond. I made my way through the back alleys until I reached my bike parked out of the streetlights' glare near the Rusty Nail. I had never intended to follow Jed, who probably at this very moment was burying a roach and some Zig-Zags in someone's backyard. I just needed to get away from the police. Since I was on the move, I decided to swing past the Meat and RV Store, the simmering air brushing past me as I pedaled, washing thoughts of Johnny out of my head. For now.

Les' store was on the south side of town, facing 210, about five blocks from the Fortune Cafe. When I reached it, I was happily surprised to see a light still on. It was dim, filtering from the back room through the gla.s.s panel of the front, but it gave me hope that there would be someone here. I leaned my bike against the building and crunched up to the front window. The "closed" sign was face out, but I could see shadows playing against the light of the back room.

I strode to the rear of the building just as the back door slammed open. I retreated into the shadows out of instinct and was only able to catch a sideways glimpse of the person leaving. He was over six feet tall, with dark hair pulled back in a pony tail. His nose was sharp and arrogant, and his lips were tight in concentration. He strode toward a blood-red Humvee I hadn't noticed parked behind a Winnebago that was up on blocks. An image abruptly sewed itself into my mind-it was a picture of a red Humvee in my rearview mirror. Not many of those around, even in the summer. Could this guy be the same person I had seen driving toward Chief Wenonga's post this morning? I'd take that bet.

I heard the "beep beep" of a security system unlocking the Hummer doors, which was a funny sound in Battle Lake. No one here locked their houses, let alone their cars.

Before tall, dark, and angry escaped, Les flung himself out of the back door. He wore a Cenex cap that was too big for his head and threatening to tip off. "Wait!"

The stranger turned around. "I don't think so."

"But it's a good idea!" Les was jogging toward the Humvee, which rumbled awake and carried its mysterious pa.s.senger away. Les just stood and watched it go, delicately adjusting his hat.

"Les?"

He jumped at my voice. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Mira. From the library? How're you?"

"Don't ask." Les kicked past me, a tight ball of anger in his camouflage T-shirt and pants. He didn't look at me as he reentered his shop and slammed the back door shut. I heard the click of a lock on the other side.

"Les? Mr. Pastner? I just want to ask you a couple questions about the Chief Wenonga statue. Mr. Pastner?" I drummed on the back door for a minute or two before I gave up. If there's anything a militia guy is good at, it's waiting.

From the direction of town, I heard the m.u.f.fled chords of an electric guitar warming up, signaling the beginning of the street dance. I could either go home and avoid Wohnt, or I could go to the dance and try to hook up with Dolly again. I would risk possible jail time, and worse, I would risk Johnny seeing me again in these horrible clothes, but I was never one to hide, at least not since I'd been on my own. Life had taught me that a moving target is harder to hit.

I walked my bike the five blocks back to the street dance, weaving around the cars scrabbling for a parking spot and pedestrians laughing and drinking beer out of plastic cups. The mood was festive, and it was early enough that there were still kids out, excited to be among the grownups at night. I couldn't squeeze my bike past the throng outside the Rusty Nail, so I walked it across to Larry's parking lot and hid it behind a row of yellow-blooming potentilla shrubs, careful to avoid the streetlights.

The closer I drew to the street dance, the more heinous the music became. Fortunately, pretty much any music will do if you're outside on a hot summer night with a cold beer, and the crowds I pa.s.sed seemed to be either ignoring the music or laughing at it. I decided to walk the perimeter of the street dance and come around behind it, where it would be quieter. I didn't spot Dolly Castle or Johnny anywhere I looked. I suppose they could still be on the deck at the Fortune, but I didn't have the heart to check.

As I ducked into the alley one block up from the band, I caught a glimpse of two flashing b.a.l.l.s. I realized they were electric earrings, and a second later, saw they were attached to Kennie. I slid behind an oak tree and peeked out at her, about forty feet from me. We were on the edge of the residential part of Battle Lake, right where the businesses ended and homes started. She was talking to the man I had seen drive off in the red Humvee, and they were walking toward me. Their conversation drifted over the music.

"... so embarra.s.sed the Chief has gone missing."

"Don't worry, Kennie. We'll make it work."

Kennie caressed his arm and giggled into his eyes. I was put off by her sloppy flirting. Even though Kennie and Gary Wohnt went to great pains to hide their relationship, the whole town knew they were dating, and her current lite infidelity did not sit well with me. "I know we will, Brando. I know we will."

Brando. Brando Erikkson, the owner of the company that had created Chief Wenonga. He was walking like a man proud of his hair shirt, tall and strong, swinging his glossy black hair in the night and cutting his eyes at Kennie. What had the owner of an out-of-town fibergla.s.s company been doing at Les' Meat and RV?

Suddenly, the silence was deafening. The band was taking a break, and Kennie and Brando were almost on top of me. I slid around the tree inch by inch as they neared, staying just out of their sight. I waited for the count of twenty, listening to their footfalls grow fainter. Then I scooted out to follow them, my eyes darting side to side, which is exactly why I didn't notice the solid, six-feet-two-inch ma.s.s in front of me until I railroaded right into it.

My eyes slowly traveled up the unyielding, muscular body to the face, my heart thudding. Had I misjudged? Had Brando backtracked to catch me? When my reluctant eyes met the gaze of the man in front of me, I froze. Oh, this was much worse than Brando. Much worse than anything I could have dreamed up in my worst nightmare, as a matter of fact.

To my horror, I was looking into the blank eyes of Bad Brad. He and I had been dating when I left the Twin Cities in March, and the last time I had seen him, his eyeb.a.l.l.s had been closed in bliss as the hussy dog-sitting for my neighbor played his skin flute, accompanied by the hard-to-find CD of Portuguese woodwinds that I had recently purchased for him. He didn't know that I had caught them in the act, as I had been perched on the second-story roof of a West Bank apartment spying down at him from a skylight. Shortly after I witnessed Brad Cheater Pants in the act, he got into a mysterious bike accident. Seems the nuts holding his front tire to the rest of his bike had disappeared. I felt bad, for a minute. Then, I broke up with him and moved away, never telling him why we were through. It hadn't seemed particularly important that he know. Or, was it that I didn't like confrontations?

"Mira?" He grabbed my shoulder and held me arm's length away. "Did you come to see my show?"

Brad was still cute, in his blonde Jim Morrison sort of way. And still dumb as a t.u.r.d. "Hi, Brad. No, I live here now."

"In Battle Creek?"

"Battle Lake."

"Yeah. You hear me play? This new band is tight!" He brushed his curling hair back and looked at me with his clear blue eyes, smiling eagerly.

"I thought Not with My Horse was going to be a country band."

"Oh, we are! But with our own style, you know? That last song? It was *My Achey Breaky Heart Belongs to Satan.' f.u.c.kin' cool s.h.i.t."

I looked at my feet and shook my head. This man had seen me naked. I had made breakfast in bed for this man. I had even listened to his poetry and told him it was luminous. Running into exes is its own special brand of h.e.l.l because it reminds you what a dumba.s.s you used to be. All I can say is that even monkeys learn from their mistakes. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. You take care."

"Not so fast! Why don't you hear our next set? There's a song about you in there."

I stopped on my heel and turned back. "Really?"

"Yup."

"What's it called?"

"Mira Mira." Brad dropped to one knee and clutched my hand, belting out a tune in a wailing country tw.a.n.g: "Mira, Mira, on my wall, tell me who is the rockingest fool of all, no wait a minute, I think I see, the answer staring back at me." Brad rose, swiveled his hips and raised his voice. Out of the corner of my mortified eyes, I could see a crowd beginning to gather. "Oooh! Mira, Mira on the wall, spent most of my life lying in bed, breakfast was vodka-soaked bread and a pack of cigarettes. Yow! Mira, Mira, they say it'll kill me, but I got a feeling, if I head next door for some loving, I'll start healing."

I glanced around at the handful of people swaying to Brad's painful serenade and wondered how long it would take to chew off my hand so I could escape into the night. That's when I spotted Johnny and Dolly strolling toward me, her arm looped in his. My heart dropped from my chest into my stomach and rolled around a little in the gastric juices, like a side of meat getting beer battered. Johnny and Dr. Dolly. It was bad enough they were together, but I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd let them see me being howled to by this mistake.

I flicked Brad in the nose like a bad dog, and when he released my hand, took off jogging. I hopped on my bike and kept to the back streets until I got to County Road 83, which I hung to for about half a mile before I turned right onto the gravel. When I arrived home, I was too wired and disappointed-no closer to finding the Chief, had lost Johnny to a better woman, and one big bad ex was in town-to sleep. I decided to hit the garden.

It had been a fertile year, with unusually hot weather. My tangled backyard was dense as a jungle, and the apple trees on the perimeter were thick with sour, baby-fist-sized fruit. I changed into faded cut-offs and a tank top, the night air still a moist 96 degrees according to the yardlight-lit, sun-shaped thermometer hanging outside my front door. I could smell the heavy sugar-scent of roses blooming around the side of the house, and underneath that trailed the scent of woodsmoke. Somebody must be having a bonfire. The smell of wood burning on a warm summer night spells comfort for a Minnesota girl. It's in our genes. I resolved to force thoughts of Brad and Johnny out of my mind. Back into the junk drawer for those two.

I gardened by moon- and yard-light, starting in on the east side of the garden with the row of marigolds. They were golden and spicy, and their thick furry leaves cast too much shade to allow many weeds to take root below. That row was clean in under ten minutes. Next, I hoed the wide s.p.a.ce between my twelve staked tomato plants. These were flowering like mad, and before I weeded the base I snipped the small leaves in the fork of the branches so the plants would have more vigor to bear fruit. The snipped baby leaves left a wet, peppery streak on my fingers. Once the tomatoes were weeded, the earth around them as clean and warm as a brown blanket, I moved on to the onions, planting one foot on each side of the row as I gently dug out the pigweed growing around the bulbs.

Tiger Pop and Luna stretched themselves out on the still-warm black dirt at the edge of the garden and ignored me as best they could. By the time I finished the onions and swung over to the row of coffee canaclad broccoli, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts, the bugs were as thick as soup. They had found me, and it was time to quit. Not for the first time, I wished mosquitoes had radiant b.u.t.ts like fireflies so they could at least light the way as they drilled into skin. If they had the power to glow, tonight would be lit up like the northern lights.

Swatting at the buzzing horde, I dashed for the double-wide, my hard-earned respite gone. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and I needed to evade the police, find a man missing part of his head, and track down a twenty-three-foot statue. While I was juggling that fun to-do list, I also needed to cover the fireworks display for the Battle Lake Recall, avoid a cheating ex-boyfriend who may or may not be spending the weekend in town, and convince myself that I hadn't really been falling for Johnny. The only silver lining was that the library would be closed for the holiday, so I'd have time to nose around.

The first person on tomorrow's To-Snoop list was definitely shifty Les Pastner. He had evaded me twice, first by not being at the Meat and RV this morning and second by locking the door on me tonight. I scratched at a mosquito bite behind my ear and thought about maybe wearing a hat next time I weeded at night to deter the bugs from my more tender areas. That's when I remembered Les' hat, perched tenderly on his head as he chased after the mysterious man with the Humvee, who had turned out to be Brando Erikkson. I had never thought of Les as a hat person.

Click.

Of course. Jed had said the police should look for a person wearing a hat because he'd be missing part of his scalp. Les had been wearing a big, loose cap the last time I had seen him, and he had been acting awfully suspiciously since the fake Wenonga Days planning meeting. If I couldn't force Les to talk to me, at least I could peek under his hat.

The Fourth of July dawned hot and bright. The air was thick, and out my front windows the sun sparkled off the serene surface of Whiskey Lake. It was going to be another breeze-free scorcher. I stood under an ice cold shower, wrapped my hair in a bun off my neck, and donned a cotton baby doll sundress that let the air flow freely on my back and legs. Before I poured fresh water for Luna and Tiger Pop, I packed their bowls with ice cubes so their water wouldn't boil while I was gone. I even retrieved two oranges from the crisper drawer of the fridge, sliced them in half, and nailed them to the birdhouse in the shade of the large oak tree in my yard so the orioles could chill a little. Birds and I didn't get along, and since they had the aerial advantage, I went out of my way to be nice to them. They were the avian equivalents of playground bullies, as far as I was concerned.

My bird aversion probably had something to do with misplaced guilt. When I was four and a half, my cousin Heather and I found a robin's nest in our climbing tree. There were three newly hatched babies inside, their featherless skin translucent. Heather warned me not to touch them because then their mom wouldn't come back. I pretended to listen to her, but deep inside, I knew that I was meant to take care of one of those robins. It would grow up believing I was its mom, and it would sing on my shoulder just like in a Disney movie. We would be tight.

Later, when I was supposed to be napping, I returned to the nest and s.n.a.t.c.hed the weak little thing, I concealed it in the very back of my sock drawer, which was little-used in the summer. I also pilfered a pound of raw hamburger from the pile in the freezer and set it next to the baby. My attention span being what it was, I quickly forgot both baby and burger until the smell became thick like air vomit. I found the bird, five days after I placed it in there, tiny eyes closed forever behind see-through lids. The hamburger was greenish and flirting with maggots. I tossed the burger in the woods and buried the bird in a shallow grave next to my Barbie doll whose head I had accidentally popped off.

I knew I was the reason the baby bird had died, and if I had only listened to my cousin, it would still be alive and maybe raising some babies of its own. Since that day, I figured the birds knew me for what I was, and I avoided them at all costs. I pretended it was because I didn't like them, but the truth was, they had every reason not to like me. I was always on guard for the retributive p.o.o.p missiles, and this sizzling day would be no exception.

My community ed cla.s.s with Johnny Leeson was scheduled for 10:00, with the Wenonga Days parade right on its heels at eleven, followed by some Les-hunting at noon. That plan of attack allowed me enough time to wash some clothes, compose a shopping list, and write a postcard to my friend Sunny, whose house I was sitting. As far as I knew, she was still on a fishing boat in Alaska with her mono-browed lover, Rodney, but she had given me the address of the company's central office, so I had some place to send mail to. I mulled over what to tell her about the current Wenonga situation. I didn't like to lie, at least to my friends, but I didn't want her to accuse me of keeping anything from her should all this have a bad ending. I needed to word it just so: Hey, Sunshine! It is so frickin' hot in Battle Lake that my freckles have melted. Luna is doing fine, though I think she might be getting a little pudgy-I'm going to start taking her on more walks. As Chief Wenonga Days approaches, I can't help but notice something is missing. Isn't this the first time in your life you haven't been at a Wenonga Days parade? Big love! Mira I was covered. Hopefully, by the time Sunny phoned, which she did every two weeks or so, this would all be solved, the Chief would be back in place, and I'd only have good news to report. I washed, dried, folded, and put away two loads of clothes, realized that I didn't need anything from the grocery store besides bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice, and let the animals outside with their ice water placed in the shade. I slid gingerly into my dragon's mouth of a car. I tuned my radio to the rock station out of Fergus Falls, rolled down the windows, and drove as fast as the gravel would allow to move some air.

It wasn't until I pa.s.sed a police car on the north side of Battle Lake, parked amid the traffic of the weekend flea market, that I remembered that driving my car wasn't a smart move. On a bike, I could blend in. In my 1982 champagne brown Toyota Corolla hatchback, I was a fish in a barrel. I hunched down into my seat, trying to tighten my ear skin so the antic.i.p.ated police sirens wouldn't sound so shrieking harsh as Wohnt hunted me down like a dog. When the air stayed blessedly silent, minus the nasal tw.a.n.g of CCR floating out of my radio, I dared a glance in my rearview mirror. The police car was empty, its occupant likely patrolling in the mayhem of the flea market.

Four blocks ahead, another police rig was parked, and I could just make out Gary Wohnt steering cars away from the marked-off parade route. It was too early in the day to be dumb twice, so I lurched a sharp right and purred down the back streets of Battle Lake. If I brought my car home, I'd never make it back in time for the parade, so I pulled into an alley and left the Toyota in the rear driveway of my friend Gina's house. A quick knock at her door told me she wasn't home, but when I tried her doork.n.o.b, it turned. I went inside, grabbed a red, white, and blue Minnesota Twins baseball cap off the rack next to the door, left a quick note, and headed toward the high school where Johnny's gardening cla.s.s was being held.

In most parts of the United States, community education cla.s.ses aren't held on national holidays. In Battle Lake, a local ladies' gardening club had started a pet.i.tion to have Johnny's cla.s.ses held every Sat.u.r.day morning, come holidays, h.e.l.l, or high water. Their reasoning was that he was providing an important service to the community and that many of his students were tourists, who were the thickest on the weekend holidays. This was true and true, if you agreed that looking hot at a chalkboard is an important service and that the out-of-town friends and family of the ladies' gardening club count as tourists.

I had debated not coming to today's cla.s.s, but then I would have had to admit to myself that I really liked Johnny. Inside the cla.s.sroom, I slid into the back row, next to two chirpy women in their early twenties. They both had golden hair, and the fluorescent lighting picked up their perfect honey highlights. Their skin was tawny, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s impossibly full yet perky, and I bet I couldn't have found an inch of cellulite on them even if I tweaked them head to toe in a vise grip, one inch at a time. I'd attended enough of Johnny's cla.s.ses to know that they were the young groupies.

They scooched their chairs over slightly as I sat down and whispered between themselves, glancing cattily at me. I was in a suddenly foul mood, so I decided to play with them.

"Hi. I'm Mira."

They both studied me for a beat or two and decided I wasn't compet.i.tion. "I'm Heaven, and this is Brittany."

I nodded at both of them. I knew the type-fresh out of high school, sure of their place in the world but ultimately lacking confidence in anything other than their immaculate makeup and hairless bodies. If they didn't wise up in the near future, they'd be married and pregnant within two years. Meanwhile, they looked like they had just stepped out of a J. Crew catalog, and it was cheesing me off.

"You guys like to garden?"

This sent them into peals of laughter. Heaven caught her breath first. "No, chick. We don't come for the gardening."

I chafed at the condescension in her voice and was gearing up for a verbal smackdown, but just then Johnny walked in, thick hair spilling around his sun-browned face. He scanned the room, stopping tentatively when he spotted me, and walked to the front of the cla.s.sroom. My dirt-grimed fingernails from last night's gardening suddenly seemed conspicuous, so I sat on my hands.

"h.e.l.lo, everyone. Thanks for coming. Today, we're going to talk about the second sowings of beets and lettuce-when to do it, what types of seeds to use, and where and how to plant them. I'm glad you're here, and I want you to know that in this cla.s.s, there's no such thing as a dumb question."

Heaven raised her hand. "What do you consider a dumb question?"

I rolled my eyes under the bill of the Twins cap. I'd be surprised if this one was smart enough to turn left, yet here she was, pretty pretty pretty and making me feel like a dirt clump next to her.

"Heaven, right? Don't worry about it. Just ask any questions you have." He smiled encouragingly and turned to the chalkboard. His arm muscles, lean from outdoor work, rippled as he made notes.

We all had three tight packages of Seeds of Change organic seeds on our desks-one Detroit Dark Red beet, a depiction of lusciously maroon beets like pirate's jewels amid deep-green leaves on the front of the packet; one b.u.t.tercrunch lettuce with a picture of a thick and tender head of greens on its front; and one Emerald Oak Looseleaf lettuce with bright green leaves as delicate and whorled as a baby's ears gracing the packet. I slid off my right hand and shook the b.u.t.tercrunch packet, enjoying the grainy sound of the seeds falling all over one another.

Despite my best intentions to remain crabby and distant, I became lost in Johnny's smooth, deep voice as he explained that it was probably best to sow beets every two weeks for the first two thirds of the summer to keep up a regular supply. I was a sucker for earth-friendly guys, and by the end of cla.s.s, I had almost forgotten that he was no longer mine. When he stopped at the end to take questions, Brittany shot her hand into the air, wafting a fruity dose of Baby Phat perfume my way.

When she caught Johnny's attention, she tossed her golden hair over her shoulder and leaned forward, showing the world her front b.u.t.t as it spilled out of her tank top.

"Do you prefer to garden with gloves, or without?"

The cla.s.s listened anxiously, all eighteen women eager to learn what Johnny wore when he gardened.

Johnny answered with his characteristic honesty, oblivious to the adulation he was garnering. "I like to feel the dirt on my hands. I garden bare."

A soft groan swept through his audience.

"Any other questions?"

"Do you give home gardening seminars? Like at someone's house?"

This second question came from Heaven, who was tracing a finger around the edges of her pink-glossed lips.

"Sure. Why don't you stay after cla.s.s and I can give you more information."

Heaven and Brittany squirmed in their seats at the invite, and that was the end of cla.s.s. I scooped up my seeds and bolted toward the door.