The Gardens of Digby Green: Roseland

The Gardens of Digby Green: Roseland

Digby Green leaned the handle of his shovel against the fork of a sapling as he surveyed his newest garden. Small, and private, not more than three feet by six feet, it fit perfectly into this clearing, with its mixture of light and shade. He’d mulched it well. Now it was time for the final touch.

He reached for the potted viola and knocked it free of its plastic prison. Going down on one knee, Digby scooped a hole in the well-prepared soil. As he pressed the dirt around the viola’s roots, a raindrop landed on the back of his neck.

“Good. It’s always best to let Mother Nature do the watering.”

Digby chuckled. “World would be a better place if more people were traveling gardeners.” He brushed the soil from his hands and balanced his spade on his shoulder. “Time to move on.” Whistling, he hiked to his pick-up truck.

Adding his creations to the lovely countryside he’d seen since his first garden, the one in Hazel Green, brought such satisfaction. “Sunflower, Viburnum, Lily, Myrtle Beach, Laurel, Magnolia, Daisy, Heath, Holly, Viola…” The place names were a garden in themselves. He wouldn’t forget one, even if he hadn’t saved the coordinates on his laptop. Digby turned on the radio and accelerated toward the freeway south.

The manager at Roseland Garden Supply was expecting him tomorrow.

Rose Wilkinson kissed her husband Ray and passed him his thermos before she followed him out the door on Wednesday morning. Maybe he wouldn’t get a new case today. The last one shook him badly, though he could hide the signs from everyone else.

She slid behind the steering wheel of her red Chrysler Imperial and shut the door. The engine turned over, and she backed down the drive. Today, she had until nine-thirty to arrange a floral tribute for poor Kimmy Stokes. “Orange lilies and purple irises,” she muttered, envisioning the stock in the cooler. The cheerleading squad member who placed the order insisted on the school colors to honor their captain.

“That green Japanese pot. Yes, it’ll have to be.”

Fifteen minutes later, Rose unlocked the back door of her shop on Dixie Way. She pulled her apron from the hook, and lifted the pot from a shelf. Twisting a tap, she let the flow soak a block of florist’s foam. Then she stepped into the cooler. Rose pulled irises from one bucket, lilies from another.

The phone rang. She plopped her choices into an empty bucket, left the cooler with it, and reached the phone on the fourth ring. “Rose’s Roses,” she said.
“Rose, it’s Connie. I can’t come in today. I’ve caught Joe’s stomach bug.”

The Gardens of Digby Green: Roseland is the first installment of a short story in multiple parts which will post on Fridays until the story is complete.

Next week, part two, The Gardens of Digby Green: Poor Kimmy.