“’Course you would have. You’ll want to make yourself a little garden kit, so you have it at the ready when you head out here every morning.”

I struggle to school my expression. When I head out here every morning?

“And check your fences often.” She taps it against the electric wire and watches the screen. Nothing appears. “See? Not workin’. They’ve been having issues with this one and the animal pen for years. I remember foxes got into their chicken coop one winter years ago and slaughtered the lot of them. Another year it was a wolf. Jonah’ll need to fix this soon, or you’ll have critters in here mowin’ down everything, and you don’t want to lose an entire summer’s worth of work overnight.”

Does Jonah even know how to fix an electric fence? Should I be embarrassed that I moved across the continent for a guy and I can’t answer that?

She tucks her tool back into her pocket. “I harvested and cleaned the beds up as best I could last September. Buried the leftovers for some good compost. Colette was always good at keepin’ on top of the weeds so there wasn’t too much of that, at least. And I didn’t get a chance to amend the soil, but we can do that once the ground warms up a bit more. Spring’s takin’ its sweet time comin’ this year.”

My attention wanders beyond the garden to where patches of snow persist within the thicket, despite the warmer temperatures. The last claims of winter, holding on tight. “When do you think that’ll be?”

“Another week or so, if we don’t get too much rain.” Reaching the gate, she pauses to inspect a cinch in the wire. “Before you have that hot tub in and screened porch of yours finished.”

Muriel must have been standing by the door for a moment, listening, before she knocked.

I pretend to survey the patch of dirt within the fencing but really to hide the heat in my cheeks. “I don’t know the first thing about gardening,” I admit, wishing my mother were here to navigate this conversation so I wouldn’t feel so inept.

“You’ll know more than the first thing by the end of summer,” Muriel assures me, emphasizing her determination with a firm nod, as if she’s made it her personal mission. “You’ll need to pick up all your seeds at the local Feed & Mill. We’ll get your little greenhouse set up for next year’s seedlings but for this year, I should have some extra lettuce, peppers, onions, and tomatoes you can use. Oh, and cabbage, for your sauerkraut. You’ve been saving all the jars from the cellar, right?”

“We have,” I confirm. Mainly because I’m not sure what to do with them, so I just put them back on the cellar shelves after Jonah’s done polishing off their contents. But right now, under the perpetually disapproving eye of Muriel, I’m relieved I’ve done something right.

“Smart girl. Good. Makes it easier when you go to do all your preserving.”

Right. My preserving. I recall the day I walked into Agnes’s house last summer while she was pickling vegetables from Whittamore’s—payment to Mabel for her labor. Her kitchen was a war zone of jars and dirty pots, her skin and shirt stained purple from beets, despite having worn gloves. My nose curled from the vinegar and cloves in the air. I remember asking myself why anyone would go to all that trouble when they can go to the store if they want a jar of beets.

“Colette’s strawberries are over there, under the straw. That’s the trick with them. You need three to five inches of mulch to overwinter the plants.”

I follow her stubby finger to the far corner. “That looks like a lot of strawberry plants.” The patch takes up at least a quarter of this entire garden.

“Colette loved her strawberries. Sold almost forty quarts at the farmers’ market last year!” Muriel says proudly.

I have no idea how much forty quarts is, but I can guarantee it’s far more than a person like me—who doesn’t eat strawberries—could ever want. “So, there is a local farmers’ market where I can buy fresh produce?” As in, I can avoid all this work?

“Yup. Every Friday afternoon from end of June till September in the community center. They sell all kinds of stuff. Produce, local honey, jam. Colette made wonderful jam. We served it at the Ale House for breakfast. People can’t get enough of it. If this year’s growin’ season’s as good, I reckon you’ll be elbow-deep in mashed berries for a good three weeks.” Muriel’s head bobs up and down. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll help you with your first batch, so you get the hang of it.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, though I feel anything but thankful. Yet again, Muriel assumes I intend to spend my entire summer gardening and preserving.

She doesn’t clue in to my reluctance. Or maybe she does, but she refuses to acknowledge it. “We need to make sure things keep growin’ in here.” Her brow is furrowed as she studies the barren dirt again. Her best friend’s garden, that she laid to rest after she laid her best friend to rest.

Maybe that’s what is at the root of Muriel’s dogged determination to mold me into the consummate gardener—loyalty.

“I best be gettin’ going. I promised Teddy I’d make him an omelette.” She makes to step away but then stalls, her lips twisting, the wrinkles around her mouth more pronounced. “This ain’t none of my business—”

I struggle to school my expression. Sentences that start with those words are never welcome.

“But I’m guessin’ Jonah likes to have control.”

Hearing her use the word “control” to describe Jonah makes my irritation flare. A controlling man is not appealing. “He likes to have his say. It’s not about control,” I correct. Jonah is assertive and he knows what he wants. Those are appealing qualities.

Her head tilts in a “you silly, naive girl” way. “Men like him don’t do well havin’ no say over things like finances.”

She’s Toby’s mother, I remind myself, biting my tongue and forcing a smile.

“You know that resort? All those acres we own?” She juts her thumb in the direction of the Trapper’s Crossing resort. “That’s my family’s property. Teddy married into it. But the day I told him that we were gettin’ married or to quit wastin’ my time, I knew it would become as much his as mine. I still had a hard time lettin’ go, seein’ him as having an equal say. Took a few years to get used to the idea of that, especially for a stubborn broad like me. And I’ll tell ya, those were some hard years.” She shakes her head. “But there is no labeling ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ once you’re married.”

“We’re not married.”

“And you won’t ever be if you two let a big pile of money get in the way of it happening.” She points at the house. “It seems you’ve already made some big commitments to each other, buying this place, all the way out here. Rings and a ceremony … that’s all for show. It’s the day-to-day stuff that makes a real marriage, and out here where the winters are long and cold, you don’t wanna be at odds with your other half, believe me. You’ll need him.” She smiles knowingly. “I get what I want when it comes to the resort. Teddy thinks he’s runnin’ things around there, and I let the fool think it. Everybody wins.” Her pat against my shoulder is firm, and yet somehow comforting. “Do me a favor and listen to a willful old goat who had to learn the hard way.”