The Lester St place had been a share-house. Daniella bought it in spring. By mid-summer, when she moved in, vegetables were flourishing in the back yard and nectarines hung, plump and enticing from the tree in the corner. The tomatoes and beans she ate wouldn’t have been planted when she bought the place—she remembered the freshly tilled soil.

Pinned to the noticeboard in the pantry she found a hand-written planting guide—meticulous notes added over the years with rotations for each bed and each season. The tomatoes came out in February. She dug in manure, planting silverbeet after a couple of weeks. Her first harvest was in late March. She rang the Agent who’d handled the property. “I’ve got mail for them, do you have a forwarding address?”

Before she finished parking she spotted him. He was lanky and handled his spade with ease. His eyes flashed at her as she approached him. They were as deep green and seductive as the leaves in her basket.

 

(this is an edited version of the story The Garden, published on this day, 2010. See about small stories about love)

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