The Ghost with the Green Thumb Read online

  But it sure felt real.

  We walked back to the house. Billy and I pushed open the back porch door only to run into Grandpa coming out the other way.

  “Hi, Grandpa!” I said, surprised.

  “Hi, Beth, dear. And Billy! How you doing, son?”

  “Fine, Mr. Shepherd.”

  “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

  Billy explained. “I ran into Beth yesterday.”

  “Literally,” I said.

  “I’m glad,” said Grandpa. “It’ll do Beth good to have a friend around while I’m at work.”

  “What are you doing home, Grandpa?”

  “I was directing the final rewiring of the church when I realized I left my plans at home.” He pointed to the cardboard tube he held in one hand. “What have you two been doing?”

  “Billy came over this morning to drop off your weed whacker –”

  “I put it in your garage, sir,” interrupted Billy.

  “Thanks,” said Grandpa.

  “Anyways,” I cut back in, “then we explored a little.” I watched Grandpa carefully. “We went to the Lovers' Garden.”

  Grandpa’s face didn’t betray any emotion. “Oh, did you?” he asked. “I’m afraid it must have been really rundown. I haven’t been able to get in there to do any work since last year. When your grandmother got sick, I just sort of ran out of hours in the day. Now I keep meaning to fix it up, but then something else needs my attention.” He sounded a little wistful for a second, but then shook it off. “Perhaps you two can spruce it up,” he suggested. “I know your grandma would have loved to see it restored.”

  “Um… yeah,” I said, confused.

  “I’m heading back to town. Sweetheart, if you need me, you know where to find me. Billy, say hi to your dad for me.”

  As Grandpa headed down the back steps and towards the lane, my eyes met Billy’s. I saw there the same wonder that I felt. Without speaking, I knew we were both thinking the same thing – if Grandpa wasn’t caring for the garden, who was?

  “It’s Grandma,” a tiny voice in my head whispered, but I quickly tamped down the thought.

  “Weird,” said Billy. “I don’t know much about gardens, but I think somebody’s taking care of that one.”

  “I know,” I said. “Someone who’s taken a good bit of trouble to not be seen by mu grandfather.” I tried to smile to cover my uneasiness. “You don’t have any crazy hermit gardeners around here, do you?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Too bad. That’d be the obvious suspect.”

  “I’ll let you know if I see any.” He handed me the lunch bag. “For now, though, I better get home. It’s my turn to mow the lawn, and Mom’ll get mad if I skip it. You know how big families are. No one notices you until you do something wrong.”

  “Thanks for hanging out,” I said. I hesitated and then decided to be brave. “Want to do something tomorrow?”

  “Sure. When should I come by?” He stared at me in mock seriousness. “Do you think you could make it out of bed by noon?”

  “You’re hilarious,” I said. “How about ten?”

  “See ya then.” With a wave, he hopped down the steps and around to the front of the house.

  I went inside and plopped down on the couch. I was ready for some mindless TV to take my attention off the strange events of the day. Unfortunately, my brain didn’t agree.

  I kept mentally returning to the garden. Did I really see someone? Really see Grandma? It was impossible.

  I told myself that I must have been in the sun for too long. It probably made me see things. But in the next second, I had to acknowledge that after years spent outside, I’d never yet spotted a ghost from too much sun.

  After thirty minutes of going back and forth in my head, while pretending to watch TV, I was relieved to hear my phone ring. I looked at the screen and grinned when I saw the caller ID.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Beth Shepherd! How can you write that you met a boy and not tell me any details? I just got your letter one minute ago, and I had to call right away for all the info!”

  “Who is this?”

  “Ha.” Laura’s voice popped with sarcasm. “Now tell me everything.”

  I laughed. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. Really. His name is Billy, and he’s going into the seventh grade, too. We hung out today.”

  “What’d you do?”

  I almost told her that we ate a picnic in an enchanted garden, but that made it sound more romantic than it was.

  “We ate lunch together.”

  “A lunch date!”

  “A picnic.”

  “OMG, Beth. Is he cute?”

  I thought of Billy’s dark hair and big smile.

  “Yes,” I finally said with reluctance. I knew that it would set Laura off. I was right.

  “Beth! That’s awesome! I can’t wait to meet him. Is he funny? Did he ask you on the picnic, or did you ask him? Does he live nearby? Are you going to see him again?”

  “Slow down, Laura. You’re making more of this than there is. He’s just a friend. My only friend here, I might add, and that’s all.”

  “Sure,” said Laura. “But if that were true, why are you blushing?”

  “We’re on the phone. You can’t tell if I’m blushing or not.”

  “I can hear it in your voice.”

  I laughed. Laura always was a sucker for romance. When we were little, she constantly insisted on setting up my stuffed animals on blind dates with hers. As far as I knew, none of the matches ever worked out.

  “Fine,” she said. “If we can’t talk about Billy, I’ll tell you about my day. Mom’s got the organizing bug, and she made me clean out my closet this morning. It’s horrible. I’m giving away tons of fabulous clothes.”

  “Don’t get rid of anything until I go through it! I might want something.”

  “Too late,” she said. “That’s what you get for leaving me.”

  “I think you were the one who encouraged me to go.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, if you’re going to get an attitude, I won’t tell you about the weird thing that happened to me today.”

  “Ooh, I love weird. Spill.”

  “Ok, so we ate our picnic in the Lovers' Garden.”

  “Hold the phone. What is a Lovers' Garden?”

  I gave her the quick background.

  “And that’s where you had your picnic with Billy? What a sweet first date!”

  “Not a date,” I corrected. “Anyway, the strange thing is, I asked Grandpa about it later, and he said he hasn’t been taking care of it. But that garden looked as perfect as when Grandma was alive. Somebody’s keeping it going.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe the plants just grew more. How much daily work would a garden really take?”

  “You haven’t seen this one. It’s like a work of art, and, I tell you, there wasn’t a weed in sight. Everything was tidy and trimmed. There wasn’t even algae in the pond. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen on its own.”

  “I guess not,” said Laura. “That is strange, but is it that big of a deal?”

  I wondered if I should tell Laura the rest of the story – that I might have seen my grandmother’s spirit. It could be useful to get a second perspective on the issue. Laura was a firm believer in ghosts, though, so it wouldn’t necessarily be an unbiased opinion.

  No. I firmly clamped my mind down on the memory. It was just an illusion. Grandma wasn’t there, and I wasn’t going to obsess about it for the rest of the trip.

  I repeated my mantra. Time to move on.

  “Beth? Earth to Beth.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “No, you’re right. It’s not that big a deal.” I crossed my legs and leaned back into the couch.

  “I’ve been thinking. You know how we said my goal for this summer could be to help Grandpa move on? I’ve got some ideas…”

  Chapter 5

  That afternoon, I started on step one of Oper
ation Grandpa Pick-Up. After searching online for articles on the grieving process, I found a blog post about comfort food. It gave me a great idea.

  Grandpa’s favorite meal was chicken pot pie, and I remembered my grandmother cooking it for him often. I decided to bake my own pot pie for him, because what says family more than a family dinner?

  But rather than work from Grandma’s well used recipe, I pulled a new one off the Internet. I was trying to help Grandpa move on, after all. It was time to shake things up and try something new.

  I’d made the meal with Grandma in the past, but this recipe was definitely different.

  “I don’t remember using chick peas before,” I said to myself. Did Grandpa even have chick peas? A quick scan of the pantry told me the answer was no. I grabbed a can of white beans off the shelf.

  “This’ll work.”

  I browned the chicken separately before I mixed it with the remaining ingredients. It was a little more liquidy than I remembered, but I figured some of that would cook off in the oven.

  Making the dough for the top of the pie was difficult. It was super sticky and kept clinging to the rolling pin rather than spread into a nice smooth sheet. Eventually, I just had to do the best I could, piling the dough on top of the pie in little heaps. I hoped it would flatten out as it cooked.

  By the time I was ready to pop dinner into the oven, I had flour down my shirt, mashed peas under my shoes, and gravy in my hair. Still, I’d made dinner, and I was proud of myself. Not too bad considering that I was test-driving a new recipe.

  I popped the pan into the oven and ran back to my room to clean up. Grandpa would be home any minute, and I couldn’t wait to surprise him.

  I heard the front door slam just as I wiped the last of the gravy off my cheek. I dashed to meet him at the door.

  “Hi, Grandpa!” I said excitedly.

  “What’s this?” He smiled. “You look like you’re about to burst a seam.”

  “You’ll never guess.” I paused for effect. “I made dinner! Your favorite, too. Chicken pot pie!”

  “Well, isn’t that thoughtful of you! Thanks, sweetie.” He planted a kiss on my head. “Can’t wait. Your grandma’s chicken pot pie is delicious.”

  “This isn’t Grandma’s version,” I said, leading him to the kitchen. “I tried out a new recipe this time. It should be good.”

  “I bet it’s wonderful,” he said.

  “You sit there.” I directed him to the head of the table. “I’ve got all this covered.” I pulled out plates and silverware and fixed each of us a tall glass of iced tea. I laid a trivet down on the table and went to the oven to retrieve the pot pie.

  “Uh oh,” I muttered as soon as I saw the dish. The pie didn’t look quite right.

  The dough did not even out in the oven, as I hoped it would, but instead baked into hard mini-mountains all over the top. That would have been all right on its own, but the dish also put off a strange scent. I wrinkled my nose, pretty sure chicken pot pie did not normally smell like this.

  I tried to ignore it. I forced a smile onto my face and turned with the dish towards the table.

  “Here we go,” I announced. I placed the pie in front of Grandpa.

  “Thank you,” he said. If he noticed anything strange about dinner, he didn’t mention it, for which I was grateful.

  I spooned us out each a portion. The chicken pot pie didn’t hold its shape like it normally did, but instead ran all over the plate. Oh, well. There was nothing to do now but try it.

  We said the blessing together and then dug in.

  Only, once I took that first bite, I wished that I hadn’t.

  Remember when I substituted beans for chick peas? Big mistake. The biggest.

  I chewed slowly, willing myself to get down the bite as I eyed Grandpa apprehensively. He took a heaping forkful to his mouth.

  His eyes widened ever so slightly as he chewed. After what felt like a full minute, he finally swallowed. I did too, and we both took big sips of tea.

  My grandpa cleared his throat. “Very good,” he said. “Excellent dinner. Thank you for making it for me.”

  “You’re, uh, welcome,” I said. Slowly I loaded up my fork for another bite. Grandpa did the same, and we both paused, holding our loaded utensils in the air, and stared at one another. I felt like we were playing a dinnertime version of chicken. Who would be daring enough to take the next bite?

  I inched my fork toward my mouth. I was half a second from tasting more chicken pot pie when I threw it back down to my plate.

  “I can’t do it,” I said. “This is awful!”

  I started to laugh then, and Grandpa joined in with his low chuckle. He put his fork down.

  “It’s not your best work,” he said.

  I drank some more tea and then wiped my tongue with a napkin. It wasn’t exactly good table manners, but it helped get the taste out of my mouth.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Grandpa stood and pushed back his chair. “Let’s go out to dinner.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Run put your shoes on. We can walk over to The Cutting Board.”

  “Ok, but there’s something I’ve got to do first.” I grabbed the pot pie dish from the table and marched to the trash can. I turned the pan upside down and dumped the entire meal into the garbage. “Much better.”

  ***

  The Cutting Board was the only restaurant in Galton, but it was a good one. The cozy little diner was a favorite haunt of my grandparents, and I’d often gone to dinner with the both of them there. Given the memories associated with it, the restaurant might not have been the best choice to help Grandpa move on with his life – but, still, a girl’s gotta eat.

  We pushed open the glass front door and were met by an assortment of delicious smells. My stomach rumbled as an elderly woman bustled over to us. She wore a flowered shirt and slacks, and she held a stack of menus.

  “Hello, Karl,” she greeted my grandpa.

  “Good to see you, Matilda. You remember my granddaughter, Beth, don’t you?”

  “Certainly I do. Welcome, Beth.”

  “Beth, Ms. Matilda was one of your grandmother’s best friends. She also owns The Cutting Board.”

  I remembered seeing this woman at my grandmother’s funeral, but until then I couldn’t have told you who she was. There had been so many people at the service that it was hard to keep them all straight.

  I had, however, spent many evenings at The Cutting Board, and I didn’t remember ever seeing Ms. Matilda there.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I didn’t know you owned this restaurant. What happened to Mr. Wilson?”

  “I bought the restaurant from him about a year ago,” she said. “This is my retirement project. Now you two come sit down. You can have the best seat in the house.” She winked. “It looks a lot like all the other seats in the house. But we’ll know the truth.”

  She left us at a small round table with a promise that our waitress would be there soon.

  Grandpa passed me a menu. “Ms. Matilda’s been a good friend since your grandma died. You’ll like her.”

  “She seems nice,” I watched the older woman greet some new patrons.

  “Now, what sounds good?” Grandpa looked over the list of dishes.

  “Anything except chicken pot pie,” I said.

  “I second that,” said Grandpa, his eyes twinkling at me.

  We had a delicious dinner. I ordered a steak and baked potato while Grandpa had the gumbo. For the first few minutes after receiving our food, we simply ate. I didn’t know about Grandpa, but I was starved, especially with the delay caused by my kitchen fiasco.

  Finally, I slowed down enough to talk.

  “I’m surprised that Ms. Matilda runs this place,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “She said she was retired, right? Running a restaurant doesn’t seem very restful.”

  Grandpa laughed. “Matilda’s never been one to rest. She’s always moving on to the next t
hing.”

  I thought about that. Ms. Matilda might be the kind of influence that my grandfather needed right then.

  “Have you ever thought about what you’ll do when you retire?” I asked.

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Once upon a time, your grandma and I planned to move overseas when we retired.”

  “Are you serious? To where?”

  “Italy.” He smiled ruefully. “We were going to buy a small vineyard.”

  “That is awesome, Grandpa. Seriously. Are you still going to?”

  “I doubt it. Not now. You see, it was our dream. Your grandma’s and mine. I’d never want to move there by myself. With her, it would have been an adventure. Without her… I think I’d just be lonely.”

  “I guess I know what you mean,” I said. I was quiet for a minute. This was my perfect opening to encourage him to move on, but I couldn’t bring myself to push him to move to a foreign country alone. I’d miss him.

  Grandpa pushed his plate away. “Well, this has been lovely, but it’s probably time we headed for home. It’s getting late.” He looked at the remains of my dinner, which included only the trimmings of my steak and one last bite of baked potato. “Goodness, you were hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “Well, hungry girl, would you like to pay the bill?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I thought you might.” He slipped me some money for me to take to the cash register at the counter.

  “Be right back,” I said. I sauntered to the counter and tried to look as though I covered restaurant checks all the time. Ms. Matilda stood behind the register.

  “How was dinner?” she asked, taking the money from me.

  “Great,” I said. “Seriously, I think the food might be even better than it was when Mr. Wilson ran the place.”

  “That’s high praise,” she said. “Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”

  As she counted out my change, a large bouquet of daylilies caught my eye. They spilled out of a large glass vase in the middle of the counter.

  “Those are pretty,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She placed my change in my hands. “Do you recognize them?”

  “What do you mean?”