The Welcome Home Garden Club

The Welcome Home Garden Club

Lori Wilde

Dedication

To all the loved ones of our servicemen and -women. Your sacrifices mean so much.

Contents

Prologue

Traditional meaning of striped carnation—no, sorry, I cannot be with you.

F
rom the look of things, the good citizens of Twilight, Texas, thought more of J. Foster Goodnight as a corpse than they had as a human being.

Numerous military-themed floral baskets and vases filled with white lilies, red roses, blue delphiniums, and red and white striped carnations with blue bows vied for space with the dressed-in-their-Sunday-best crowd spilling out of the stone pavilion overlooking the Brazos River. But no one cried, most speculated on the lavish contents of J. Foster’s will, and quite a few shared a smile or two.

Caitlyn Marsh concurred with the sentiment.

In death, J. Foster had earned her floral shop more money than she’d made her entire last quarter. While in life, the grandfather of her only child had killed her high school sweetheart as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger.

Even now, eight years after Gideon’s murder, just thinking of him as he’d been—whole, handsome, incredibly strong and brave—hurt Caitlyn’s soul. Never mind that at age twenty-five she’d already been both bride and widow to someone else, her heart would forever and always belong to Gideon Garza.

In the distance, she heard the faraway droning of a motorcycle engine. The cool spring breeze dispersed somewhat the cloying perfume of too many blooms; ruffled hairstyles and funeral programs with a photograph of the deceased sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, a black Stetson perched atop his head. He had one hand on his Bluetick Coonhound’s neck, the other curled around a tumbler of malt Scotch. A fully loaded gun rack, along with various dead animal heads, was mounted on the wall behind him. He looked the epitome of what he was. Rich, privileged, cruel, and proud of it. J. Foster had been the kind of wealthy, hard-ass, good old boy who’d once defined Texas—loud, shrewd, swaggeringly arrogant, and tough as his alligator boots.

No expense had been spared on the flag-draped, cherry hardwood coffin with a MemorySafe drawer to display his cherished keepsakes—the scorecard from the hole in one he shot on his forty-fifth birthday at the Pecan Valley Country Club, old Blue’s last dog collar, a cigar that was reportedly Cuban and given to him by LBJ, a navy Vietnam War veteran patch, and a paperback copy of Larry McMurtry’s
Lonesome Dove
. The coffin’s handles were solid gold and the casket liner was one hundred percent silk, custom-made, a cowboy print depicting an Old West cattle drive scene.

The casket sat flanked by two young navy seamen in white. Ringing the pavilion, standing at attention as erect as the young servicemen, were the Patriot Guard. On their motorcycles, American flags flying, they had escorted the hearse from Shady Rest Funeral Home to the hillside where many of Twilight’s servicemen and women were buried. Just the sight of them, stalwart and dutiful, misted Caitlyn’s eyes with patriotism. She might have hated J. Foster, but he had served his country, and for that, he’d earned her grudging respect.

The minister delivered the eulogy, but Caitlyn wasn’t much listening. She knew what J. Foster was really like, and she didn’t particularly want to hear the positive spin the reverend put on his life. Instead, she was calculating how long it would take her and the funeral home assistant to get the flowers, earmarked for the graveside, into the rear of her van while the sound of the distant motorcycle grew steadily louder.

The young servicemen carefully folded the flag with practiced precision. Once their task was complete, the honor guard took over. Three retired servicemen with rifles, simultaneously firing off three shots apiece. The loud, definitive noise jarred Caitlyn, and she winced with each firing as spent bullet casings spit against the cement.

“Taps” issued eerily out across the cemetery. The river running below bounced the sound back until it was difficult to know from what direction the mournful bugling came. The hairs on her arms rose and a lump clogged her throat. Caitlyn swiveled her head, looking for the bugler, but saw instead a black motorcycle traveling the winding road toward the pavilion.

The bugling stopped and she heard the engine again, much louder now.

It was an Indian.

She knew because Gideon had owned a 2000 Indian Chief bought with money he’d earned working as a carpenter’s apprentice the year after he’d graduated high school, and she’d loved riding on the back of it, her arms wrapped around Gideon’s firm waist, the wind blowing over her skin, the throb of that distinctive machine vibrating up through the seat.

Who was this latecomer?

Closer and closer the motorcycle drew. For a moment it disappeared behind a bend in the road, hidden by a cedar copse. Then it reappeared, just as the two navy seamen handed the folded flag to Goodnight’s next of kin, saluted, snapped their heels, and pivoted away.

The Indian pulled to a stop behind the procession of cars parked along the circular drive. Heads turned. A murmur ran through the throng as others noticed the new arrival.

The rider, cloaked in leather, his face hidden behind a helmet and protective goggles, swung off the bike. He sauntered toward the group, everyone transfixed.

Caitlyn’s heart fluttered in recognition.
Gideon.
She felt all the air leave her body, heard the blood bounding through her ears.

Gideon?

But it wasn’t Gideon. It couldn’t be Gideon. Even though he moved with the familiar gait of the boy she’d once loved more than life itself. How many times had she mistaken a stranger in the crowd for her long-lost lover? Hundreds? A thousand? More?

The interloper reached the stone pillar where Caitlyn stood, her body trembling, mouth dry.

He stopped halfway between her and the casket.

Her heart was in her throat. Her knees were noodles. Her confused mind was in utter chaos. Her head spun, her vision blurred. She fisted her hands, gulped for air.

It wasn’t Gideon. It simply could not be. She knew it, and yet, and yet . . .

Then he stripped off his helmet, pulled away the goggles, and Caitlyn stared straight into the eyes of a dead man.

Chapter One

Traditional meaning of hibiscus—delicate beauty.

Three weeks earlier

O
n that late Sunday afternoon in early February, it took a moment for Caitlyn to realize someone had spoken her name. Her gloved hands were deep in the rich loam, the earthy scent of cool winter soil teased her nostrils with the promise of miracles.

At first she thought the sound was her favorite hen, a beautiful salmon Faverolles named Collette, clucking over a fat juicy worm, so she didn’t pay much attention. Digging in the dirt helped her think, and she was desperate for a solution to save her flower shop and the home she loved.

“Caitlyn?”

She raised her gaze, saw the two Elberta peach trees she’d planted in honor of the two men she’d lost, one her husband, the other the love of her life. Both trees were already boldly putting on buds as if just daring Mother Nature to strike again with a vicious freeze before the official start to spring. Tempting death, those trees, same as her lovers.

“It never pays to take risks,” she muttered, dusting her hands and rising to her feet. “Mark my word, you saucy darlings, we’ll have no fresh peach cobbler this summer.”

“What did you say, dear?”

Caitlyn pressed her palms into the small of her back, stretching out the kinks and shifting to meet the gazes of all ten members of her gardening club standing around her in a semicircle. “Just talking to my peach trees.”

“They’re going to get blasted, blooming this early.” Eighty-five-year-old Dotty Mae Densmore, the oldest of the group, shook her head.

Caitlyn was surprised to notice that Dotty Mae was dressed in a pink shift dress and a matching Jackie Onassis pillbox hat and holding a clutch purse. In fact, all the ladies assembled were overdressed.

Uneasiness cooled the back of her neck. She forced a smile, tried not to let her imagination run away with her, removed her gardening gloves, and pushed an errant lock of hair from her forehead. “That’s what I was telling those naughty trees. This streak of warm weather has them busting out like teenagers on spring break. So what’s up?”

“We need to speak with you,” said Patsy Cross, who was on the town council.

Patsy was a widow like Caitlyn, but at sixty, she was almost three times her age. She also owned the Teal Peacock, a curio store just off the town square. She wore her frosted blond hair cut like Diane Sawyer’s, had lost weight recently, and seemed to be smiling a lot more often. She wore navy blue slacks, a tangerine silk blouse, and navy blue ankle boots. She marched with a determined gait, her legs like a general’s. After Caitlyn’s husband, Kevin, had been killed six months ago, Patsy had been the first one to the house with a box of Kleenex and a casserole dish of King Ranch Chicken. “It’s rather urgent.”

“Is something wrong?” Her hand crept to her neck as fear burrowed underneath her skin.

“Everything’s fine,” Flynn MacGregor Calloway soothed. Flynn was just a few years older than Caitlyn, and newly wed to Patsy’s nephew Jesse. She was attending college to become an elementary school teacher, and she was one of those instinctively nurturing types who’d picked up on Caitlyn’s tendency to become easily alarmed. A riot of dark brown curls surrounded her pretty face. She smiled, showing off a wealth of dimples. Flynn had been the one to offer to babysit Caitlyn’s seven-year-old, Danny, during the chaos of Kevin’s funeral arrangements. “Town business, and we need your help.”

Relief sagged through her. Thank heavens nothing was wrong. She glanced at her watch and saw that she had an hour before she had to pick Danny up from his playdate.

Caitlyn waved them toward the cottage. “Please come in, I’ll put on a pot of water for tea.”

They trooped inside and gathered around the circular farmhouse table. She hauled in a few chairs from other rooms to have enough seating for everyone.

While she was doing this, quiet Christine Noble, who’d once been an Olympic contender before an accident had crushed her leg, filled the chicken-shaped teakettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.

Christine owned the Twilight Bakery and she and Caitlyn often worked the same events together—weddings, graduations, anniversaries. Christine provided the cakes, Caitlyn the flowers.

In fact, they were working together on the upcoming wedding of one of their garden club members, self-contained Sarah Collier. Sarah was a children’s book author recently engaged to Travis Walker, the local game warden, who had a daughter who was a year older than Danny. Sarah had a tendency to keep a low profile. Caitlyn noticed Sarah had taken the chair closest to the door. She and Sarah were the same age, and younger than everyone else in the club.

“Thank you,” Caitlyn told Christine.

Christine smiled shyly and limped to the oversized white rocking chair that Caitlyn had dragged in from the screened porch and waved at the brown paper bag on the counter. “I brought cookies too.”

“What kind?” asked Marva Bullock, a beautiful African-American woman in her late forties and the principal of Twilight High. Once upon a time, she’d been Caitlyn’s algebra teacher. “I’m wondering if they’re worth blowing my diet over.”

“Lemon drop,” Christine enticed.

Marva groaned. “My favorite.”

“As if you need to diet.” Raylene Pringle snorted. “You’ve got a fine body.”

Marva patted her belly. “Gotta keep this middle-aged spread under control.”

“What for?” Raylene asked. “G.C.? Trust me, men aren’t worth the trouble. They’ll just leave you in the end.”

Raylene had once been a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader back in the Tom Landry heydays. Even at sixty, she’d managed to hang on to her youthful figure. She was blunt, outspoken, and sassy. But lately, since she and her husband of thirty-four years had split up, she’d fallen in a deep funk. She’d stopped bleaching her hair blond and quit wearing her skirts short. Her friends in the garden club weren’t sure what to make of this new Raylene.

Marva looked a little alarmed, and when Caitlyn set the platter of lemon drop cookies on the table, she shook her head. “I’ll be good and pass on the cookies.”

“What?” Raylene asked. “You think being skinny is gonna save your marriage? Men either up and die on you, or when the going gets tough, they jump ship and run off.”

No one pointed out that her husband had had a very good reason for walking out on her.

“Ray,” Patsy said softly, and put a gentle hand on Raylene’s forearm. “G.C.’s not Earl. He’s not going to leave Marva.”

“Yeah? Well, I never thought Earl would leave me either. How am I supposed to run the Horny Toad Tavern without him?” Raylene looked as if she was on the verge of tears, and that startled everyone. Normally, things slid as easily off Raylene as rain off a horny toad’s hide.

“So,” Caitlyn said, swiftly changing the subject. “What’s up that couldn’t wait until the next garden club meeting?”

“Yes, yes, the reason we’re here.” Perpetually cheerful Belinda Murphey beamed. She took a couple of lemon drop cookies and munched happily.

Belinda was plump, pretty, and in her early forties. She was also mother to five rambunctious kids and ran the Sweetest Match, Twilight’s local matchmaking service. She’d built a booming business by taking advantage of the local romantic legend.

Lore had it that Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash were young lovers from Missouri separated by the Civil War. But they never stopped believing that they were fated to be together. Then one evening at twilight, fifteen years later, they met by chance on the banks of the Brazos River where the town of Twilight now stood. It was rumored that if you threw a coin into the fountain—erected in honor of Jon and Rebekka and located in the center of Sweetheart Park—you’d be reunited with your high school sweetheart. The town made a sizable income each year off the spare change of tourists.

Caitlyn herself was Jon and Rebekka’s great-great-great-granddaughter on her mother’s side. She and Danny were the last remaining descendants of the Grant-Nash union. But Caitlyn had no idea if the folklore was true or not. The original story had been greatly embellished and fantasy-fueled over the years.

“There’s a contest,” Emma Parks said.

Emma was petite and bubbly, with gorgeous red hair and a gamine face. The newest member of the gardening club was in her early thirties and a Broadway actress who’d moved back to Twilight and hooked up with her high school sweetheart, Dr. Sam Cheek, the town veterinarian.

The teakettle sang, and Caitlyn switched off the burner. “What kind of contest?”

“A gardening contest,” Terri Longoria added.

Terri rounded out the group. Compact and dark-haired, she was in her late thirties, mother to a young son and married to the chief of staff at Twilight General. She ran Hot Legs Gym and she’d once won ten thousand dollars on a reality TV show by eating a bucket of earthworms in under ten minutes. Caitlyn admired Terri’s intrepidness. She could never, ever do something like that.

The mention of a gardening contest pricked Caitlyn’s curiosity. She poured the hot water into eleven cups and carried them to the table on a tray, along with a variety of teas to choose from—green jasmine, Earl Grey, chrysanthemum, orchid, ginger, oolong, Assam, orange pekoe, chamomile, hibiscus, red tea, and kandy.

She found it interesting how people’s choice of tea seemed to reflect their personalities. Shy Christine went for the unassuming pekoe. Practical Patsy favored no-nonsense oolong. Sweet-natured Dotty Mae gravitated to the chamomile, but she always added a dollop of peppermint schnapps to it, suggesting that she wasn’t as gentle as she seemed. Belinda reached for the robust, full-bodied kandy, especially fitting because all her children’s names started with the letter K. Vivacious Emma plucked red tea from the mix. Trustworthy Flynn selected the old standby Earl Grey. Daring Terri picked ginger. Independent Sarah prized autonomous chrysanthemum. Bold Raylene chose the stout, malty Assam. And health-conscious Marva drank green jasmine.

Caitlyn herself liked the floral teas, most particularly hibiscus served with a teaspoon of fresh honey. She wondered what that said about her.

“What kind of gardening contest?” she asked, taking the last empty seat at the table after her guests had been served.

“A victory garden contest sponsored by the first lady of Texas!” Belinda exclaimed. “That’s why we’re so dressed up. Our book club went to Austin for a literary brunch and that’s where we found out about the competition.”

From her purse, Patsy pulled a spiral-bound pamphlet. “It’s a statewide competition. I got my hands on the official rulebook and entry form. I called the town council members and we just had an impromptu conference call to discuss Twilight’s participation.”

“There are five categories,” Terri said. “Best Small-Town Garden, Best Urban Garden, Best Flower Garden, Most Creative, and Most Romantic.”

“Oh, and the gardens all have to be organic,” Flynn added.

“Considering that Twilight stands for romance, you would think we’d be a shoo-in for most romantic.” Marva took a sip of her tea.

“Especially if you were the garden’s architect, Caitlyn,” Dotty Mae said. “You’ve got the greenest thumb in North Texas and your own garden is the prettiest in Twilight.”

Completely caught off guard, Caitlyn looked around the table at the faces of her friends, and placed a palm over her chest. “You want
me
to plan and execute our town’s victory garden for a statewide competition?”

Ten heads nodded in unison.

“But I’m only twenty-five. You’re all older than I am.”

“And none of us half as talented with plants as you are,” Christine declared.

The compliment brought a warm flush to Caitlyn’s cheeks. Praise often embarrassed her. She lived a simple life and wanted only two things—to raise a happy, healthy son and to tend her plants.

“Thank you for thinking of me,” she said, “but really, I’m still picking up the pieces of my life. Kevin left our finances in ruin. The floral shop is struggling, Danny’s having trouble in school—”

“I thought things were better with Danny since Crockett started taking an interest in him . . .” Flynn winked. “And you.”

Crockett was the younger son of the richest man in town. Caitlyn wasn’t a woman much given to hatred, but if she hated anyone, it was J. Foster Goodnight. She had her reasons, and she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But her feelings toward the father made her leery of the son. Then again, who was she to judge? Hadn’t she struggled for years to throw off her own controlling father’s influence?

Crockett’s baseball memorabilia store was right next door to hers on the square, and when business was slow, he’d pop over to regale her with jokes and stories about his days playing semiprofessional baseball. She had to admit that Crockett could get her to lighten up when no one else could with his lighthearted teasing.

She simply shook her head at Flynn. “Crockett and I are just friends.”

“Yeah?” Terri arched her eyebrows and grinned slyly. “That’s what Flynn used to say about Jesse.”

“You don’t want to get mixed up with Crockett,” Patsy said. “That boy has only one thing on his mind. I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him.”

“Crockett’s not so bad,” Belinda interjected. “He’s one of the most popular dates at the Sweetest Match. All the women seem to love him. He does know how to show the ladies a good time.”

“I don’t know, there’s something off about the boy.” Dotty Mae frowned. “He reminds me of Eddie Haskell from
Leave It to Beaver
. He’s all ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ and ‘what a nice dress you’re wearing today, Ms. Densmore,’ but behind those thick, dark eyelashes you can tell something sneaky is going on.”

“Well,” Raylene said, “J. Foster did drive his mother into the loony bin with his hard-living ways. That’s gotta affect a kid. Those boys were only what? Six and ten when their mother got carted off?”

“His brother turned out fine,” Terri said.

Patsy snorted. “Bowie? That man has anger issues. He goes around scowling and grumbling. I don’t call that exactly well balanced.”

“I think it’s a big bluff he puts on in defense against J. Foster. You have to be a warrior to go toe-to-toe with that old man.” Terri settled her cup into its saucer. “Bowie has a big heart. He was the first one to donate blood after those tourists were badly hurt in that boating accident a few years back, and I can’t ever forget the day he ran out in front of the delivery truck to snatch Gerald up out of the street just in the nick of time. My son would have been killed if it hadn’t been for Bowie. Gerald had just learned to walk and he broke free from my grip and just dashed into the road . . .” Terri trailed off, her eyes misted with tears.