The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 1
“Brilliant. Simply brilliant. The Garden of Small Beginnings is funny, poignant, and startling in its emotional intensity and in its ability to make the reader laugh and cry on the same page. Quirky yet very real characters sparkle on every page. I loved this book!”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
Learning to breathe again . . .
I let Annabel show me how to do it, and together we planted the tomatoes. Once I’d done one or two, I discovered that I liked it, and that furthermore tomato plants smelled good. Not a pretty smell, but an interesting one, peppery and green. I could smell it on my hands, and in the sunny air. I suddenly realized that all my senses were getting more of a workout than normal, and maybe that explained why my brain wasn’t buzzing with its usual self-critical commentary. I was getting input from my hands, my eyes, my ears (listening out for killer bees, noticing the birds arguing about something, half listening to the voices of the rest of the class and the piping sounds of Clare teaching Lisa all about cat nipples), and my nose. I wondered why this was so relaxing when it was also so physically active. There was probably some metaphorical lesson to be drawn from it, but I was damned if I was going to hunt for it. For the first time in recent years, I was going to stop thinking, and just dig in the dirt.
“This is my favorite kind of book—hilarious, sad, joyful. Beautifully written. Fun. I dare you not to enjoy it.”
—Julia Claiborne Johnson, author of Be Frank With Me
BERKLEY
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Waxman, Abbi, author.
Title: The garden of small beginnings / Abbi Waxman.
Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016043948 (print) | LCCN 2016059738 (ebook) | ISBN
9780399583582 (paperback) | ISBN 9780399583599 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Widows—Fiction. | Women illustrators—Fiction. | Single
mothers—Fiction. | Gardeners—Fiction. | Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. |
Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION /
Family Life. | FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3623.A8936 G37 2017 (print) | LCC PS3623.A8936 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016043948
First Edition: May 2017
Cover art by Cienples Design/Shutterstock
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Book illustrations by Laura K. Corless
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Praise for The Garden of Small Beginnings
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Preparing Your Garden
Chapter 1
Essential Equipment
Chapter 2
How to Grow a Beet
Chapter 3
The Chemistry of Soil
Chapter 4
How to Grow a Tomato
Chapter 5
How to Grow Broccoli
Chapter 6
How to Grow Carrots
Chapter 7
How to Grow Cucumbers
Chapter 8
How to Grow a Green Bean
Chapter 9
How to Grow Garlic
Chapter 10
How to Grow a Pumpkin
Chapter 11
Making Peace with Insects
Chapter 12
How to Grow Lettuce
Chapter 13
How to Grow Zucchini
Chapter 14
How to Grow Celery
Chapter 15
How to Grow Strawberries
Chapter 16
How to Grow Peas
Chapter 17
How to Grow Cabbage
Chapter 18
How to Grow Turnips
Chapter 19
How to Grow Corn
Chapter 20
How to Grow Radishes
Chapter 21
Companion Planting
Chapter 22
Readers Guide
About the Author
For my husband, David, who is my friend, my hero, and my woobie.
For my sister, Emily, who is the person I write for . . . the person for whom I write . . . oh, she knows what I mean.
And for my mother, Paula Gosling, who told me I was a writer before I could read. Now she can say she told me so, which mothers love to do.
Acknowledgments
If there’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, then I hope there’s a corollary spot in heaven for women who do. Or free parking. Something.
These women made this book possible: Leah Woodring, who loves my children and backstops my life so I have time to write. I would be lost without her, often literally. Charlotte Millar, who listens to me complain and takes my side, even when I’m clearly in the wrong. Shana Eddy, the sweetest and smartest woman in Hollywood, who believed in me early and often. I will be forever in her debt. Naomi Beaty, Hilary Liftin, and Semi Chellas—three amazing writers who made suggestions and encouraging noises. And finally, my agent, Alexandra Machinist, who is almost too elegant and incisive to be real, and yet is.
There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
—ANAÏS NIN
Prologue
It’s been more than three years since my husband died, yet in many ways he’s more useful than ever. True, he’s not around to take out the trash, but he’s great to bitch at while I’m doing it myself, and he’s generally excellent company, invisibility notwithstanding. And as someone to blame he’s unparalleled, because he isn’t there to contradict me, on account of being cremated. I talk to him a lot, though our conversations have devolved from metaphysical explorations of the meaning of death to generic married conversations about what to have for dinner, or who’s on the hook for the lost tax returns.
When he died in a car accident, fifty feet from our front door, I seriously considered dying, too. Not because my heart was broken, though that was true, but because my mind was completely boggled by the logistical challenges of living without him. However, it’s just as well I didn’t, because he would have been waiting for me in heaven, and man, would he have been pissed. He’d have made eternity feel like forever, I can promise you that.
I was driving along, letting my brain spiral aimlessly, when my phone rang. It was my sister, Rachel.
“Hey, Lil, are you on your way to get the kids?” Just the sound of her voice made me smile.
“I am. Your knowledge of my daily schedule is embarrassing for both of us.” I flicked on the indicator, slowed a little for the light, and made a turn. All with the phone illegally wedged under my ear. Sometimes I astound even myself.
“Can you pick something up for me on your way back?”
“Am I coming to your house?” Maybe I’d forgotten. It wasn’t impossible.
“Well, you might have been. How do I know? Anyway, I haven’t seen the kids for a couple of days, and you know how they pine.”
I laughed. “I can honestly say they haven’t mentioned you once.”
She laughed back at me. “You know, one day you’ll accept they love me more than you, and your denial of it isn’t helping any of us move forward.”
I pulled into the carpool line, doing the silent eyebrow raise and smile of greeting through the windshield at the teacher on duty. “Look, I’ll admit they’re fond of you. What is it you need, anyway? Something fundamental, like milk, or something more typical, like lubricant and a Duraflame?”
Suddenly a small palm smacked the window, making me jump and leaving a smear. Its owner, Annabel, peered in and narrowed her eyes. Her younger sister, Clare, stood behind her, gazing spacily around. Behind both of the
My sister was answering me. “I need a pound of bacon, some Parmesan cheese, spaghetti, eggs, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of red wine. And butter, of course.”
“I’ll call you back.” I straightened my head, dropping the phone on the floor. “Do you need help or can you get her in, Bel?”
“I got it.”
Annabel was only seven but had the gravitas of a forty-year-old career diplomat. She’d been born that way, calmly mastering breast-feeding, crawling, eating solids, and whatever else I threw at her. She regarded the world resignedly, as if we were exactly as we’d been described in the brochure: a little underwhelming, but what can you do? She buckled Clare in, struggling with the straps.
“Too tight?”
Clare shook her head.
“Too loose?”
Clare shook her head, her large brown eyes fastened trustingly on her older sister. Annabel nodded at her, turning to climb into her own seat, fastening her own harness with the self-assurance of a test pilot on his fiftieth run, rather than someone with no front teeth and a Dora barrette in her hair.
“Good to go,” she informed me.
“Clare?” I wanted to make sure the little one hadn’t lost the power of speech since breakfast. Presumably, I’d have gotten a call from the teacher, but with all these budget cuts . . .
“Good to go, cheerio.” OK, smallest planet heard from.
I scrabbled around on the floor for my phone and called Rachel back. I put it on speaker this time and yelled at it as it lay in my lap. After all, now I had the kids in the car. Safety first, people. Rachel picked up before it even rang on my end. She’s a very busy woman.
I watched for a gap in the traffic as I yelled at the phone. “Hey, why didn’t you say bring me the fixings for pasta carbonara? And why can’t you stop on your way home?”
“Because I like to give you little riddles to solve, little challenges that keep you on your toes. Otherwise, your brain will atrophy, and then who will help the kids with their homework?”
“Are you cooking for us, too?”
“I certainly can. I’d be happy to. Why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m not shouting at you, the Bluetooth’s broken. But I’m glad you’re making dinner.” I took a left.
“Are we going to the store?” asked Annabel. I knew she found the store irritating but was balancing that against the possibility of sudden candy.
I nodded.
“One other thing,” added my sister. “You’ll have to tell me how to make it.”
“And then are we going to Aunty Rachel’s?” asked Clare.
I nodded and then shook my head. My sister was doing her Jedi-mind-trick “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” thing. “Wait, Rach, let me ask you this: If I’m buying the groceries and making the dinner, why aren’t you coming to my house?”
There was a pause.
“Oh, that’s a much better idea. Thanks! I’ll see you later on.” She started to hang up.
“Stop,” I interrupted. “If you’re coming over, you can pick up the groceries. I’ve got the kids, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. OK.” She hung up.
I looked at Clare in the rearview mirror. “No, honey, Aunty Rachel is coming to our place.”
Both kids looked happy to hear it. They really did like her better than me. And why not? She could turn a request for a favor into an invitation to dinner and make you feel good about it.
Preparing Your Garden
As soon as your soil is soft enough to work, turn it over with a fork and leave it alone for several days.
• Cover the soil with a 1-inch-thick layer of compost. Don’t skimp.
• Use a spading fork to loosen up the soil. Mix in the compost. Rake out stones and other crap, leaving the soil smooth.
• A 10 x 16 foot plot is a good size for a beginner. If that’s too daunting, start smaller. Remember, one pot on a balcony is still a garden.
• Your seed packets have a world of information. They’ll tell you best conditions and times to plant. Not sure? Ask someone at the garden center, or call your local agricultural extension. Gardeners love to grow other gardeners.
Chapter 1
I’m an illustrator, which sounds romantic, as if I spend my days under a spreading tree, dapple-splashed with sunshine, a watercolor tablet steady on my knee. Actually, I spend my days slumped in an office chair, destroying my posture and working on a computer. There is sunshine, of course, this being Southern California.
I love doing traditional illustration, the pencil and paint stuff, and I wish I had more time to do it, but when I left college, the job I found was illustrating school textbooks. I took the job expecting it to be a good starting place, but it turned out to be a great big comfy chair of a job, with a good salary, benefits, free coffee, and all the second-grade textbooks I could ever want. Eighty-two percent of American school children use Poplar Press products, and have done so for nearly a century. I love it. I learn all kinds of interesting stuff, and I draw and create things kids look at and, presumably, doodle little hats and mustaches on. Once, Annabel brought home one of my textbooks—Kids in History, Fourth Edition—and I saw that dozens of kids had used it, each of them adding new details to my historical figures I never would have imagined. Who knew Martin Van Buren was so well hung?
There are four of us in the creative department, plus a full-time writer, three fact-checkers, and a general assistant who’s been there forever and who actually runs the whole place. She looked at me as I walked through the door that morning, and pursed her lips.
“Checking sent back your whale penis, Lilian.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Rose, how long have you been waiting to say that?”
She didn’t flicker. “I got in at seven, so a couple of hours, I guess.”
I kept walking. “Tell them they’ll have their penis back in the morning.”
She coughed. “I already told them they could have it back later.”
I stopped and turned. “Why did you do that?”
She was looking at the magazine she’d hidden beneath her desk. “Because then I could say, ‘We’ll have your penis back at the end of the day, but it will be hard.’”
“I can see how that would be difficult to pass up.”
She shrugged. “In the maelstrom of tedium that is my day, I grab what rays of sunshine I can.”
My office mate Sasha looked up as I walked in. “Hey, did Rose tell you about the penis?”
“Yes, she did. Did you still need me to help you with your biology book?”
“The development of the chicken egg? It can wait.”
“OK, thanks.”
Sasha shrugged. “The chicken should probably come first anyway . . .”
Let me be clear: The creative department of Poplar Press is not usually a comedy mecca. Often it is very dull, especially if we’re updating a chemistry text or something. But it does have its moments, and there is the coffee.
I sat down, opened up the whale-penis file, and stared at it. It’s not a whole file of whale penises (penii?); it’s just one relatively small illustration in a veterinary-medicine textbook, and I’d been a little suspicious of why it was even included. Yes, it was important to be thorough, but how many vets were going to need to operate on a whale penis? It’s not like the last time you took your parakeet to the vet you couldn’t get into the waiting room on account of the impotent whale sitting nervously on several hard chairs. Or a young whale couple, holding hands and looking enviously at the baby animals in cardboard boxes all around them, occasionally shooting each other supportive glances and clearing their throats. I checked my e-mail: The fact-checkers had sent it back simply because one of the labels was misspelled. How did they even catch that? I picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Fact-checking, Al here.”
“Al, it’s Lili.”
