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| Garden Plot |
When a property survey reveals that part of Clara Bennett’s beloved garden sits on her new neighbor’s land, three feet of soil turns into a battle neither is willing to lose. But as buried grief comes to light, Clara and Henry discover that God may be cultivating something unexpected along the old fence. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
At the kitchen sink, Clara Bennett’s hands were deep in soapy water when the groan of a moving truck’s brakes broke the morning quiet outside the vacant brick rancher next door.
“Well,” she said, looking through the window, “somebody finally bought it.”
By the time an hour had gone by, three men were hauling furniture up the walk and through the front door, and a silver-haired man in khaki pants was directing them with the kind of attention that said the sofa’s exact placement was a matter of life and death.
Later, with the loaf of lemon bread still radiating warmth through the tea towel, Clara crossed the lawn.
She knocked. When nothing stirred, she knocked again, and this time the door opened.
“I'm Clara Bennett. Next door.”
“Henry Cole.”
She held out the lemon bread. “I thought I'd introduce myself before the neighborhood association comes calling.”
He accepted the bread.
Clara waited.
Henry stood there.
“This is usually the part where the new neighbor says something like, ‘Come in.’”
He glanced behind him at the maze of boxes. “I can't find my coffee maker.”
Clara nodded solemnly. “Say no more. You're in no condition to receive visitors.”
She caught the beginning of a smile.
“Thank you for the bread, Mrs. Bennett.”
“Clara.”
“Clara.”
She headed home amused rather than offended. Some people needed time.
Clara had always considered time one of God's more effective tools.
Three days later, she was kneeling beside the flower bed along the old wooden fence when Henry appeared in his backyard.
She had spent years building that garden. Hydrangeas anchored one end, roses the other, with day lilies, coneflowers and whatever else had caught her attention at the nursery filling the spaces between.
Henry stopped near the fence.
“Beautiful garden.”
Clara looked around.
“My pride and joy.”
He looked the length of the bed. “They go all the way down the fence line.”
“That's generally where flower beds go.”
“How long have you had them?”
“Fifteen years and counting.”
Henry nodded, studying the fence.
Clara sat back on her heels, wiping a dirt-smudged hand across her brow. “Planning to put something in the ground over there?”
“Gardening’s not really my thing.” Henry said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Clara returned to her weeds, thinking that for all his awkwardness, the man had a good eye for a garden,
__
On Monday morning, she discovered two men in reflective vests walking behind Henry's house.
One carried equipment. The other was placing small orange flags in the ground.
Clara watched from her patio until one of those flags went directly into her flower bed.
Surprised, she put down her coffee mug and hurried out the door.
Henry was standing near the back steps holding several sheets of paper when she crossed the yard.
Clara pointed.
“Henry, what is that orange flag doing in my hydrangeas?”
He looked at the papers, then toward the flag.
“Survey.”
“I gathered that. Why is your surveyor surveying my flowers?”
“The fence is in the wrong place.”
Clara looked toward the weathered fence that had separated the two yards for longer than she'd owned her house.
“How far off?”
“Just over three feet at this end.”
She frowned.
“That can't be right.”
“He checked twice.”
Clara walked to the orange marker. It stood squarely between two hydrangeas.
“You're telling me part of my garden is on your property?”
“According to the survey.”
“These have been mine for fifteen years.”
Henry glanced at the paperwork. “Apparently they're my hydrangeas.”
Clara stared at him.
Henry wasn't smiling.
“You're serious.”
“I paid for this property, Clara. I'd like to use all of it.”
Clara placed her hands on her hip. “And what do you expect me to do?”
“Your garden will have to be relocated.”
“Relocated.” She looked at the hydrangeas. “They're not patio furniture, Henry.”
Henry exhaled. “Let's not make this difficult.”
Clara slowly folded her arms. “Too late.”
She turned and hurried toward her house.
“Clara.”
She looked back.
“I’ll need the garden moved before the new fence goes up.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Then I’d hold off on ordering that lumber, if I were you.”
__
Two weeks later, mother and daughter sat at her kitchen table.
“He sent you a legal notice?”
Clara poured iced tea into two glasses. “Well. The lemon bread didn’t land like I intended.”
“Mom, this isn't funny.”
“He can have the dirt. He’s not getting my sense of humor.”
“What did the lawyer say?” her daughter asked.
Clara leaned back in the chair. “According to that survey, he said my chances were slim.”
“So you’d pay thousands of dollars,” her daughter said,” to fight over three feet of dirt,”
Clara looked down at her hands. “I suppose the fight’s over. He wins.”
__
On Saturday morning, Clara went out back with a shovel.
The hydrangeas came out first.
She knew exactly how long the oldest one had stood there—fourteen years. She’d set it in the ground the same summer her youngest granddaughter took the training wheels off her bicycle.
Henry’s back door opened.
Clara kept digging.
A few moments later, footsteps crossed the grass behind her.
She didn't turn around.
“Don't worry,” she said. “I'm removing them.”
“I can see that.”
Henry stopped beside her.
“May I?”
She gave him a look.
“You want to help remove the garden you sued me over?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“How else would you say it?”
Henry didn’t answer.
He grabbed a shovel leaning against the fence.
For several minutes, they worked without speaking.
Finally, Clara said, “All this over three feet of dirt?”
Henry stopped digging. “It wasn't the dirt.”
“Could've fooled me.”
He looked toward the orange stakes. “I spent thirty-six years as an air traffic controller. You learn quickly that lines matter. Something's out of place, you correct it.”
“This isn't an airport, Henry.”
“I know that.” He was quiet for a moment. “I just haven't been very good with things I can't fix.”
Clara waited.
“My wife got sick. Everybody at church prayed. I prayed.” His grip tightened on the shovel. “She died anyway.”
Clara's expression softened.
“After forty-three years, I was alone in a house where everything reminded me of her. Eventually I sold it and moved here to be closer to my son.” He glanced toward the orange stakes. “New house. Fresh start. Then the survey came back and something was wrong.”
“Three feet.”
“Three feet I could fix.”
That silenced her.
Henry looked at the half-dug hydrangea between them.
“Turns out I picked the wrong thing to fix.”
“Put your shovel down, Clara.”
“Why?”
“Because these flowers aren't going anywhere.”
She searched his face.
“What about the lawsuit?”
“I'm dropping it.”
Clara slowly lowered her shovel.
“Just like that?”
Henry nodded.
“I wish you'd figured that out before I started digging.”
Henry looked at the uprooted hydrangea. “So do I.”
Clara handed him her shovel. “Then you can put that one back.”
___
Several days later, Clara was snipping spent blooms from her roses when Henry appeared at the fence holding a red rose.
“Truce,” he said.
She eyed the rose. “I thought we settled the war.”
“A token.”
Clara accepted it. “In that case, truce accepted.”
Henry didn't leave.
She looked at him. “Was there something else?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat.
“Would you have dinner with me Friday?”
Clara smiled. “With you?”
“Henry Cole, are you asking me on a date?”
“I was attempting to.”
“You were better at lawsuits.”
“I agree.”
Clara laughed.
Then she looked at him—really looked at him.
She’d come through a marriage, raised her children, weathered a divorce, and pieced together a life she was happy with. The thought of making room for a man again had not crossed her mind.
Especially the man who had sued her.
“Friday,” she said. “Seven o'clock.”
Henry smiled.
As he walked back toward his house, Clara glanced at the old fence, still standing exactly where it had always been.
She thought God was working on Henry Cole.
It hadn't occurred to her that He might be working on her too.
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