Mulch ado about nothing

to determine if these pots of stuff were friends or enemies. Jane levered herself down onto one of the patio chairs, leaned back, and looked around with an enormous smile. This wouldn’t fool the real gardeners in the class, but it was so pretty she didn’t care.
    As she sipped at her soft drink she’d laboriously brought outside in her waistband, she thought about the tour that morning. Miss Win-stead’s garden was magnificent. It would be pure joy to have a garden like that. But an enormous amount of work, because Jane couldn’t imagine having or spending the money for rocks and workers.
    Her mind drifted naturally to the end of the visit, when Miss Winstead had made that remark about being able to tear out anything or anyone who didn’t satisfy a gardener. Meaning Dr. Eastman and his late wife. And she thought about Shelley’s remarks about getting a security system. Jane didn’t really believe Miss Winstead was a physical threat to Dr. Eastman, but she was a substantial psychological threat. She tried to imagine what horror it would be to have someone hate you so much that she went around to all your speeches just to make a fool of you and make nasty personal remarks. Especially around other people.
    She put both feet up on another chair, carefully balanced the crutches on a third, and closed her eyes halfway—trying to picture her garden looking like Miss Winstead’s.
    Jane was sound asleep in the patio chair, a bad crick in her neck, when Shelley dropped the girls off. She was embarrassed by being caught sleeping, much less slumped inelegantly in a patio chair.
    “Mom!“ Katie said. “We learned to make chicken cordon bleu! We’re fixing it tonight for you. Mrs. Nowack stopped at the grocery store and let us buy the stuff. You owe her twenty-three dollars and six cents.”
    The girls went in the house, giggling with the shrillness that only teenaged females could stand to hear. Shelley strolled into Jane’s yard. “Sleeping? You really are turning into a sloth.“
    “How did you know I was sleeping?“
    “You have a print of the top edge of the chair on the back of your neck. It’s a nice waffle look.“
    “Okay, okay. So I took a little nap. How do you like the yard?“
    “It’s gorgeous. You even got a shrubbery over by the fence. What is it?“
    “A burning bush. Mike threw it in with the rest because he said I’m going to like it. It looks pretty boring to me.“
    “It’ll be fantastic—if a bit small—in the fall,“ Shelley said. “It’s one of those things Suzie Williams has in her side yard.“
    “Oh, those are great bushes. I had no idea what they were called. I understand I owe you more money.“
    “No, the shopping today was almost the same cost as that pork roast you picked up for me last week that I’ve never reimbursed you for.“
    “Do you really think the girls can make chicken cordon bleu?“
    “Only if I supervise. Which I intend to do. Denise tried to make scrambled eggs a while ago and managed to use five bowls, three forks, and about sixteen whisks. And left them all out on the counter to congeal. Three inexperienced girls could destroy your entire kitchen.”
    Jane struggled to her feet and, in getting the crutches, nearly knocked the flowerpot off the patio table. “I’m not getting much better at this,“ she said.
    “You will,“ Shelley said as she went in Jane’s back door, leaving Jane to make it inside by herself and carry her own empty soda can as well.
    Shelley’s voice from the kitchen drifted over her. “Denise! Don’t just abandon that bowl. Rinse it and use it again!”

Nineteen

    The chicken dinner was only a moderate success, at least in Jane and Shelley’s view. The girls had opened the oven so often to check on the progress that the chicken itself was ever so slightly underdone when they cut into it.
    “Poultry needs to be fully cooked,“ Jane warned them. “At least pop it in the microwave for a minute to finish it up.“
    “Microwave?“ Katie exclaimed as if her mother had said a dirty word. “The French don’t use microwaves. It makes meat like leather.”
    Jane replied, “The French were among the first countries to develop fabulous dinners with microwaves. I thought everyone knew that.”
    Jane had made up this statement on the spur of the moment, but she felt she’d delivered it with great style and conviction.
    “You lived in France, didn’t you?“ Shelley’s daughter, Denise, asked.
    “Off and on for several