Digging In: A Novel(50)

Jackie sifted through my closet. “I would have thought you’d have more clothes. This is pretty sparse pickings.”

“I store my winter stuff away in the summer,” I said. “But it would still be more of the same. Boring. Gray, black, or navy. Blah, blah, blah.”

“What about this?” Jackie pulled a dry cleaning bag from where I’d half hidden it behind some of those gray-black-blue business suits. “Is this the one we found? You had it cleaned?”

On a whim, I’d brought the delicate shift dress we’d discovered to the cleaners with the rest of the previous week’s work clothes. I’d told the cleaner to be very careful with it, and it looked great—the fabric seemed almost new.

“You should wear this,” Jackie said, taking it out of the plastic covering. “It’s gorgeous.”

“You don’t think it has memory ghosts? Couldn’t it have bad vibes associated with it?” I was not one to talk about ghosts, or vibes for that matter, but the fact that the dress was white, and that we’d found it buried in the backyard, well, that added some unusual elements. Also, I was curious to see Mr. Eckhardt’s reaction when he spotted it. Would he recognize it or have no clue? I couldn’t wait to find out.

“Maybe it has some vibes,” Jackie admitted. “But how do you know they’re bad vibes? Maybe they’re good ones. The woman who wore this could have been happy.”

“Happy people don’t bury the things that made them happy.” After I’d said it, I realized that, yes, sometimes they did. I did.

Jackie went silent for a moment. She laid the dress out on the bed, and then rummaged through my closet until she found a pair of brown leather sandals with a wedge heel. I hadn’t worn them since Jesse and I’d had date nights.

I shrugged out of my T-shirt and jeans and guided the delicate dress over my head and shoulders. It fell a little loosely around my hips, but otherwise, it fit perfectly and offset the tan I’d acquired from working outside so much.

“You look beautiful,” Jackie said, and I could tell she meant it. “Don’t take it off. Give it some of your own memories.”

My own memories. For the past two years, I’d spent every waking hour trying to avoid making any. I’d pressed the “Pause” button on my life, and then lost the remote. “I don’t know if I even remember how to make memories.”

“Of course you do,” Jackie said. “You do it all the time. You just need to let the special moments happening around you register in your brain.” Her heavily mascaraed eyes filled with tears. “When you give something meaning, it’s worth remembering. We filter out the stuff that doesn’t touch our heart.”

“Do you have those memories . . . about Big Frank?”

“I do,” she said. “A treasure trove of them. He did so many good things worth remembering.”

Had I done anything worth remembering over the past two years? I got up every morning and somehow got out of bed. I’d managed to keep a roof over our heads. I’d dug a garden that I marveled at more every day.

“I wasn’t sure I could come up with a good enough reason to host a party, save for the fact that Mykia told me to,” I said. “I worried it wouldn’t mean anything. You know what? I shouldn’t have worried. This garden does mean something.”

“Then let’s party,” Jackie said, making a “rock-on” gesture with her hand.

“Yes,” I agreed, mimicking her hand gesture. “Let’s party. And let’s make sure it registers.”



I’d chosen some soft Spanish flamenco music to provide a soundtrack for the festivities, but Jackie had taken over DJ duties when we finally came downstairs, and Bon Jovi boomed through the speakers I’d set strategically throughout the garden. Not a single male had arrived yet, so the ladies, guzzling the strawberry margaritas I’d made, were loose and a little loud, giving Jon Bon some competition.

“I can’t believe they let you get away with this,” said Peggy, the dog walker from one block over. “I once accidentally left some poop on the sidewalk, and someone from the subdivision board showed up at my door, shitting a brick.”

“Ha! That’s kind of a pun,” said the woman I ran into at the grocery store on a regular basis. She’d guzzled two margaritas in about ten minutes, and her consonants were beginning to slur. But what did I care? These were women I’d smiled at, chatted about harmless topics with, and never, ever bothered to invite into my home. If they wanted to get blotto, then good for them. I figured I owed it to them.

I turned away from them just as a small group walked into my yard. Charlene, carrying a huge bowl of salad, greeted me with a surprising kiss on the cheek, then Rhiannon and Byron arrived, joined by Seth, whom I’d invited but I did not think was going to come. I hugged them all warmly and sent them in the direction of our makeshift bar. Lukas sauntered in next, wearing skinny jeans and his omnipresent leather jacket, though it had to be at least ninety-five degrees in the shade. He kissed my cheek, and then studied the backyard garden with a mix of awe and confusion.

“What do you think Petra Polly would say about what I’ve done?” I teased him.

Lukas grew serious and thoughtful. I felt almost ashamed at my tone—he was truly attempting to answer honestly. “I think she’d say you were going for the brass ring.” He smiled at me, a genuine grin that reminded me so much of Big Frank it nearly took my breath away. “I’ve got to say I hope this doesn’t eat up all of your creative energy,” he added. “But it might do the opposite. It might spark something that will rejuvenate you, Paige.”