Molly’s encounters with Gage and his squadmates happen in no special order. Read as you like.
Fowler & Sons Nursery has a new Head of Marketing, Sam Schneider. #GageFowler introduced us — they’d been squadmates in Afghanistan.
“Head of Marketing?” I said as Sam’s hand enveloped mine. “Does a family-owned nursery with” — I looked around — “three greenhouses and one cash register need a Head of Marketing?”
Sam flashed a shark’s smirk. “If they wanna go from three greenhouses to thirteen, they do.”
In all my years buying shrubs and hanging baskets from Fowler & Sons, I’d never seen anyone wearing a tie here. Gage favors tank tops — naturally, with arms like his — and his father, Len, hustles around with a protuberance of gray hair sprouting from an open-collared shirt.
Still, Sam Schneider wore it well.
“The Fowler boys tend to take things slow,” I said, cocking my head toward Gage. “I’m not sure they’re ready for thirteen greenhouses.”
Sam rolled his tongue around his chiseled cheek.
“Not ready,” he repeated.
I nodded. “I’m advising a measured approach.”
“Oh are you?”
“I am.”
Sam sucked a full breath into his lungs and looked at me. He was measuring, all right.
He said after a while, “Gage, why didn’t I move to Jersey earlier? It’s interesting here.”
I pulled a cart from a nested line of them to start my shopping. I needed fertilizer and a new garden kneeler for Granny.
“I’ll see you around,” I said, then felt the material of his tie between my fingers.
*Silk.*
Outside Fowler & Sons Nursery, #GageFowler and a second man were unloading large trees off a delivery truck. I cruised up and rolled down my window.
“Too heavy for one man?” I teased.
Gage flashed a grin and introduced the other as his former squadmate, Doyle Benton. Doyle’s biceps rippled as he set down his end of a giant, burlap-wrapped root ball.
“Ma’am,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are you in the market for a Douglas fir?”
I thought about parking, hearing more of Doyle’s story and seeing how Gage would act around him. Jealous? Protective?
Gage seems to have an endless supply of squadmates. I don’t know what sort of unit he served in — maybe @durwoodOakJones could help figure that out.
“No, I just swung by to say hello,” I said. “I need to get back. My grandmother’s home with the kiddos.”
Doyle pulled one of his work gloves on tighter. “Stay awhile, give your granny some special time. Me and Gage could use the company. We got a whole bed-ful of trunks to unload.”
His hard hazel eyes didn’t move to the truckbed, but stayed on me.
“Did your granny watch you growing up, Doyle?” I asked.
He thought about it. “Now and then. Used to make us zucchini bread. Pat of butter on top, little cinnamon.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I said. “But mine stopped baking years ago. If the kids claim hunger, she’s going to cut them loose on the processed-foods shelf of the pantry.”
Doyle smiled, and Gage was shaking his head, as I put the car in gear and pulled out of the nursery parking lot.
#GageFowler, of Fowler & Sons Nursery, was awfully interested in my choice of mulch.
"You'll want the shredded cypress," he advised, hoisting two 40 lb bags. "It stays in place. A heavy rain won't wash it away."
"That's good," I said. "But how's it gonna look in four years?"