Free Restoring Harmony by Joelle Anthony

let alone pull weeds. I spent most of afternoon sleeping, had a dinner of lettuce and tomatoes, and then slept long and hard all night.
    The next morning I was in the garden right at dawn, though. It wasn’t long before the sun started getting strong and the vegetable beds were steaming around me, the emerald leaves glistening with dew. Morning in the garden is one of my favorite places to be on Earth. The fact that it wasn’t my garden-and I’d probably have to do some fast talking when the owner came outside-didn’t really bother me because I had my hands deep in the soil.
    Even though I don’t like to eat tomatoes, I love their fragrance; that sort of bitter-fresh scent smelled like everything good to me . . . soil, dew, plants, food . . . the farm, so I started weeding around the thick green tomato stalks.
    I scooted along the row on my knees, letting the monotony of pulling weeds relax me and bring me the first real peace I’d known since leaving home. I was running a tune through my head, deep in my own private world of music, when I noticed movement.
    The house looked almost exactly like my grandparents’, and up on the deck a little boy and girl were watching. They moved closer and peered out at me through tangled dark hair. Their smudged faces were in need of a good washing, but their matching blue eyes sparkled. They both had such skinny bodies it made me queasy. The girl walked over to me and plopped down onto the damp ground. “I’m Brandy,” she said. “Who are you?”
    “Molly. Nice to meet you.” I held out a muddy hand and she giggled.
    “That’s Michael,” she said, pointing at the boy. “He loves worms. What are you doing?”
    Making myself indispensable!
    “Weeding,” I answered.
    “I’m six. My brother’s four. He doesn’t know what weeds are, but I do. This is a carrot.” She yanked a spindly carrot out of the soil. “This is a weed,” she added, pointing to a plant next to it and leaving it in the ground.
    “Yep. You’re pretty smart for six.”
    “I know.”
    More movement near the house made me look up. In three quick strides, a tall man was towering over us. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be armed.
    “What in the hell is going on out here?” he said. “Who are you?”
    Brandy jumped up and ran back to Michael. I stood, brushing my hands on my shorts, and then I got my first good look at the man and almost staggered back in surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t young, blond, and handsome! Well, youngish. He must’ve been about thirty. His hair curled around his ears where it had pulled loose from a thick ponytail that hung halfway down his back. His face was tan, and his arms were chiseled muscles.
    “Ummm . . . h-hi,” I stammered.
    “Hi? Is that all you have to say? What are you doing in my garden?”
    “Well . . .” He glared at me, and I took a step back. “I, ummm . . . I’m staying next door . . . with my grandparents . . . Jack and Katharine Buckley-”
    “And?” he demanded.
    “And so they were telling me about the food you give them.
    You know, throw over the fence. And so I was looking at your garden-”
    “And you thought you’d just help yourself?”
    “No! No, not at all! The thing is,” I said rushing on, “I live on a farm in Canada, and the kitchen garden, it’s all my responsibility. It looked like you needed some help over here, and since you’ve been giving my grandparents food, I thought maybe I should come over and, you know, weed for you.”
    “Did it ever occur to you to ask first?”
    “I guess I should’ve,” I admitted. “But I was up at dawn and you weren’t around . . . so I just started. Look at the tomatoes! Don’t they look great?”
    He gave them a cursory glance. “Slugs are getting them.”
    “I know, but I can help you with that. We can stake them up, and-”
    “I don’t need your help.”
    “It’s no problem. Really.”
    He continued to glare, and even though he was