Free Potter Springs by Britta Coleman Page B

Joe Don Wexley.”
    “Mark Reynolds. Good to know you.”
    “Well, we’re not paying for the return drive, so I guess you’re stuck with us.” The chicken-legged man edged close to the
     U-Haul and pumped Mark’s hand up and down a few times. “Good to see you again, son.”
    The interview process had been mostly by telephone, but Ervin and Mark held a meeting in Dallas, a halfway point, to shake
     hands and discuss particulars while Amanda recovered in Houston. She didn’t know what excuse Mark had used for her absence
     at that final interview, but the miscarriage wasn’t part of the dialogue.
    “No need to air our problems,” Mark had said.
    Our problems. She understood. James Montclair hadn’t told, and the new church didn’t know about the baby or the miscarriage.
     It would be Mark and Amanda’s secret.
    The new job depended on it.
    Mark’s boss smiled at Amanda. “Ervin Plumley. Glad to finally lay eyes on you.”
    Ervin turned back to the house. “Hope y’all like it. We’ve tried to get her shipshape for you, but if there’s anything you
     need, just let us know.”
    The house looked like an unruly toddler who’d just had a scrubbing. Freshly painted trim brightened uneven brick, a new cedar
     swing hung from the tiny porch. Flowerbeds wound around the edges of the house. Plantings of yellow flowers with big, dark
     eyes bobbed in the wind, nodding hello to the newcomers.
    Joe Don hooked a thumb in his belt loop. “Me and the boys got down under the house for you. Plumbing’s sound. Wiring’s covered,
     no termites. That’s the thing about pier and beam, you can figure out what the he …”-Joe Don shot a guilty look at Ervin-“…
     eck’s going on without having to get a jackhammer.”
    A small woman with dark eyes stood on the edge of their conversation. “Pansies.” Her soft voice in the midst of the deeper
     tones drew Amanda’s attention.
    “I’m sorry?” Amanda put Mr. Chesters down, and he darted to the side of the house, his tail splayed out like a toilet brush.
     She hoped he wouldn’t go far.
    “Pansies. They’re only annuals-so if you don’t like them, you can take them out.” The woman bit her lip, looking at the cheerful
     beds. “Do you like them?”
    Dirt formed semicircles on the tips of the gardener’s nails as she twisted the end of her T-shirt.
    “Yes,” Amanda decided. “I’m Amanda Reynolds.”
    “Of course.” The woman raised her hand, then noticed her soil-stained fingers and did a quick retreat. “Oh!” She settled on
     a short, flappy wave. “Yes, hi. Um, I’m Missy Underwood. That’s my husband, Jimmy.”
    Jimmy was bent over digging in a cooler, so all Amanda could see were jean shorts riding dangerously low on a flat behind.
    “You can meet him in a minute.” Missy’s face reddened and she focused on the flowers again. “We weren’t sure what kind you’d
     want, or even if you garden. We went with something seasonal that would last. With fall coming on, they should make it through
     winter.”
    “I don’t know much about gardening, really.” At Missy’s crestfallen expression, Amanda added, “But I do want to learn.”
    “Oh, I’m no expert either.” Missy’s words fell over themselves like eager puppies. “But I can tell you about pansies. I planted
     some at my house, and they’re going gangbusters.” Missy shoved her hands in the deep pockets of her culottes. “I don’t mean
     to sound like I’m bragging.”
    “No, not at all.” The smell of the cut grass and new paint wrapped around Amanda like a comforter, even as the ache resonated
     through her inner thighs to the bottoms of her feet. She hadn’t stood this long in a while.
    Ervin’s drawl to the men overrode their conversation. “Joe Don here runs a farm way south of town, and he’s a handy fella
     to know when it comes to fixing most things.”
    Joe Don shuffled his left boot under this great praise.
    “He’s the one who did most of the work on the