Free Protecting Peggy by Maggie Price

need to get some baby’s breath from the greenhouse.”
    The women stepped onto the back porch into the fog-enshrouded afternoon. The rumble of the surf at the base of the nearby cliffs permeated the thick, humid air. Beyond the porch lay the gravel lot. Peggy could barely make out the outline of her black stationwagon, which, other than Suzanne’s, was the only vehicle parked there.
    When she found herself wondering when Rory would return, Peggy tightened her grip on the shears. It wasn’t any of her business when he would get back. Didn’t matter if he ever returned.
    Suzanne shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket while she shot a disparaging look at the gray, overcast sky. “Whoever dubbed this ‘sunny California’ must have been smoking something at the time.”
    Laughing, Peggy watched her friend descend the porch steps. “You’re right. Come to think of it, we haven’t seen the sun for a week. Maybe longer.”
    â€œI guess the mood of the town matches the weather these days,” Suzanne observed. When she turned to look back up at Peggy, the wind whipped through her dark hair. “Are you bringing Samantha to the arts festival tomorrow night?”
    â€œDefinitely. She’s been talking for days about her and Gracie making a return visit to the face painting booth. Samantha would never forgive me if we missed the festival.”
    â€œSee you there, then.” Suzanne walked the few steps to her car, slid in, then started the engine.
    Peggy lingered on the porch, snipping off several wilted sprigs from the pots of orange and yellow mums that lined the rail. Satisfied, she descended the steps, gravel crunching beneath her shoes as she traversed the parking lot. With each step, the wind whipped at the red velvet ribbon that tied her hair loosely back.
    The unremitting gray clouds that blocked the suntransformed the interior of the greenhouse into a dim space where the smell of damp earth mixed with the scent of delicate blooms. Wooden, waist-high potting benches lined both sides of the greenhouse and the wall opposite the door. That bench held empty pots, packets of seeds, a long-spouted watering can and hand tools. Large bags of peat moss and potting soil shared space in a shadowy corner beside the bench.
    The wind battered against the structure’s walls and roof, rattling the glass panes. Beneath her gray sweater and slacks, Peggy’s skin prickled from the wind’s mournful howl and a sensation she couldn’t identify.
    Another presence? Immediately she dismissed the unsettling thought as her gaze raked the dim, tidy interior, taking in the colorful irises that burst from bulbs planted beside pots of delicate baby’s breath and pink tulips. The disconcerting sensation that had suddenly descended around her no doubt came from the wind’s forlorn moan.
    Shaking her head, she moved to the bench that held rows of small peat pots in which she’d sown seeds the previous week. Although she’d glanced at the pots when she was there earlier, she’d been in a hurry to snip the iris stems and get back to the kitchen to take her sourdough bread out of the oven before it burned. Now that all the baking and cleaning were done for the day—and poor Bugs’s head was stitched back on—she lingered over the peat pots, examining the tender sprouts that had just begun to push through the soil.
    Peggy’s mouth curved with the sense of pleasure she always felt amid the fragrance of loamy earth anddelicate blossoms. She could think of few things more intensely satisfying than growing things, giving them life, then watching them flourish in her care.
    After a few moments, she glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. Normally, Samantha would be getting off the bus from preschool about this time. Today, however, was special. Gracie’s mom had called and invited Samantha to their house for a session of cookie