My Neighbor's Garden is a Spot of Beauty

Chapter 6.02

"There are plenty of ways to deal with your husband's passing that don't involve shacking up with the neighborhood dyke, Ms. Rogers."

"It's Carter," Peggy replies icily. "And thank you for your concern, Mr. Wicker, but it won't be needed."

"Of all the nerve," Peggy seethes as she shoves her way through her front door. She stomps through the house until she reaches the living room where she throws her keys against the back of the couch with as much force as she can. Sadly, the jingling of the keys as they thud against the padding is less than satisfying and only serves to make her angrier.

"Of all the bloody nerve!" she roars, and she forces every last ounce of air from her lungs with the exclamation until she can feel her face turning red with the effort. And every inch of her absolutely burns with fury, blood pounding ferociously through her veins, and her breath coming in angry huffs through her clenched teeth.

Then, shaking fists held tightly at her side, she paces (mostly to keep herself from throwing anything she might later regret breaking). In a dizzying spiral, her thoughts move from wondering if they'd truly made such a spectacle of themselves the other day, to worrying that she'd inadvertently drawn some very unwanted attention to Angie, to again seething that her neighbor would even have the audacity to comment on Angie's personal affairs. "As if it's any of his business."

Her stomach twists an instant later. What if the attention—the scrutiny—really is unwanted? Smaller communities can be cruel, after all, and gossip tends to spread like wildfire in such areas.

What if she's just made Angie's life that much harder?

And the more she thinks about it, the more she wants to kick herself. Of course, it seems odd. She'd never been the social one of the pair while Steve was alive, and even after he died that didn't change. Now, suddenly, the neighbors see her running around like a giggling madwoman with Angie and… "Well, why wouldn't they assume?"

Especially if Angie is the neighborhood…

Peggy stands frozen for a beat, then slowly sits on the couch, ashamed of herself as the all-important if presents itself in big, bold letters in her mind. Her face falls into her hands, and, quietly, she groans, "Oh, my God…" feeling like an idiot for letting herself get hung up on a giant pile of what if's.

And, really…what if?

That's the real question, isn't it?

What if?

But…does it really matter?

Gay or not, Angie is her friend, and damn it, it would be a cold day in Hell before Peggy let some old man cow her into seeing her any less!

And so, with a burning determination to do…something, Peggy grabs her keys off the couch and makes for the door.

The next morning finds Peggy outside bright and early, unloading an assortment of masonry supplies from the back of her Jeep and setting them on a pallet in her back yard.

She can't help feeling a little odd as she does—a little off—and her mind inevitably finds its way to Steve. Taking the time to really think about it, she realizes she hasn't had any real projects since he died… In fact, she's made a point of it. It was always something they'd done together, and doing anything of the sort without him had always felt wrong. More than that, it had been painful to even think of starting any projects without him.

And so, for what feels like the thirtieth time since she'd ended up at the home improvement store last evening, Peggy questions what exactly she's doing.

At least, until she hears Angie calling to her, a sweet and groggy, "What're you doin'?" carrying gently to her ears. Angie's not quite dressed yet, shuffling through the yard in heavy-looking pajamas and a robe, big puffy slippers protecting her feet from the chill of the air. Honestly, Peggy isn't even certain her eyes are open until she's close enough to smell the steaming coffee she's clutching.

Half a second later, Peggy's gut twists and her heart leaps into her throat as she recalls the minor confrontation with Mr. Wicker the night before. Stubbornly, she pushes the thought away—she's not going to bring it up and cause unnecessary drama—and greets Angie with a smile. "It's Bonfire Night," she tells her, simply.

Seemingly unimpressed, Angie looks to Peggy's collection of materials. It takes her several moments, and a decidedly pensive sip of her coffee, but she finally asks, "So, you're building a fire pit?"

"I was actually hoping you'd join me this evening, once it's finished."

Gooseflesh prickles at her arms and, oddly, at her checks the moment a slow smile spreads across Angie's face, though she chooses to ignore the sensation, with some effort.

"Yeah, okay," Angie agrees easily, some of that typical twinkle finding its way into her eyes. "Tell you what. I have to run some errands in town, but I should be back early this afternoon. I'll come give you a hand when I get back."

"All right. I'll be here."

With one more brilliant smile, Angie offers a tiny wave and shuffles back to her house, sipping at her coffee the whole way.

That afternoon, Peggy quickly finds out that Angie's version of "help" is sitting back and making fun of the dirt on the seat of her pants.

"Really, Peg. How did you manage handprints on your ass?"

"Don't be rude," Peggy tells her, resolutely ignoring the memory of Mr. Wicker whenever she thinks of Angie looking at her backside.

From there, it only takes a couple more hours to finish up the fire pit, Angie helping to lay the wedged blocks once Peggy is finished tamping down the sand and gravel. Then, before laying the capstones in place, they carefully insert a steel liner and tap it in with a mallet.

"I want to properly redo this next year," Peggy says when it's all finished, checking that it's all still level. "Get some mortar between these blocks."

"That's a good plan," Angie agrees. "But what are you planning for tonight?"

Peggy looks up from the small bubble in the level, mildly confused. "Beg pardon?"

A chuckle, and that mischievous glint appears in Angie's eyes. "You're gonna put a fire in it. Then what?"

"I…" Then what, indeed, Peggy wonders. "I hadn't quite thought beyond the fire, to be honest."

Angie giggles, and Peggy can't help smiling at the tiny snort as she stands. "And here I was thinking you'd have it all planned out!" Angie teases.

With a wry smirk, Peggy fires back, "Oh, don't be fooled by the accent, darling. I'm making this up as I go along."

"Tell you what," Angie starts after a long, hearty laugh. Then, she gives Peggy a very pointed onceover. "You head in and get cleaned up and I'll take care of the rest."

"I don't know…"

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're thinking of eating out?"

For one agonizing moment, Peggy's brain stumbles over the obvious innuendo, wondering if Angie had meant it as such. "Uh… No, of course not," she mumbles, already heading towards her house. A moment later, she spins back, desperate to diffuse any awkwardness she's caused. "I mean," she starts, before her eyes fall on Angie, who is barely containing her mirth.

In that moment, Peggy realizes that, yes, Angie had meant "eating out" as an innuendo. And a very deliberate one, at that.

So, she takes a breath, mustering as much unaffected sass as she can, and says, "I mean, if you really want to spoil me so badly…" Then, she turns on her heel and heads inside for a much-needed shower.

After a heavenly shower—because who doesn't enjoy a nice, steamy wash after a day of hard work—and a good fifteen minutes in her closet, Peggy finally makes her way back outside. She feels strange, and a little alien to herself, in the loose, black scoop neck, tan cardigan, and jeans. Even the suede boots seem like they're too much… Like she's trying too hard to be casual.

But Angie always seems to know how to put her at ease, the blessed thing, and with a quick smile sent her way from the fire pit Peggy finds her nerves settling.

"I was beginning to wonder," Angie teases, her tone light. "Must have been a good shower."

Again, the gooseflesh tickles its way up her arms when she sees the glint of mischief in Angie's gaze, the sensation even finding its way up her neck. "It was," she agrees awkwardly, making a beeline for the fire pit, and wondering what on Earth has gotten into her.

She's surprised to see such a hearty blaze already, and even more surprised to see the food already cooking on a grate placed across the top. And goodness, does it ever look delicious—steaks sizzling away; corn cobs steaming as their husks brown; and two more mystery items hidden by the foil they're cooking in. On top of that, two reclining lawn chairs sit near the fire, along with a collapsible table for food prep not four feet away. Whatever she'd been expecting, it certainly hadn't been this. Angie had clearly been busy, though it makes Peggy wonder exactly how long she'd actually taken in the shower.

"Don't worry," Angie says, as if reading her mind. "I already had most of this prepped for tonight."

"Enough for two?" Peggy fires back.

"What can I say? I was hopeful." A quick wink, and Peggy can feel the goosebumps rising on her cheeks. And even with the thought of Mr. Wicker in the back of her mind, she can't help the pleased smile that pulls at her lips.

Their chatter while supper is cooking is…oddly comfortable for Peggy. And not only comfortable, but…comforting. A strange thought, to be sure, though she can't say she's any sort of surprised, because somewhere between the crop circles and the pumpkins, Peggy found herself looking forward to spending time with Angie, and she's not especially sure when it happened…

She spends the majority of the meal (when it's finished) considering the change in their relationship—and what might have changed in herself.

Sadly, though, no matter which way she turns it in her mind, she's always met with the thought of Mr. Wicker, his voice replaying in her mind over and over. It disgusts her, the way he was so crude and callous. To call Angie a—

"You okay?"

Peggy snaps her head up to meet Angie's concerned gaze, the white-hot feeling of the anger that had been boiling under her skin mere moments before seeming to melt its way down her spine. She's left feeling oddly adrift, and unsure what she ought to be feeling now. She's angry-so, so angry—with Mr. Wicker for poking into things that are none of his business; she's upset with herself for letting him get under her skin in the first place; and she's ashamed, because she's said nothing of the incident to Angie…

"I don't know what I'm doing," Peggy blurts. And really…what is she doing? And how many times can she ask herself that question before she has an answer?

She built a fire pit…what, out of defiance? To show Mr. Wicker that she doesn't care what he thinks of the people she chooses to spend her time with?

"Hey…" Angie practically whispers, and it takes Peggy a moment to realize she's crouched beside her chair now. She gently tugs at the plate in her hands, which Peggy only now realizes is woefully unfinished, saying, "Let me take this and wrap it up for you; you're looking a little pale…"

And then, confused and sick-feeling and dry-mouthed, Peggy finds her courage. Just as the plate slides from her fingers, she looks Angie directly in the eyes—begging her to somehow understand whatever this is that's going on with her right now—and says, almost desperately, "Mr. Wicker paid me a visit last night."

The statement hangs in the air between them, heavy in a way Peggy hadn't expected. It's clear by the look on her face that Angie has had more than enough dealings with Mr. Wicker to infer what might have been said during that visit, and, after a moment, a mask of cool indifference slides onto her face. "I see…" she says, standing tall with the plate. Then, more solemnly, "Look…I'm real sorry, Peg… But I know how this goes. I'll—I'll get these wrapped up for you. Sorry…"

The moment Angie turns, Peggy's stomach hits the ground. "Angie!" she calls, and in the time it takes her to scramble out of the lawn chair, Angie is half-way across the yard. "Why—" she squeaks a bit as she trips over and topples the chair, "—damn! Why on earth are you apologizing?" With a half-jog, Peggy catches up to Angie at her patio. "Angie?" she tries again as Angie reaches for the door. "How what goe—"

She just barely misses her, the bang of the door echoing around their homes, and, shocked and shaking, stands staring at the storm door that's just slammed in her face.

She tries one more time to call for Angie, but her voice isn't working.

God… she wants to scream…

She wants to cry…

She wants to run away and hide and hope that this will all blow over, but she can't help the feeling that if she doesn't do something now, she'll lose whatever goodness Angie has been bringing to her life. And so, with a steadying breath, she grasps the handle of the storm door and lets herself into Angie's home.

Inside, the lights are still off, and Peggy has to pause for a moment to orient herself. "Angie," she calls into the darkness, even knowing that Angie must want to be alone. "Please, don't shut me out…"

A sigh through the dark, and Peggy hears slight movement to her left. Then, Angie's voice, equal parts sullen and hopeful, asks, "Don't you want me gone?"

Peggy can't quite tell if her heart is in her throat or her feet, but suddenly Angie's behavior outside makes so much more sense, and all she can manage to say is, "God, no!"

"But Mr. Wicker—"

"I don't care about him!" she practically shouts, shocking even herself with the amount of vehemence in her voice, but somehow it spurs her on. "He can say what he likes; I don't care!"

A heavy silence hangs between them in the blackness, Peggy's heart pounding in her ears. She has no idea what Angie might be thinking—she can't see her face to even guess…

Until her voice carries to her ears in a distrusting whisper. "…But you did," she says. And it's true…Peggy had cared to a degree. She's been bothered all day, though it's taken her all this time to realize that she's not so much worrying that Angie might be gay, but over the uncertainty of it all. That if she really wants to avoid the scrutiny of their community that she might…

That she might just leave her all alone again…

"I did…" Peggy agrees somberly. "I'm so sorry."

But she doesn't want to lose Angie over this. Not over something like this…

"He said—" She starts, stepping forward into the darkness. "He just showed up and told me…" No. She's not going to say it. Angie doesn't need to hear something like that coming from her. "…and I was just—just so angry!"

She trips over a chair, knocking her shin against the legs when she tries to right it, and grunts, "Bloody…damn!" under her breath before resuming her blind trek across Angie's kitchen to find her.

"So, I... I—I built a fire pit!" she says incredulously. "Because I… Well, I wanted to…"

Still in her steps now, and trembling besides, Peggy sighs and quietly admits, "I was afraid." And suddenly, she feels more alone than she has in three months…

"Angie, please," she calls, low and strained. "I was afraid, but I don't care! Not one bit. I could never… Just…please don't leave me alone again…"

A sniffle is her first clue that Angie is close, the second being the warm sensation of skin on skin at her wrist. "I mean," Angie begins, and Peggy can hear the tears on her voice. "If you really want me to spoil you so badly…"

Wordlessly, Peggy gathers Angie against her, the two of them awkwardly fitting themselves together in the dark. And once they're sorted, Angie clutches to Peggy with shaking hands, sobbing unreservedly against her chest. Peggy finds it an odd comfort, that, even after the disastrous turn the evening had taken, Angie can find comfort with her. So, she holds her tightly, rubbing circles over her back and clutching her head to her chest.

She knows her heart is pounding in Angie's ear, but she can't help but hope that the sound of it is a comfort to her, just as Angie's had been to her in the beginning…

Oh… she thinks in a moment of realization, bending low to whisper in Angie's ear. "I care about you," she tells her in a whisper. "I don't care what that old bigot says. I care about you, and nothing Mr. Wicker does can change that."

And with a snort, Angie quips, "More like Mr. Dicker."

It's strange, the way the tension and emotion can just melt away in an instant, and they spend a moment chuckling together over the joke. Then, Angie extricates herself from Peggy's grasp, wiping at her face as she pops the refrigerator for some light. "I guess I'd better get to packaging your leftovers."

"I appreciate it."

It doesn't take her long, a benefit of an entire cupboard full of Tupperware, Peggy suspects, and in moments, she's handing over a container saying, "You know, we still have an apple crumble over the fire, out there…" An invitation to spend a little more time together, though she sounds uncertain about it…

Peggy, however, feels surer in herself than she has in a long time, and, with a small smile, says, "All right. Let me take these over to my fridge and I'll be right out."

Angie follows her outside, but before she can quite make it to her house to put the container away, Angie grabs her attention again. "Peggy," she mumbles, clearly embarrassed. "Uh…You might want to grab a jacket or something while you're at it." Before Peggy can ask why, she squares her shoulders and bashfully confesses, "Your girls are distracting on a good day, let alone when I've been crying into them."

In the time it takes her heart to jump, a warm flush covers her chest and works its way up her neck. Out of reflex, she looks down at herself, studying her cleavage for a moment. "Yes… They are rather exquisite, aren't they?" she asks, not at all surprised when, absolutely flabbergasted, Angie's mouth drops open.

Then, with a mischievous smile of her own, Peggy makes for her house with the Tupperware container in hand.

When Peggy goes back outside—this time wearing a scarf to spare Angie's sanity—Angie is nowhere to be seen. And for a moment, she panics, terrified that Angie's changed her mind and decided to stay in. But before she gets too far along any particular line of thinking, Angie reappears with an armful of blankets.

Sheepishly, she shrugs as she approaches. "Sorry. It's getting kind of cold, but I'm not really ready to call it a night just yet…"

Relieved, Peggy offers to lay a large quilt on the ground while Angie dishes up the dessert—a honeyed apple and oat crumble. When she's finished, she gratefully accepts a small plate of dessert, and they both sit on the quilt to eat, Angie immediately cocooning herself in a large, blue-and-cream afghan.

The apple crumble is amazing—as everything else Angie has ever made her—though the hint of butterscotch is a surprise.

"Schnapps," Angie confides with a wink. "My secret ingredient."

"Well, it's fantastic."

Except...Angie doesn't seem to think so, poking at slices of apple with the tip of her fork. And even when Peggy's finished her plate, Angie's is virtually untouched…

"…Hey, Peg?" Angie says suddenly, making an obvious effort to look Peggy directly in the eye. "I'm gay."

A nod, even as she puzzles over why Angie would be worrying about that now. "I know…"

"I just…wanted to say it. We didn't, you know? And I didn't want to leave it…" Angie looks so small right now. She looks so…afraid. Is this what she'd looked like in the dark of her kitchen, before, Peggy wonders.

Then, voice as small as she looks, Angie asks, "Are we still friends?"

It makes Peggy's heart stop for a moment, that she's still so worried that Peggy will want nothing to do with her. "Oh, darling…" she says, scooting closer and wrapping Angie in her arms. "Of course, we are."