A garage door across the street began opening.
Danielle glanced toward it.
“Could we not turn this into a neighborhood performance?”
That almost made me laugh.
“You brought up a neighborhood competition.”
“It’s not a competition exactly.”
“What is it?”
She sighed.
“There’s recognition, a little sign for the yard, and a feature in the community newsletter.”
“Then take my name out.”
Danielle blinked.
“What?”
“I don’t want to participate.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I don’t.”
She looked genuinely annoyed.
“I already submitted it.”
“Without asking me.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
I looked toward the hydrangeas.
One of the bushes closest to the curb had begun developing brown edges on several leaves.
I’d noticed them earlier that week.
I’d spent Thursday evening searching for possible causes and checking the soil.
Now I crouched beside the plant.
Danielle sighed behind me.
“You’re doing this again.”
I straightened.
“Doing what?”
“Making those flowers into something they’re not.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
“What are they, Danielle?”
“Plants.”
“Yes.”
“Plants die. Plants get replaced.”
I stared at her.
She seemed to realize she’d gone too far.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded pretty clear.”
“Marianne, I’m trying to do something nice for you.”
