Page 53 of In a Word, Yes

“Yeah, well, it’s not fair. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could throwmyselfin the dryer and come out wrinkle-free and two sizes smaller? Already Tony has lost six pounds since I stoppedbaking.” She exhales. “Okay, I’m done. I’m over it. Hey, how was your weekend? How’s Mister Man?”

It’s a nickname Dot adopted for Chase from the time she first met him as a chubby almost-four-year-old with a lingering preference for hand gestures over words and an unusually serious face. These days, given his advanced vocabulary and serious expression, it fits all the more.

“Ooh, I can’t wait to hear what he dreams up for a costume this year!”

We don’t much participate in Halloween festivities—it’s not my favorite holiday or Chase’s. But Chase is fervent about dressing up for the Candy Crawl, when local businesses pass out candy to the steady stream of wannabe princesses, superheroes, and sumo wrestlers.

“Oh, you know Chase,” I say. “He’s got something in mind that’s more obscure than ever. Have you heard of H.J. Andrews? Yeah, didn’t think so. I’ll let you know if it sticks.”

“That kid! I tell you, he is somethin’ else.”

I turn to leave.

“Nothing can top last year, though,” she adds. “When your kiddo came in here dressed as a skunk, I—”

“Badger.”

“Oh, right. Badger!” Dot heaves with laughter. Once she’s exhausted that, she draws a breath so deep her shoulders rise and fall. “Geez, I love that kid. And, you know, Lucy, I haven’t seen him in too long. You guys should really come over for dinner.”

In the past this has been an easy no. If you can believe it, Dot and I rarely socialize outside of the office—unless you count waving at each other as we pass in our cars every Sunday on what locals call church row. Dot is very involved over at the Episcopalian church, while I’m over at Charity Falls Community.

But while mentally scouring my calendar for obstacles, reasons not to add Dot and Tony to our limited social life, I sense a check in my spirit. Whydon’twe ever hang out? I’m ashamed torecall how often I’ve rejected the invitation. Is friendship a big fat inconvenience for me? Is it the age difference? Because honestly, most of the time I forget Dot is old enough to be my mom. What does it say about me that I’ve agreed to meet Ian for coffee but don’t have time for the bestest, bestest person in Charity Falls?

Let’s face it, I cling to my precious routine every bit as much as Chase does. What a punk I’ve been.

Dot is still talking. “...knock out another dish from my Thai cookbook while you diagnose whatever is going on with that beautiful stripey plant you gave me.”

“You mean the white wave philodendron? What’s wrong with it?”

“That’s the question. Maybe it just needs repotting, but really, the pot seems plenty big. It looks super healthy, but the whole thing keeps flopping forward like an eighties hair metal band. I should name it Bon Jovi. Ha!”

It’s cute how she cracks herself up.

“Or Twisted Sister,” I offer, smiling as I move to her windowsill and begin my regular inspection of the jumble of plants there.

Dot blasts another laugh. “That’s it! That’s the one.”

“I’ll bet the flopping has nothing to do with the pot.” This is something I learned myself through trial and error. Tempted as I am to bless my houseplants with a shallow drink of water several times a week—because, let’s face it, watering plants is way cheaper than a massage and every bit as therapeutic—most plants prefer to be watered less often but more deeply. Otherwise, the roots never have reason to travel farther down into the soil to seek nourishment.

Shallow watering equals shallow roots. And top-heavy plants tend to fall on their faces.

And there it is again, the spiritual analogy I’ve been pondering since yesterday’s service.Deeply rooted. Flourishing in any season.

I pinch several yellowing leaves off Dot’s African violet. There is, in fact, a bounty of botanical imagery in Scripture.

“Would you believe the number of references to specific plant names in the Bible is somewhere around one hundred and twenty?” I say, and Dot’s eyes bulge. “Anyway, we’d love to come for dinner.”

Once again today is deadline day—zero hour minus seven to be exact, and I’m inputting the last of the new classified ads when a cacophony of noise and several unsavory words ring out from inside my editor’s office. This side of the doorknob quakes and clatters. At long last, the heavy sable door explodes open with a thud and Sam staggers forward, red-faced with the effort.

“Criminy!” he blusters. “What a lousy excuse for a door!”

For a moment, he seems befuddled about why he opened it in the first place. Then his lips return to their usual half-snarl. “Montgomery, can I see you in here, please?”

Hoo boy. I hit the Save button on my computer and hustle my backside past him. Close proximity only serves to verify off-the-chart grouch vibes.

Before I can take my usual seat, Sam stops me with a raised hand. It shakes, and Sam’s hands don’t normally shake. “Nah, don’t bother sitting. This’ll only take a second.” Clearly Sam is more than grouchy. He’sscrambled. “Have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”

This can only mean one thing. Sam needs something significant.