“We’ll give him a few more minutes; he usually wakes up on his own. Let’s go out and put your plants in a flat and in the back of the truck. You tuck the eggs into your basket. How about half a loaf of bread too.”

“I do not turn down homemade bread.”

Out in the greenhouse, Ginny handed her several four-inch pots. “The pegs say which is which. Now, when you plant these tomatoes, bury them so deep that the dirt reaches the first leaves. Then new roots will grow all along the stem and the plants will be really robust. They’ve been hardened off, but I’d still plant them in the evening and shade them the next day or two.” She handed off a six-pack of marigolds, the cucumbers in round pots, one of each kind, and two others. “These are sweet basil and spearmint. I use the mint leaves in iced tea. The more you clip both of these, the better they grow. You have clay pots?”

“The big ones”—she held out her arms to show sizes—“and saucers for underneath. One fits in a round metal stand.”

“How about a coleus or two?”

“I’m running out of space.”

“Surely you can fit these in; the colors of the leaves are so rich. With your southeast exposure, you can do about anything.”

“I know, that’s why I chose that one.” A hummingbird buzzed by her to drink at the feeder. “They’re here. Good, I’ll get my feeder out.” She set her plastic flat in the pickup bed and looked up when she heard Fred call Spook.

“Hope you don’t mind if he comes along.”

“Not at all.”

“See, I told you.” Ginny set a larger pot in the back. “You need some pink too for the hummers.”

“Maybe I better get some of those holders that hook over the railing.” Amalia thought a second and nodded. “That’s what I’ll go do. You ever done one of those hanging baggy things that lets the tomatoes grow hanging upside down? I could put one of those hooks in the ceiling.”

Fred raised a finger. “We have some good hooks. Be right back.”

Amalia and Ginny grinned at each other. “Bring a couple of them,” Ginny called. “We’ll use every elevation and get a write-up in the gardening column in the paper.”

Fred slid back under the steering wheel. “You do have a stepstool, don’t you? I could go get mine.”

“No, I have one.”

“Good.”

Amalia waved out her window, Spook barked once as if to say see you later and Fred honked the horn.

By the time he left Amalia’s place for home, Amalia had pots, the plants, and a bag of Fred’s own potting soil he had thrown in to keep the pots from sliding toward the back or sides. Two strong hooks, one on each side, were embedded in the ceiling and he had promised to weld her a couple of sturdy pot holders for over the rail, not like the cheapo ones found at local stores.