Everybody in our neighborhood has chain-link fences. We put them in forty years ago to keep our baby boomers from toddling into the streets. Paid a lot for them. A chain-link fence was as much a status symbol as a carport. And as lasting. Now word has drifted down from those same baby boomers who were kept safe by those same fences that chain-link is tacky. We should worry. The things have been there so long you can hardly see them. They support healthy crops of honeysuckle and wisteria. They are the background for flowering shrubs such as camellias

and spirea. And they still keep toddlers and animals in. Tacky? In this neighborhood, we believe good chain-links make good neighbors. Besides, in a few years, they'll be antiques. Worth a fortune.

Our particular fence is bordered by legustrum and holly. A little pruning on Washington's birthday and that's it. Every year the same daffodils, narcissus, and tulips come up. Every year the magnolia and pear tree bloom. And every year I put out a few annuals.

Woofer came and sat beside me.

"These are pretty, aren't they?" I pointed to the impatiens.

Woofer agreed that they were.

"And we're not going to have another frost, are we?"

Of course not. Woofer stretched out, his head between his paws, and watched me dig a hole with my trowel. When we adopted him from the Humane Society, the card on his cage read "Mixed." Usually they'll say "Mixed German Shepherd and Lab," or "poodle and dachshund," trying to be a little specific so you'll know what to expect. With Woofer, they hadn't even hazarded a guess, but he is a beautiful dog. Turning gray, I noticed, across his head. Old Woofer.

I needed the peaceful work. The last few days had been traumatic. The wedding, Meg's death, Fred's business problems, Trinity Buckalew, and Judge Has-kins. I took a red impatien, tapped the plastic container, and turned it upside down to slide the flower out.

"There." I eased the root system into the hole and then covered it. "How about that, Woofer? Instant garden." He agreed that it looked nice.

The phone's ringing startled both of us. I pulled off my glove and answered.

"They haven't seen Trinity at Roebuck Chapel," Sister said. "And I've decided to wear long."

"Okay." I waved to Haley, who had come out of the back door. She looked bright and cheerful in jeans and a pink shirt, not tired like she does sometimes after a day in the operating room.

"Maybe she decided to go home. She might have, you know." Mary Alice's voice sounded hopeful.

"Maybe," I agreed. But I knew better. We'd be hearing from Trinity Buckalew again. "Which dress did you decide on?"

"The black velvet. It won't be spring until tomorrow and I think I can get away with it, don't you? It's the one split way up the leg."

"For heaven's sake, Mary Alice. You know you're not supposed to wear velvet after Mardi Gras. Mama and Grandmama would turn over in their graves."