“We dress as we please,” said Olive Martelli, a large white woman with bright orange hair and cat’s-eye glasses studded with rhinestones. “One of the privileges of maturity.” She pronounced it ma-toor-ity.

“Who gives a toss what people think,” chimed in a man whose name Greta never knew. He looked like an Edward Gorey drawing come to life, so she named him Edward in her mind. He was wearing black-and-white-checked pants that ballooned at the thigh and narrowed at the ankle, a cropped black matador-style jacket, and bright yellow ankle-high Wellingtons.

Camilla stood and the conversation quieted.

“Shall we?” She gestured dramatically to the garden that stretched beyond the greenhouse.

The Gang rose too, several of them swapped their shoes for sneakers or boots, and they proceeded outside through a panel in the solarium that Greta hadn’t realized was a door.

Camilla’s garden was as dramatic and beautiful as she was, even in December. Pink snapdragons and purple alyssum bloomed along the iron lace fence that demarcated her property from First Street, rose bushes stood against the fence on the other side, and swathes of growth meandered between them, creating pockets of privacy, one of which housed a white iron table and chairs and another of which contained a wooden chaise longue with a peach-and-white-striped cushion and a table beside it shaped like a pineapple.

“If you would be so kind,” Camilla said, “I’d like to plant calendula and dianthus today. And in the vegetable patch, mustard, radish, and turnips. Then if we could mulch the tropicals, I’d be simply delighted.”

“You have a vegetable patch?” Greta asked. She had assumed the garden was purely decorative for some reason.

“Oh yes. Would you like to head up that planting today?”

“Oh, I…to be honest, I don’t know much about growing vegetables. I’d love to learn, though.”

“Excellent!” Camilla clapped her hands together. “Toni should teach you all about it. She’s a veggie whiz.”

A broad, stooped woman in a large black hat gave a wave. She gestured Greta over and led her to a raised bed behind the chaise longue. Greta hadn’t noticed it before because nothing appeared to be growing.

Toni pointed at several mounds of dirt. “Those are the potato mounds, so we don’t want to plant radishes close to there. Mustard is good as a border because it has those beautiful yellow flowers.”

Greta nodded along, trying to commit everything Toni said to memory. Three others had followed them to the vegetable patch, and under Toni’s guidance, they began to sow mustard seeds around two edges of the bed and turnips inside them.

“You do the radishes, dear. Young knees,” one of the women said, directing Greta to the middle of the bed and handing her three paper envelopes, each with a different variety written on it. Cherry Belle, White Icicle, and French Breakfast, they said.