“A mother’s prerogative, I think,” he says, giving me a knowing smile.

“A mother’s nosiness, you mean.” I flick a thumb over my shoulder. “Anyway, I should get going. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Solange,” he calls after me.

“Bye,” I say, giving him a seemingly carefree wave as I scurry up the stairs.

Sure, I can’t change what just happened between us, but I can make sure nothing else happens. It’ll be fine. Absolutely fine. We’re only one outing away from being done with our fake dating arrangement, then Dean and I can move on with our regular lives.

Separately, of course.

*  *  *

Sunday afternoon, my mother and I meet up at the Lanier Heights Community Garden project site. Preparing four dozen plots of land, each measuring approximately fifty square feet, should be easy enough, but we’re experiencing a crisis at the management level—specifically too many cooks and only one kitchen.

Cindy, a middle-aged white woman who thinks one can never wear enough animal prints, and Danilo, a young Filipino short-order cook who still hasn’t sent me his supposedly world-famous chicken adobo recipe, have been debating the design for a half hour now.

Beside me, my mother sighs, then whispers into my ear: “The plots need to be separated with fencing or they’re going to get contamination.”

“Cross-contamination, you mean?”

“Yes. And using patio stones would be too hard on everyone’s knees when they’re gardening. Grass is better.”

“Why don’t you say something, then?”

She shrugs. “This isn’t my garden. I’m just here to help you.”

That’s what she thinks. She’s here to be inspired. And hopefully to reinvigorate her interest in flowers and plants. But so far, she isn’t moved by the discussion, and I can’t say that I blame her. Cindy’s and Danilo’s voices are rising, and a third volunteer, whom I don’t know, looks as though he’s about to enter the fray. Enough.

I clear my throat to get their attention. “So as I understand it, regardless of the plot setup, we need to turn the soil, right?”

They all nod.

“Can my mother and I work on that while you continue chatting about this?” I peek at my watch. “Because we’ll need to get going soon.”

And we’re tired of standing around.

“Okay, yes,” Cindy says. “We can use everyone’s help with that.” She points at the far-right corner of the garden. “You can find compost over there.”

“Great. We’ll get started.”

Ten minutes later, Mãe and I have dispersed a layer of compost over our chosen area and are flipping the soil with handheld spades. The repetitive task allows us to engage in conversation with relative ease.

“Viviane can’t stop talking about Sebastian,” my mother says with a smile. “She’s so happy.”