Plant Lady

By M. A. Phillips

Plants are easy. People…not so much.

Fern is a practicing witch with a green thumb. She's earned an enchanting reputation for helping people improve their fortunes at her tiny plant shop in Utica, NY, but she'd trade it all to reclaim her grandparents' garden nursery. Her life takes an unexpected turn when an ex-boyfriend suddenly appears at her Pagan circle's meetup as they plan for their annual witches' ball. Will he uproot this Plant Lady's plans, or will new opportunities bloom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shadow Spark Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223323051

M. A. Phillips

M. A. Phillips lives in northern NY with her husband, daughter, and three cats. She is a writer, English teacher, and practicing Druid. Some of her short stories have been published in Stone, Root, and Bone magazine. Her debut, River Magic, is an adult magical realism novel featuring a friends to lovers romance, contemporary pagans, and a vengeful mermaid. When she isn't writing, you can find her in the garden, sewing, or enjoying a book with a side of tea. you can read more about her spiritual and creative journey on her blog www.ditzydruid.com or on twitter & Instagram @ditzydruid

Book preview

Part 1 Pot-Bound

1

Friends and customers called Fern Miller a green witch. This was accurate enough, but deep down, she preferred a more ordinary nickname given by someone she used to know: Plant Lady. In her opinion, this was the best title for skills she lived and breathed. Fern believed there was a plant for everyone. People may not have the time, money, or inclination for a pet, child, or lover, but plants provide quiet companionship. Some vegetation fussed more than others, but Fern could match two individuals who would begin a still dance of airflow no matter the season. Plants were easy. People...not so much. 

The ease with which Fern could pinpoint the perfect botanic ally to improve another’s fortunes was surely a cosmic joke. Leaves pulsed with a purpose for others, but Fern couldn’t decipher their silent riddles when it came to elevating herself beyond the closet-sized boutique she’d opened after college. No other spell had come close to the first burst of intention as she assembled a prosperity bowl or the time she’d propagated a pothos cutting to encourage romance to take root with the man who had called her Plant Lady.

I’m not thinking about him today, she said to a philodendron, then launched into a chant.

Along with the tendril of emerald hair tracing her cheek, speaking and singing to greenery were her most outwardly intriguing attributes. Of average height, hickory-colored hair, and brown eyes with only a hint of hazel in the right light, Fern was as modest as her name.

Though it had skipped a generation, Fern’s green thumb came from her mother’s side. Grandma and Grandpa Beech had made a name for themselves in the Mohawk Valley. Anyone who had contracted Grandpa for landscaping and let him go about his peculiar process with a dowsing rod came into a humble fortune afterward. Grandma Beech never inspired the same amount of whispering as her husband, but Fern learned the foundations of witchcraft from the spritely woman. She had only used the title in jest, but Grandma planted the seed of curiosity within Fern. During summer breaks, she and her sister, Violet, spent most days playing make-believe among the flowers at Beech Acres. Grandma had encouraged them to gather fallen petals and whole blossoms left over from deadheading to concoct childlike potions for happiness and improved imagination. When the girls missed their mother and father, Grandma pointed them toward the petunias, which, she said, drew people to you for comfort. On the rainiest days, when they wondered if the sky would ever catch his breath from weeping so long, they flung golden marigolds and shouted for the sun’s return.

Magic came with lessons of patience, but it always worked. 

Patience. Fern paused unpacking newly arrived bunny-eared cacti and glanced at the small shrine near the register. It consisted of a shelf, an LED candle, and a photo of her late grandparents. Her mind would have wandered down mossy footpaths to happier times, but synthesized birdsong sang out from the counter, so Fern retrieved her phone and opened the text.

Marisa Singer: We got the reservation!

Fern smiled and tapped a reply, but her shared delight diminished upon realizing she was part of a group message. Responses came bookended with exclamation marks, pumpkins, and skulls. Glad for the group’s success, Fern wilted all the same. The end of October belonged to death and decay, which heralded the coming bland, lonely winter. August lingered, but her witchy friends already spoke of Samhain and Halloween with broad grins and twinkling eyes. The annual Witches’ Ball was The Utica Pagan Alliance’s biggest event of the year.

Marisa Singer: The owners were particularly keen on your charity suggestion, Fern. Hospice has touched many lives. Great idea!

It's something, she muttered to herself and her grandparents’ photograph. Until I can do more, I’ll honor you this way.

Her Pagan friends continued gushing about a feast for the dead, erecting a sizeable ancestral shrine, and decorating headstone cookies. They meant well; indeed, death was not taboo in her circle, but Fern preferred remembering her grandparents at Beech Acres over visiting their cemetery. She craved life, but the Halloween season dragged her into a ghoulish corner and reminded her that, despite the rebirth her religion celebrated, new beginnings always came with painful endings. 

And I remember dancing with him at the ball...

Muting the conversation until later, Fern dropped her phone in her purse. She tucked another spiky companion in the interior garden, which acted as a living curtain between her and the impending months she dreaded most.

Her shop, Fern’s Finds, occupied a space no bigger than a walk-in closet. It belonged to a larger unit, including a photographer’s studio, skate shop, yoga center, and pizzeria. Without Fern’s touch, it would look like a brick of oddly cut cheese on the corner of Genesee Street and Cove in South Utica. Ever since she’d enchanted her entrance with window boxes and urns, the property manager paid her a seasonal fee to extend the ambiance. Mounds of impatiens tumbled over planters, chasing fuzzy tails of pale licorice. The inviting aura drew customers and added to her savings, though, at times, certain patrons tried Fern’s tolerance.

The doorbell tinkled and Dottie Fenton strutted inside. She wore hot pink lycra and a sheen from the workout she’d just ended. Dottie was a bright, platinum blond sun to Fern’s shade-loving personality; too much exposure curled her fronds, but she could handle short conversations when they distracted her from talk of skeletons or promises to the dead.

Hey, Dottie. How’re you? Fern wiped her hands on her gardening apron.

Fantastic! You should come over and try my new hot yoga class. It’ll get your heart pumping!

Maybe someday, Fern said with a shrug. What can I do for you?

The shop owed part of its reputation to Dottie. Fern recalled the fateful visit when she’d asked her signature question: Why are you looking to adopt a plant today? It had followed a string of standard inquiries. Someone in her position should ask what kind of sunlight a person’s apartment received, whether they had pets, and whether or not one already had plants with which to coordinate. Those were normal, sensible things, but the last question started a rumor which flowered. It implied personhood and hinted at Fern’s animistic beliefs. It made chatty Dottie, and others, question the reality of magic.

Oh, I’m not here to buy anything today. Not really, the yoga instructor said with a coy tilt of her head.

Fern shifted. Not really?

Well, here! She handed Fern an envelope. It’s a save-the-date! Jeffery proposed!

Oh, well, congratulations. She opened the card to avoid insulting Dottie. "And you want to invite me?"

It's all thanks to you! You suggested my little healer, Dottie said, referencing an aloe Fern had recommended years ago.

It was an excellent beginner specimen: hardy and generous to human needs. Dottie had been dubious the first few days but declared it had been as if the angels were watching out for her after the oil in her pan splattered and burned her chin. The gel had brought immediate relief, and when her handsome neighbor blistered his thumb while grilling, Dottie came to the rescue.

Now they were engaged. 

"Your energy helped bring us together! Of course, I want you there. And I don’t know if you’re interested in doing this, but I would absolutely adore it if you could make the bouquet and some succulent place settings. Do you do those? You’ve got the magic touch, and I must share it with my guests!"

Fern hoped her smile wasn’t too awkward. Oh, uh, I’ll think about it. I have time, right?

Sure! I know it’s a lot to take in. Come up with a quote for me, and I’ll come back to bother you soon. She waggled her fingers in farewell. I know where to find you!

FERN TRUDGED INTO HER apartment and tossed Dottie’s invitation on a squat bookshelf. Her poofy, white cat, Dandelion, welcomed her with a chirp.

A wedding, she grumbled to the feline. "Even if I do make the bouquet, which I’ve not committed to yet, I’d have to buy a dress and socialize with a bunch of her health nut friends. Still...that would be quite a commission, wouldn’t it?"

Dandelion only licked a front paw.

Fern approached her altar. An art print of Flora stood center-stage in front of an offering bowl into which Fern placed a red marigold blossom. 

Goddess Flora, receive my offering. Know my love and gratitude. Please continue to guide me in my daily work, and may I bring honor to you.

Next, she dropped a penny into a tall, wide-brimmed jug glittering with coins, quartz points, and chunks of aventurine. 

My abundance grows, she said matter-of-factly.

Mind tumbling with Dottie’s premarital exuberance, Fern greeted her many roommates of leaf and stem. Golden Hour brought out their best and evoked a light-hearted nostalgia for moments shared with someone she once loved. Her eyes settled on an old friend and familiar, a pothos vine, and the loneliness she usually locked away leaked out of its confines. Desire seeped into her with the sunlight, and Fern momentarily wished her old love spell would strengthen.

No, she thought, no. I’m fine. Rest, pothos.

The last time she made room for intimacy, she’d lost dearly, and more thorny brambles occupied the space separating her from her goal of Beech Acres.

Yet the pothos would not rest, and hunger flooded into Fern. 

Have you become pot-bound? she asked her old friend and examined the container. Sigils she’d once drawn around the clay to shield her broken heart had faded. You have been in there for some time. Ever since...Well. I think I have the perfect new home so that you can spread your roots a little more. I suppose it’s time.

As a plant shop owner, she had all the necessary supplies. Fern tapped the old ceramic to loosen the cramped tropical. The old sigil she’d drawn made her fingers tingle. Years ago, she had taken steps to mute the original spellwork and protect her bruised soul from more pain. She set the container to the side, and a crack deepened over one of the symbols. Fern stared, wondering at this development, but decided it was merely the result of time. 

Yes. Enough time has passed, and Paul is far away. We each deserve to grow. I hope he’s happy wherever he is. From now on, let our happiness grow along with you, my lovely pothos.

2

Adriana Ortis-Pallon clicked into Fern’s Finds on thick heels with a side of juicy news. Orange and navy nails fluttered like a giddy flight of butterflies as her old friend galloped forward to rave about the latest details on their ten-year reunion.

Here she comes again. Fern paused her cleaning.

Five years ago, Fern’s first roommate and fast friend had eagerly applied for a position in the office of alumni relations at their now alma mater. Initially a communications major, Adriana had belonged to a dozen clubs and attended nearly every social function. Now, she claimed her purchase of lucky bamboo from Fern had enabled her to return to campus for a salary. The potted plant now had a place of honor on her shiny desk beside her nameplate.

"Fern, you need to listen to me. I was gonna let it slide, but I can’t anymore. You have to come to the reunion! You have to." She slammed a pamphlet on the counter. It had been printed with UC’s school colors and matched Ad’s manicure.

The shopkeeper spread her hands nonchalantly. What’s the draw this time?

Ad’s pupils darted toward the ceiling of lights, silver eyelets, and hooks. Fern wondered if she was scraping the bottom of her idea barrel or attempting to sugarcoat an otherwise unpalatable proposition.

‘Kay, so, there’s gonna be a fantastic comic from New York City coming.

I’ll search for videos online. Fern crossed her arms. What else?

Well, there’s gonna be karaoke. We could sing ‘Wannabe’ like old times!

Fern chuckled. We can do that anywhere else, too. Preferably in private when I’m drunk.

Oh, come on! This is our ten-year reunion! Don’t you remember watching all the alums walking around in a nostalgic fog? We said we’d meet up and ride the Ferris wheel together no matter what!

Fighting an eye-roll, Fern forced a smile. Baloney, she said, using an exclamation she’d inherited from her grandmother. I love your tenacity, but you know it would only make me sad, and I’d rather avoid all that. I’d ruin your night with Dean. You don’t want a gloomy spinster trailing you like a ghost. She returned to dusting a shelf of ceramic pots.

You’re not a spinster.

Oh? I’m a thirty-two-year-old single woman. I’ll call myself a spinster if I want to. I earned it.

I respect your single pride, but what if I found someone you could go with?

A blind date? You’re not selling this to me, Fern muttered. The thought of bringing a strange romantic prospect to a place crawling with memories of Paul flooded her brain with a bitter cocktail of emotions.

A bitter cocktail would hit the spot right about now.

She’d go to her apartment and use one of the lemons from her dwarf tree to concoct an anti-love potion. Something sharp and citrusy. Fern would wrap her fingers around the glass to infuse it with her need to forget.

Hey, she began, preparing to invite Adriana for a sweeter brew. They could sing all the Spice Girls tunes they wanted between reminiscing happier times without the man who broke her heart. Wanna come over for a drink tonight? After my meeting.

Another time. Adriana’s smile fell. Sorry. I promised Dean I’d bring Eva to Tutu Tots, so he can do that Magic the Gathering tournament tonight. I’m afraid I can’t be as spontaneous as I once was, which is partly why I hoped you’d come to the reunion!

Fern sighed and stalked back to the storage closet to hang the duster. Well...what if I only went to some events during the day? Would that be okay with you? The homecoming game and the luncheon. Things away from the fair. Though...maybe I should push through it? You think it would help?

Ad pinched her lips together, and her eyes bugged out as she sought inspiration from a row of zebra plants. "Uh, well, maybe going would help you? You know, like, get closure? Or maybe even mend bridges?" 

Sure. Why not? I’d love to see the campus gardens now that you mention it. Not like Paul would be there or anything.

Ad’s mouth contorted into a hopeful grimace. 

What? Fern asked, voice low and pulse ticking.

"He bought a weekend pass. He actually responded for once."

Fern sank into the stool behind the register as her legs filled with the same gel her aloe plants produced. Paul’s coming back?

YESTERDAY. The old Beatles song reemerged from Fern’s memory once Adriana left for home. Alone again, Fern couldn’t distract herself from the lyrics and the recollection of Paul. The day he left, she had returned to her childhood home from the airport, shut the door, put on her headphones, and listened to the recording as she wept. The tune was inseparable from her faded love.

The shop tidied and closed for the night, Fern shouldered her bag and began the short walk from her business to her home on Cove Street. Life seemed to have stalled for Fern, but she always gave gratitude for finding a suitable home within walking distance from work and her favorite cafe. Neighbors nodded to her as they fetched mail or soaked in some sun on their stoops. Many were middle-aged or elderly, but a few kids played on the sidewalks while several teens ambled along in pairs or sat solo on their steps, eyes glued to phones.

Her second-story apartment was an oasis of hanging baskets, potted flowers, and grandma’s white wicker patio set. The right side received enough southern exposure that a pair of dwarf roses thrived year after year. Tropicals owned Fern’s heart, but temperate flowers transported her to Beech Acres. They appealed to bees and an occasional hummingbird. Somehow, petals dulled the never-ending drone of traffic and drew attention to urban birdsong and the giggling of children.

Even the sanctuary of her balcony couldn’t soothe Fern today. Her emotions were a tangled mess of vines, and she’d had to count the shop drawer three times due to absentmindedness. Inside, she brushed her teeth and shrugged at her sleepy appearance in the mirror. Her Pagan friends wouldn’t hold it against her. Hair smoothed into a new ponytail, Fern donned a raincoat and hurried to the meeting. Gray clouds stalked the skyline, so driving the two blocks seemed prudent today.

Lively jazz cradled Fern as she entered Cafe Colombo, her hang-out of choice since her senior year of college. The casual eatery, with its goldenrod walls covered in local art and vintage concert posters, had become a coffee-scented haven for her and other free spirits who tended the flame of culture in what others viewed as a hopeless rustbelt city. 

A rumble of laughter cascaded from the second-story loft. The Utica Pagan Alliance, an eclectic circle of witches, polytheists, and other Earth-centered people, frequently reserved the space for meetups. A mixture of business and study, this gathering was bound to divert Fern from her current mental blight and knock Yesterday out of replay. 

There she is! Gene shouted. A large white man with cropped red hair and a pentacle tattooed on his forearm rose and wrapped her in a hug. I was getting worried. It’s unlike you to be late.

I’m sorry, she murmured and took her place beside him and the other group leader, Marisa. Been a busy week.

A short, squat woman with shimmering black curls and umber skin leaned toward Fern and patted her hand. "No need to fret. We were just introducing ourselves to our guest. Or re-introducing as the case may be." The corners of Marisa’s lips stretched into a tense smile.

Fern followed the woman’s gesture, but the welcome expression flittered from her face, pushed aside by a fervor she couldn’t yet identify. The floor and ceiling may have shot away from the building for all Fern knew.

His dirty-blond hair was shorter, and the only remnants of his once long and unruly locks were slicked back with gel. A faint shadow of beard freckled his chin below the apologetic half-smile. The last feature she took in were his eyes, brown and glistening, framed by the beginnings of worry lines. 

Paul. His name came out as a whisper, a password to doors she’d struggled all day to keep locked. 

The grin was a daisy opening to the sun that followed him everywhere. Hi, Fern. It’s good to see you. Been too long.

She could only stare. The silence of their small but attentive audience deprived her of oxygen.

Well, Gene said, blessedly cutting through the tension. "There'll be plenty of time for you to catch up afterward. Sorry for the surprise, Fern, but we didn’t realize our guest was your Paul when he requested info the other day! Marisa elbowed him. Ouch! Anyway, we have a lot to discuss, especially with the upcoming Witches’ Ball, but I think we should start with some grounding and centering. Yes? Let’s all try to get comfortable. Feel yourself firmly anchored, your feet on the floor, your butt in your seat. Now, close your eyes and take a deep breath. In...then out...." 

Another young man, short with dark hair and olive skin, sat beside Fern. Adam leaned over and said, You’ll be fine. You can do this.

In and out! Gene continued, one open eye glaring in Adam’s direction.

Fern tried to settle her nerves. She was confident with her growing meditative skills, but suddenly she was a moth to Paul’s flame. Questions about his sudden appearance—at The Utica Pagan Alliance, of all places—bit at her like a swarm of mosquitos. Where she could normally follow Gene’s sonorous voice down stone corridors and forest trails toward inner focus and peace, her heart rate could rattle bones.

Fern peeked at Paul. Like everyone else, his eyelids remained shut, but his bottom lip pinched in a familiar tell.

He’s unsettled. Did he know I’d be here? He’s still so handsome...No! I need to leave! I can’t breathe!

With the silent grace of a milkweed seed, she rose from her chair and tiptoed to the stairs. The swooning notes of a saxophone muffled her descent. Fern dashed from the cafe without even lamenting a missed opportunity to have her favorite cappuccino. A discordant piano dueled with the brass, and the last she heard was a blaring trumpet joining the fray before she hurried to her car.

Sucking in her breath, Fern gripped the steering wheel. She’d text Gene, Marisa, and Adam and tell them she wasn’t feeling well.

True enough. Paul’s in Utica.

Shit. This is baloney.

She thought she saw him in the rearview mirror, gaping at her from the sidewalk as she tore away. Now he’d even taken her home away from home.

No. A piece of Paul was already there...haunting me...

She recalled an evening after he’d left when she’d wanted to drown out the lingering memory of his laughter with live music and coffee at Cafe Colombo. She’d dressed up and gone with Adriana for a girls’ night, only to find herself drowning in the past as a lone singer strummed his guitar and lamented lost love in his cover of Yesterday.

Part 2 Roots in a Jar

3

Freshman Year

No fireworks popped when Fern first met Paul Dumais in Composition 101. Aside from the roll call, neither truly registered the others’ presence. Each was a background character in the other’s story as they endured a semester of prerequisites. They sat on opposite sides of the double U shape of computer desks in the lab. During their first months as freshmen, they shared a few pleasantries at the printer or the doorway when he insisted she exit before him.

I like your shirt, he once said. Fern was wearing a black tank top featuring a witch hat accented with poisonous flowers.

Th-thank you, she stammered.

Paul sauntered down the hall before she could compose a response. Does he like witches? Does he realize the plants are henbane and monkshood? Grandma had insisted she learn to recognize some of the most toxic specimens for her safety, especially since they carried the latter in the ornamental section. Fern avoided touching the beautiful blooms and hadn’t the slightest idea how their properties translated into trance-inducing flying ointment, but she appreciated their witchy reputation all the same.

If cornered, Fern would concede the tall young man was attractive, even with his unruly mop of dirty-blond hair. Not edgy enough to scare most parents, he’d feature nicely on a pop-rock album with his band tees and gold hoop earrings. If he wore a bandana, Fern imagined him as a lithe pirate at a Renaissance festival.

Those brief exchanges might have ended until Adriana invited them to an end-of-the-year mixer with her new friend from Intro to Theater, Dean Pallon. Adriana couldn’t stop talking about the guy since they’d been paired up to rehearse a dramatic monologue.

Admit it. You’re smitten, Fern said after her friend returned from coffee with Dean one day. 

‘Smitten?’ Who says that anymore? And no, I’m not! He’s just a fun guy, and so’s his friend. You gotta come and meet him! Before Fern could protest, her roommate left with her shower caddy.

Fern continued reading about growing herbs for health benefits. She’d started a small trio of containers on her windowsill—mint, lemon balm, and basil. The puffed-up peat pellets looked like pin cushions with all the tiny seedlings poking out of them. Dorm life limited her greatest passion, but the simple act of tending her miniature window garden was akin to nurturing her soul.

Ad’s insistence that Dean and his friend were ‘fun guys’ rattled against the words in Fern’s reading and prevented them from sticking. She’d seen several high school friends burned by playful boys. Fickle as they could be, plants were more straightforward, but Grandma once advised Fern to find a man like Grandpa who could make her laugh during the bleakest weather.

As the sun lowered behind the hospital and nursing home across from campus, Fern put her skepticism aside and trusted her friend’s judgment. Since this promised to be a casual hangout, Fern remained in her green blouse and blue jeans. She smoothed her ponytail and reapplied lip gloss and mascara, then found herself in a common area on another floor with too much junk food, board games, and surprisingly agreeable people, including Paul, who, it turns out, was Dean’s pal and roommate.

A magnet pulled their respective best friends toward one another, and Fern was left to repeatedly break the ice with all the liberal arts majors. No matter how often she slithered to the edges, someone approached her. Dr. Pepper in hand, Fern enjoyed a pause from another round of Taboo and slumped onto a worn-out couch. The respite didn’t last long as Paul joined her with his bottle of Saranac root beer. 

You look familiar, he said after a moment of them silently observing their friends flirt. Weren’t we in a class together? His mouth wriggled up into a fragile half-smile.

Yeah, writing comp with Mrs. Bleaker.

Oh, right! Your papers always jammed the printer. You were researching...trees?

Good memory. Fern studied him. His tawny hair was shaggy but more adorable than unkempt. Eyes as brown as acorn caps peered back at her between the fringe. Along with his slender arms and legs, she couldn’t help but imagine him as a woodland sprite. My crappy essay must have reminded the paper of its origin, woke the inner tree ghost, and caused it to rebel.

What a ridiculous thing to say! She eyed the hallway and mentally raced toward the elevator.

He chuckled, and a corner of his mouth pinched high into a dimple. You’ve got quite the imagination.

I dunno. I’m just interested in plants and believe— She sucked in her lips. With their tabletop entertainment, the chill gang of geeks relaxed her to the point where she nearly said more than normal to fresh acquaintances. She’d seen how Paul and Dean laughed together and didn’t want to give them another reason. Uh, I believe you’re right. Big imagination.

Paul’s features scrunched with scrutiny. Whatever his response might have been, Adriana and Dean’s raucous giggling distracted them from the topic.

Oh my gosh, that would have been so bad! Fern’s sable-haired friend cackled.

Dean snorted into his soda, and the bubbly beverage fizzed into his nose, causing him to hack simultaneously. A blush dusted his tan skin, and