Jane cradled her coffee mug. The coffee was strong and steady—just like she hoped to be. She held it close, letting the warmth both anchor and buoy her, one sip at a time. At the moment, she felt like 80 percent nerves and 20 percent hope—but it was a start.

Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy twist, half-tucked and half-loose from sleep, a few strands curling at her temples in soft rebellion. The robe she wore was faded and familiar, the cotton patterned with tiny blue forget-me-nots. Jane had always loved its cheerful print, even when the sash insisted on unraveling at the worst moments. She didn’t mind. Comfort was the goal this morning, not poise.

The kitchen was a patchwork of soft yellows and timeworn charm—lace curtains, blue-and-white plates on the wall, and a kettle that whistled only when it felt like it. Above the table hung Grandma Peg’s beloved cross-stitched sampler: “Kindness, like good butter, should be spread thick.” Peg called it “cozy clutter.” Jane just called it home.

She stood at the kitchen window of Cucumber Cottage, bathed in the golden hush of a late March sunrise. Just beyond the glass, the garden shimmered with a light frost, the soft light casting long shadows across the beds that gave the cottage its name.

Grandma Peg was already outside, of course. Jane spotted her in the garden, wearing her usual spring morning ensemble: a gently broken-in straw sunhat perched atop a knitted scarf, her shoulders wrapped in a chunky cardigan that looked like it had been made from the yarn scraps of a dozen other projects. 

Wisps of mist clung to the stone borders, and the gravel path glittered with dew.

Even in March, the garden pulsed with quiet promise. Cold-weather lettuces, kale, and tender baby spinach rustled in the breeze. Pea shoots had begun their climb up wooden trellises. Tufts of chives and parsley peeked from the soil like sleepy-eyed friends.

Along the garden’s edge daffodils flared bright and cheerful, their golden faces turned boldly toward the morning sun—defiant little torches against the final sighs of winter. The plot was orderly but alive, with just enough wildness to feel real. Peg moved through it like a conductor leading a favorite symphony—graceful, focused, and completely at home.

Even from inside, Jane could hear the faint clatter of garden tools and the familiar tune of Peg’s humming. It was always something different. This morning, it was a cheerful, if slightly off-key, rendition of Cole Porter’s I Get a Kick Out of You. Peg insisted that singing made the vegetables grow better. Jane didn’t argue. Peg had been right about stranger things.

Her eyes drifted to the trellis by the garden shed—bare now, but soon to be tangled with vines. That’s where the cucumbers would grow tall again. Peg’s pickles were once legendary—state fair blue-ribbon winners for ten years straight. But around McIntosh, it wasn’t the ribbons folks remembered most.

It was 1987. The year of The Incident.