Returning home that evening, Sam took one more look at the roses: The bark was becoming darker on two or three of them, and new branches sprouted up through the middle. The sight filled her with dread. If her hours of research had taught her anything, it was that roses needed air circulation through the middle of the plant, and new growths in the center had to be removed. She wasn't looking forward to the bloodbath this would initiate.

As she stood, arms crossed, staring down the obstinate shrubs, she was struck with inspiration. She had gloves, she'd just never thought to use them…

Sam darted up to her bedroom and rummaged under her bed, looking for the small, brown shoebox she'd stored there shortly after her stint with the Hastings Constabulary had come to an end. It didn't take long to find it. She was rewarded with a strong whiff of aged leather as she removed her standard-issue MTC mechanic's gauntlets from their premature hiding place.

They did the trick. She hated to put the soft leather through the ringer like this, but these gloves were perfect for the job, and for the first time, Sam was able to work diligently without fear of injury.

Somehow, over time, the little garden started to establish itself. It was not quite flourishing, but by the following spring, Sam's heart swelled as she was reworded with new blooms, and evidence that nearly everything had carried through the following year.

Suddenly, tomatoes were ripening, and the rosemary began pungent. By summer, Sam's garden had finally matured into something beautiful. Though she was hardly a professional, her messy work had come together in a surprising fashion, and she couldn't wait to show Mr. Foyle. After collecting a few small tomatoes and sprigs of rosemary one day in late August, Sam decided to invite him to dinner. He agreed, smiling appreciatively and saying he would bring a fresh catch from the river.

As the day drew nearer, Sam put even more work into making her small plot more presentable. She had started composting the previous autumn, using kitchen scraps, egg shells, newspapers, and fallen leaves to create healthy soil for the flower beds. It seemed to be working rather well, for the roses started blooming in abundance this season, and the primrose was showier than ever.

Finally, the day arrived. As she bid Mr. Foyle an early goodbye to start preparing dinner, he handed her the bounty from his fishing trip that morning.

'Let me know if you need anything else,' he said. 'And I'll be bringing something special later.'

She hoped, rather than believed, it would be something sweet.

By 5:00, Sam had diced the small tomatoes, mulled the rosemary together with a few other spices from the rack, scaled and prepped the fish, and collected a small arrangement of purple thrift for the table.

She was adding the spices to a somewhat indulgent measure of rationed butter, when there was a knock on the door.

Mr. Foyle had brought something for her, though she was slightly disappointed that it was not dessert. It was a 2-foot-tall bush… of some sort, with the roots bound in hessian. Sam could not identify what type of plant it was, but noticed the leaves still held their vibrant green hue.

'Wasn't sure if you could use this or not,' he said cheerfully as she welcomed him in. 'It's a lilac – well, it was, at some point. My, eh, my wife planted it before Andrew was born, but it hasn't done much blooming in a while. I thought perhaps you might have better luck at it.'

He followed her through to the kitchen, and leaned the plant beside the back door.

'Thank you, sir! I've never had lilac. I'm sure it will be lovely.' Hopefully it won't die at my unskilled hand, she thought with a hint of dread.

Sam set about adding the spiced butter and a dash of salt to the thawed fish, and Foyle layed out the crockery.

'Those are nice. Yours?' He asked, noticing the thrift blooms on the table.

'Yes!' she beamed. 'Those probably came form a hedgerow somewhere, but they seemed to transplant quite well.'

She cracked a little pepper over the fish, then bunged it into the oven with an undeniable sense of achievement.

When the plates were set out, Sam took a bottle of sherry out of the cupboard –Uncle Aubrey had given her a bottle when she'd visited last year.

'Oh, thank you, Sam! Should have thought to bring a bottle,' Foyle said.

'No, don't worry, sir, I don't mind. Actually, why don't we take this out to the garden?' she suggested. He gave a small smile and nodded.

There was a small wooden table and two chairs by the back door, and the warm evening made this spot perfect for relaxing before dinner. Foyle took the bottle and glasses and set them on the table, and insisted Sam let him carry the lilac out to a suitably airy spot beside the flowerbed.

The garden was still quite small, and the rapidly expanding rose bushes made the flowerbeds look even smaller. Sam had begun to propagate the tomatoes already, drying out seeds and planting them in small pots, which now littered the border of the bed like decorative gnomes.

'Where would you like it?' he asked.

Sam pointed to a vacant spot a few feet to the right of the tomatoes.

'Would that be far enough away, do you think?'

He nodded, setting it down.

'You can cut it back if it becomes too unruly,' he added, dusting off his waistcoat.

It was then that Sam caught sight of a new fresh yellow bloom atop one of the rose bushes. Unable to help herself, Sam went into the potting shed and collected her gloves and tools.

'Have you ever worked with roses?' she asked him as she buttoned her gloves in place.

'Nnno, I can't say I've much of a green thumb," Foyle said with an eye-crinkling smile.

'I never understood that term,' said Sam, taking her old fabric scissors to a dried stalk. 'I've never seen anyone's thumbs go green from gardening.'

Sam continued to chatter as she examined the shrub for further signs of decay. Catching sight of her MTC gloves, Foyle couldn't help but smile as he his hands withdrew into his trouser pockets.

She must miss it, he thought, his eyes lowering absentmindedly to the nearby primrose.

'Sam, why don't I help you plant the lilac?' Foyle asked suddenly, taking her by surprise.

'Are you sure, sir? That would be jolly good of you, only you mustn't make your clothes dirty.'

Foyle shrugged and removed his jacket.

'Easily taken care of. Now, where can I find a shovel?'

While he dug the hole, Sam got to work removing the hessian wrap from around the base of the lilac bush. After collecting a pot of compost from the bin, and draining the last inch from her rainwater collection bin into a watering can, Sam rejoined Foyle and began to position the shrub and fill the hole.

When the planting was done and Sam had added the water and compost, they took a moment to admire their work.

'That should do well, I think,' said said Sam, smiling at Foyle. He smiled back, remembering a time when Roselyn had said the same thing, dirt in her hair, in front of this lilac bush.