Gemotions

Barnaby nearly choked on his Earl Grey. Mrs. Gable, bless her heart, was standing at his back door, a hopeful expression plastered across her face. He swiveled in his chair, a grin threatening to split his face. The woman, who considered watering her petunias a Herculean task, wanted to *garden*?

He leaned back, steepled his fingers, and surveyed her with a playful look. "A garden, you say, Mrs. Gable?"

The image of her attempting to wrestle with a hoe tickled him. He could already picture the chaos: the wayward weeds, the bewildered expression on her face as she tried to tell the difference between a tomato plant and a particularly aggressive dandelion.

"Well, now," he said, drawing out the words, "That's a thought." He tapped a finger against his cheek, eyes sparkling with delight.