Ralph Willis, dressed in khaki pants and a flannel shirt, drove a spade in the ground beside his house. The afternoon was chill, but a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. The organist and choir director of St. Giles Episcopal Church had fulfilled his duties for the day, Sunday. His weekend was starting at last.

     On Myrtle Avenue, two blocks past the business district, the Victorian house was decorated with gables, brackets, and machine-made woodwork painted in bright colors. Ralph had restored the house to its original splendor. A turret rose above the trees. The view from its windows was such that he had installed a telescope. Laetitia Tharpe, the retired high school teacher who lived across the street, asked about it.

     “I don’t watch the stars,” he said. “I spy on little old ladies in their bedrooms.”

     Next to Ralph stood a cluster of potted shrubs, a wheelbarrow of mulch, and Gary Nash. A pleasant man in his twenties, Gary worked as a nurse at the regional hospital. Possessed of a fine tenor voice, he also sang in the choir at St. Giles. After hearing Gary sing at a benefit, Ralph had lured him away from the First Baptist Church choir. Gary’s debut at the St. Giles Christmas concert produced a musical sensation.

     Poaching talent was part of the game, Ralph thought, the way all is fair in love and war. Professional musicians were paid little enough in small-town Hapsburg. Choir members were volunteers, not paid at all. Whoever wanted to sing must be accepted, and musical quality was hard to sustain. Ralph needed a voice to make the job bearable. That the voice belonged to young gay man who seemed to welcome a romantic interest was frosting on the cupcake.

     The episode soured relations between the churches, relations which had never been cordial. Bobbie Sue Metzger, the organist of First Baptist, seethed with indignation. She complained to Reverend Jesse King about Gary’s defection. At an ecumenical breakfast, he in turn accosted Theodore Percy, the rector of St. Giles, and quoted the tenth commandment.

     “Thou shalt not covet.”

     Percy, unaware of his hidden meaning, thought they both wanted the last sticky bun.

     Beyond music, Ralph and Gary discovered that they shared an interest in antique hunting. And each claimed to be passionate about gardening. That morning, Ralph had invited Gary to help with some early spring planting. The young man showed up in gloves, work shoes, and a brand new pair of blue jeans.

     “You may get those pants dirty,” Ralph said.

     “That’s okay. Denim is made to be washed. These are as stiff as a board. I can barely walk.”

     “You managed to turn up the bottoms.”

     “It was hard. I broke a fingernail.”

     Ralph thrust the spade a few more times and made a small circular hole.

     “At least the ground isn’t too hard,” Gary said.

     “It’s topsoil, not that red clay that bakes like a brick in summer. Good dirt. Move the wheelbarrow closer.”

     Gary trundled the wheelbarrow a few feet. Ralph lifted a heap of shredded mulch on the spade and dumped it in the hole. He picked up one of the shrubs at the base of the stem, tapped it out of the plastic pot, and gently set it in the hole. With the spade, he dragged loose soil to fill the hole then stepped back.

     “Tamp the soil around the edge of the hole. Not too firm. We want the plant to breathe, but we also want it to stay upright.”

     “What kind of plant is it?” Gary bent down and tamped.

     “Hydrangea. Those plants with the oval leaves are rhododendron. I also bought some holly and juniper. Evergreens provide background to a garden, and they make it look less naked in winter. Hydrangea is an old-fashioned favorite for skirting a foundation. That looks good.”

     Gary stood and looked at his gloves, now dark with dirt.

     “Is hydrangea the snowball bush?”

     “Yes, when they’re white.”

     “Sometimes they’re pink or blue.”

     “I’m a little worried about that. Pink would be unfortunate, a veritable faux pas. Blue would go with the paint scheme of the house.”

     A man in his thirties approached with a small, fluffy dog on a leash.

     “Eric! O garden guru, I need your advice. Although maybe it’s too late. Eric Wolfram, meet Gary Nash, and vice versa.”

     Gary held up his grimy gloves and Eric held up the handle of the leash. A handshake was impossible.

     “My wife is the expert on horticulture,” Eric said. “But go ahead.”

     “How can you tell what color a hydrangea will be? These have no blossoms. At the nursery, they didn’t say if they are blue or pink.”

     “Ah, you’re in luck. I know the answer.”

     “And the answer is . . .”

     “There is no pink or blue hydrangea. It’s the same plant.”

     Eric smiled, as the other two men stared at him.

     “The color depends on the acidity of the soil. If the soil is acid, the blossom will be blue. If the soil is alkaline, it will be pink.”

     “The opposite of litmus paper,” Gary said. “To test for pH.”

     “That’s no help,” Ralph said.

     “It’s chemistry,” Gary said.

     “So, if you want blue,” Eric said, “add some pine mulch or aluminum sulfate to increase the acid. If you want pink, add wood ash or lime to increase the alkali.”

     “Pink is out of the question.” Ralph turned to Gary. “Be an angel and see if there’s some acid in the pantry. I mean, in the garden shed.”

     Gary returned with a bag of powder. He displayed the label.

     “Perfect!” Ralph said. “So I sprinkle this around the roots like stardust?”

     “Don’t overdo it,” Eric said. “You can add more during the growing season. It’s called soil amendment.”

     “How is that?” Ralph sprinkled.

     “Should be all right.” The dog moved in to sniff. “No, Muffin, you do not need to add your two cents.”

     “Thank you kindly, neighbor,” Ralph said.

     “Nice to meet you,” Eric said to Gary. With Muffin eagerly leading the way, they resumed their walk.

     “He seems okay,” Gary said.

     “As neighbors go,” Ralph said. “But don’t look to him for any fashion tips.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “The baseball cap is bad enough on a man his age, but the shorts!” Ralph shivered, as he leaned on the spade. “If you ever see me wearing plaid shorts, don’t call the fashion police, just shoot me. Put me out of my misery like a mad dog.”

     Gary laughed.

     “Seriously! The world would be a better place without madras. If you really want to see me foam at the mouth, trot out the paisley.”

     “Don’t worry, I’m not into plaid or paisley. Or pink.”

     “Good.” Ralph wiped his brow. “Let’s bury the rest of these babies in the cold, cold ground before it gets dark.” He moved a few feet along the foundation and thrust the spade. It made a dull ringing sound.

     “A stone?” Gary asked.

     “Strange things turn up around old houses,” Ralph said. His eyes bulged. “What if it turns out to be a coffin?”

Robert Boucheron is an architect and freelance writer in Charlottesville, Virginia. His short stories and essays on literature and architecture have appeared in the Advocate, Alabama Literary Review, Bellingham Review, Concrete Desert Review, Fiction International, Louisville Review, New Haven Review, and Saturday Evening Post. He is the editor of Rivanna Review, a print quarterly and cable TV program, website rivannareview.com.