Chapter 11 - Quiet Bids
The garden felt strangely calm the morning after Rebecca’s auction post went live.
No cheering.
No ringing bells.
Just birds in the trees, shade drifting across the patio, and the quiet glow of Rebecca’s phone screen.
She checked it again.
And again.
And again.
Sam leaned against the porch railing, slowly sipping his coffee like it was part of a morning ritual.
“You know,” he said casually, “refreshing it every thirty seconds won’t make people bid faster.”
Rebecca didn’t look up. “I’m not refreshing every thirty seconds.”
Sam tilted his mug toward Dave. “What’s the count?”
Dave sat at the patio table with Rebecca’s laptop open in front of him. He tapped the refresh button again. “Thirty-four,” he said.
Rebecca turned sharply. “Dave!”
“What?” he shrugged. “I’m helping.”
Sam laughed. “You told her yesterday you don’t even use Facebook.”
Dave squinted at the screen. “I said I don’t have Facebook. Didn’t say I can’t read comments.”
Rebecca crossed her arms but couldn’t hide the smile forming.
A soft sound came from the sidewalk out front. Linda was walking the neighborhood like she often did in the mornings, hands tucked into the pockets of a light jacket. When she spotted the three of them gathered in the shade garden, she lifted one hand and gave them a friendly wave.
Rebecca waved back.
Linda kept walking, smiling as she continued down the street toward the next block, disappearing slowly past the hedges.
“Neighborhood inspection complete,” Sam said, sipping his coffee.
Dave refreshed the auction page again. A new comment appeared. Rebecca leaned forward. “Another bid,” Dave said.
Not a big jump — just a small step higher than the last one — but enough to make Rebecca’s shoulders relax.
“See?” Sam said. “Told you people were watching.”
Dave nodded slowly. “Auctions are quiet early. Folks wait. They watch. Then they move.”
Rebecca glanced toward the potting bench.
The seedling sat beside Dave’s old Hosta — Old Faithful — both plants sharing the same patch of gentle shade.
The little seedling still carried the tiny holes left from the hailstorm, but something had changed. Right in the center a thin new leaf spear had pushed upward. Rebecca crouched beside the pot. “Well look at that,” she whispered.
Sam leaned over with his coffee mug. “Is that new?”
Dave didn’t look away from the laptop. “Told you. Plants with scars fight harder.”
Rebecca smiled softly.
Behind her, Dave refreshed the page again.
Another comment appeared. The auction was moving.
Slow.
Quiet.
Steady.
Just like the garden itself.
