Excerpt from The Garden of Small Beginnings by Abbi Waxman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Excellent. The class starts this Saturday. You can bring your kids."

I said thanks, and she said thanks, and we both shook hands and said thanks again, and then she added something.

"We're very worried about the future of Poplar. But I know you'll make a good impression, do wonderful work, and save the company."

"No pressure, then." I tried to soften my sarcasm with a small smile.

Her first genuine smile since I'd entered her office appeared. "I know you're up to the task."

I tottered out and headed back downstairs.

I went to the tiny kitchen and poured an enormous coffee. My mug said, world's greatest dad, which I supposed was applicable, although I picked it because it was the size of a bucket. Rose had put a sign above the coffeemaker: if you take the last of the coffee, put on a new pot. or i will make your life . . . challenging. She meant it, too. Sasha forgot once, and Rose connected all her outward-bound calls to the CEO's office, which meant five times in a row the guy picked up the phone and there was Sasha. Eventually the CEO suggested she not forget to put on more coffee next time.

Back at my desk, I called my sister.

"Can you babysit the kids every Saturday morning for the next six weeks?"

There was a pause. Then she said, "Yes, if you don't mind dropping them at my house and running the risk that naked people might be there. Or trained animals."

I laughed. "Come on, your private life isn't that exciting."

"That's what you think. Note the use of the word private."

"So that's a no, then?"

"Do I have to commit to the full series? Can't I do it as needed?"

"This is as needed. Work has asked me to do a gardening class, and it's every Saturday for the next month and a half. I'm illustrating a book on vegetables, and they think it will help if I learn how to grow them."

"They might be right."

"I doubt it. I did a great job on Monasteries of 14th Century Europe, and I'm not a monk, nor French, nor dead for five hundred years."

"Good point. Can't you take them with you?"

"I could, but I thought they'd rather hang with you."

"How about I come to the class, too, and help you with the kids there?"

I actually took the phone away from my ear and looked at it.

"Are you OK? Gardening? Really?"

She sighed. "I'm feeling oppressed by my job today. I have spent the last two hours on the phone, yelling at people I will never meet, but who hold the fate of my company in their slippery hands. A very important item has been lost in transit, which I am having a hard time with."

"Wow, you really are pissed. You just ended a sentence with a preposition."

"Eat me."

"What was it?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. A priceless, thousand-year-old statue of a horse."

"Well, maybe it's just in the wrong box or something."

"It's life-size. And on its back is a naked woman holding aloft the headless body of an eagle. But apart from those minor distinguishing features, it's easily missed."

"OK." I paused. "I have no response to that at all. Good luck with your missing horse." We hung up. Honestly, our conversations were getting more and more like an old married couple every day. Apart from the headless-eagle part, although I always say you never really know what goes on in someone else's marriage.

"We're what?" Annabel looked skeptical in the rearview mirror.

Yet again, back in the car. I should buy myself one of those beaded seat covers that are supposed to be good for your back, but I'd end up with the pattern permanently embedded in my ass, and the last thing I need back there is more texture.

We were heading home after school. Or at least we would be, once the carpool line inched its way out of the school parking lot. The thing about carpool lines is that teachers use them to indicate how much they like your kids, and, by extension, you. I might be reading too much into it, but how else can I explain the fact that I might be at the front of the line and able to see my kid sitting there, picking her nose with all the subtlety of Howard Carter in a pyramid, and have teachers hunt high and low for children to take to cars way behind me? Cars containing parents who send in cookies more frequently, or even at all. Parents who remember to send thank-you cards after birthday parties, or put clean clothes on their kids more than once a week. They're always nice to my face, these teachers, but they say things like, "Oh, Annabel is so unique." Or, "Clare said the funniest thing again in class today." Or, "She has an amazing vocabulary, Mrs. Girvan. Honestly, I'm not even certain a tiger has a clitoris."

Excerpted from The Garden of Small Beginnings by Abbi Waxman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.