The olive-green crop top was practical for the warm weather, while the oversized camouflage cargo shorts had large pockets for small tools. Her tan suede boots were sturdy enough for working around the uneven flowerbed, and the little black handbag carried her phone, wallet, house keys, and work identification.
Her short platinum-white hair had become her signature style.
She'd first cut it several years earlier after growing tired of spending too much time styling longer hair before work.
The platinum color began as an experiment.
Her mother loved it immediately.
"Now you look like somebody who knows exactly what she wants," Lorraine said.
"Is that good?"
Her mother smiled.
That morning, Talia caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and remembered the conversation.
Then she walked outside with a pair of gardening shears.
The air smelled of freshly cut grass.
A few birds moved through the trees.
And the red roses shone against the white picket fence.
For the first time since her mother's funeral, Talia felt ready to spend an entire morning tending the garden.
She knelt beside the first rosebush.
Then began trimming damaged stems.
At eight-fifteen, her neighbor Margaret Ellis appeared near the fence.
Margaret was seventy-four, with neatly styled gray hair, a gentle smile, and an impressive ability to know what was happening throughout the neighborhood without ever seeming intrusive.
She and Lorraine had been friends for more than thirty years.
Their children grew up together.
They exchanged recipes.
And every Christmas, they argued affectionately about whose decorations looked better.
When Margaret saw Talia working beside the roses, she stopped.
"Oh, sweetheart."
Talia looked up.
"Morning, Miss Margaret."
The older woman approached the fence.
For several seconds, she simply studied Talia's face.
Then smiled sadly.
"You look so much like your mother."
Talia felt her throat tighten.
"Everybody keeps telling me that."
Margaret nodded toward the roses.
"She'd be happy to see you taking care of these."
Talia looked down.
A large red bloom rested in her gloved hand.
"I should've come back sooner."
Margaret shook her head.
"Grief doesn't follow anybody's schedule."
For a moment, Talia couldn't speak.
Then she smiled.
Margaret rested one hand on the fence.
They talked for several minutes about the house, the garden, and the neighborhood.
Then the older woman's expression became serious.
"Talia, have you heard about the city complaints?"
"What complaints?"
Margaret glanced toward the street.
For a moment, she seemed reluctant to continue.
Then she said quietly.
"People have been getting notices about their yards."
The first notice appeared at Margaret's house six months earlier.
It claimed that her front hedges obstructed a public safety corridor along the sidewalk.
The letter included a photograph of the property, a deadline for corrective action, and a warning that further enforcement could lead to municipal charges.
Margaret was confused.
The hedges had grown along the same fence line for more than twenty years.
They weren't blocking the sidewalk.
And she'd never received a complaint before.
She contacted the city code office.
A clerk told her the notice came through a neighborhood safety initiative and advised her to contact a private maintenance contractor listed on the form.
Margaret called.
The contractor offered to remove the hedges for a substantial fee.
When she questioned the cost, the representative explained that the work involved special municipal compliance requirements.