Chapter 9 : The Gilbert Garden
Jenna stepped back to let me in. The Gilbert house was quieter than I expected—no music, no TV, just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards.
"Elena!" Jenna called up the stairs. "Matt's here!"
A pause, then footsteps. Elena appeared on the landing, looking surprised. She was wearing jeans and an oversized sweater despite the heat, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Dark circles under her eyes. She looked like someone who hadn't slept properly in weeks.
"Matt?" She came down the stairs, something like relief flickering across her face. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on you." The truth, or close enough. "We haven't really talked since..."
Since your parents died. Since I broke up with you because you were drowning and I couldn't save you. Since the show started and your life became a tragedy.
"Since everything," I finished.
Elena's expression softened. "That's... really sweet. Come on, let's go to the living room."
Jenna hovered in the hallway. "I'll make some lemonade," she said, clearly grateful for something to do. She disappeared toward the kitchen.
The living room was unchanged from Matt's memories—same couch, same photos on the mantle, same faint smell of Miranda Gilbert's favorite candles. Elena settled into an armchair and pulled her knees up to her chest.
"Sorry about the mess. Aunt Jenna's been trying, but..." She trailed off, gestured vaguely at the cluttered coffee table.
"It looks fine." I sat on the couch across from her. "How are you doing? For real."
The question landed differently than I'd expected. Elena's carefully constructed mask—the polite smile, the 'I'm fine' posture—wavered.
"Honestly? Terrible." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Everyone keeps asking if I'm okay, and I keep saying yes, and they keep believing me because that's easier for everyone. But I'm not. I'm really, really not."
I let the silence hold. Didn't rush to fill it with platitudes.
"I miss them so much," Elena continued, her voice cracking. "Every morning I wake up and for about three seconds I forget they're gone. And then I remember, and it's like losing them all over again. Every single day."
I know that feeling. My parents hadn't died, but they'd checked out long before Kelly Donovan physically left. Grief for the living was its own kind of torture.
"That sounds exhausting," I said.
Elena looked at me. Something in her expression shifted—surprise, maybe, that I wasn't offering comfort or solutions.
"It is. Everyone wants me to feel better, so I pretend I do. Caroline brings over ice cream and talks about boys. Bonnie lights candles and suggests meditation. Tyler just avoids me entirely." She smiled, bitter. "You're the first person who hasn't tried to fix me."
"Can't fix grief. You just... survive it."
Jenna appeared with the lemonade—from concentrate, too sweet, the way I remembered from childhood visits. I drank two glasses anyway, watching Elena slowly relax into the conversation.
We talked about small things. School ending, summer plans that didn't exist, the weirdness of growing up in a small town where everyone knew your tragedy. Elena mentioned that Jeremy was pulling away, that Jenna was trying too hard, that the house felt empty even when it wasn't.
I listened. Nodded. Asked questions that invited more talking rather than closing doors.
After an hour, Elena was almost smiling.
"I forgot how easy you are to talk to," she said. "I'm sorry we... I mean, I'm glad we're still friends."
"Me too."
She stretched, uncurling from her protective posture. "Did you really come just to check on me?"
Here's the opening.
"Mostly. But I also remembered something." I leaned back, keeping my tone casual. "Remember when we used to help your mom in the garden? She had all those herbs she used for cooking."
Elena's face flickered with something like pain, but also warmth. "Yeah. Mom's garden. I haven't touched it since..."
"Would you show me? I'm doing a summer project on local plants, and I thought maybe there'd be something useful out there."
She hesitated for only a moment. "Sure. It's kind of a mess, though."
The backyard was worse than the front. The garden had grown wild—tomato cages toppled under the weight of unpruned vines, herb beds choked with weeds, flower borders spilling over their boundaries. Miranda Gilbert had been a dedicated gardener, and two months of neglect had undone years of work.
Elena walked the overgrown paths with me, pointing out what she remembered. "Mom grew basil here, and thyme over there. That's the mint—you can smell it even now."
The mint had taken over half a bed, aggressive and fragrant. I inhaled the sharp green scent while scanning for what I actually needed.
There—corner of the yard, near the old wooden fence.
Purple flowers on tall spikes, leaves like serrated hearts, the unmistakable growth pattern of vervain. It had grown wild, spreading beyond its original border into the neighboring bed.
"What's that one?" I asked, nodding toward it.
Elena squinted. "I have no idea. Mom never told me about everything back here."
"Mind if I take some? For my project."
She laughed—a real laugh, lighter than anything I'd heard from her today. "Matt, you can take whatever you want. Honestly, you'd be doing me a favor. Someone should use it."
I found a plastic bag in the garden shed and started cutting. Stems, leaves, some of the flowers. Enough vervain to protect myself and start building a supply for others.
Elena watched me work, sitting on the back porch steps.
"This is nice," she said. "Having someone just... be here. Not trying to make me feel better or analyze my feelings. Just existing."
I looked up from the vervain. "You deserve that. Someone who just shows up."
Her smile was soft, sad, grateful. "Thanks, Matt."
The bag was full. I tied it closed and joined her on the porch steps. The afternoon light was golden, filtering through the trees that bordered the Gilbert property.
"I should probably go," I said. "But if you ever want company that doesn't require emotional labor, text me."
"I will." Elena stood, brushed off her jeans. "And Matt? Thanks for coming. I know things are weird between us, but... I'm glad you're still around."
I almost told her the truth. Almost said I'm trying to save everyone I can, and you're at the top of the list, and I'm sorry for everything that's coming.
Instead, I just nodded.
Jenna walked me to the door, thanking me for visiting, promising to tell Elena's friends that she was doing better. The concern in her voice was genuine. She was trying so hard to be what Elena and Jeremy needed.
Three months until a vampire starts stalking your niece.
I kept my expression neutral and said goodbye.
The truck was hot from sitting in the sun. I tossed the bag of vervain on the passenger seat and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel.
First real defense acquired.
Now came the harder part: turning leaves and flowers into something usable. The research had mentioned that vervain worked in many forms—dried, fresh, distilled into oil, brewed into tea. Consuming it protected against compulsion. Wearing it prevented physical contact.
I needed to prepare it properly, test it, and start distributing it to the people I wanted to protect.
Caroline first. She was Damon's target in canon—the first person he controlled, abused, nearly killed. A vervain bracelet or necklace, given as a friendly gift, would save her from that fate.
Then Vicki. Then Tyler. Then anyone else I could reach.
The truck started on the first try. Small victory.
I drove home with the windows down, vervain scent mixing with the summer air. The preparation work would take days, maybe weeks. Drying, grinding, experimenting with delivery methods.
But I had time. Ninety-three days until Stefan arrived. Ninety-three days to turn an overgrown herb into a defensive network.
The Donovan trailer appeared around the corner. Vicki's car was gone—probably out with friends, hopefully not with Jeremy—and the porch light was off.
I parked, grabbed the vervain, and headed inside.
The kitchen table would work for sorting. I spread newspaper across the surface, emptied the bag, and started separating stems from leaves. The purple flowers went in a separate pile—they'd dry fastest, become sachets or potpourri, the kind of thing you could slip into a jacket pocket or weave into jewelry.
The work was meditative. Rhythmic. My hands moved without conscious direction while my mind wandered through plans and contingencies.
Vervain tea for personal consumption. Dried leaves sewn into clothing hems. Concentrated oil for coating weapons. A small amount added to the water supply at the Grill—ambitious, but possible if I was careful.
By the time Vicki came home at sunset, I'd sorted everything into neat piles and hidden the evidence in my room.
"What's that smell?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Herbs. Working on a project."
She rolled her eyes and disappeared into her room. Music started a moment later—something softer than usual, less angry.
Progress. Maybe.
I looked at the vervain drying on my desk, the neat rows of future protection, and let myself feel something like hope.
Ninety-three days.
I'd make them count.
put master tacker in an md file
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