Finally. The first warm day of spring. And, it was a Saturday. I was eager to work the garden Manisha and I had planted and tended together. My work would be a labour of love, preparing the flower beds for planting. The smells of the rich earth, the feel of the dirt in my hands, the warmth of the sun on my back, were healing and reinvigorating.

Manisha was thirty-one and I was twenty-three when we married. My friends thought I was crazy for marrying an older woman. Manisha's eleven-year-old daughter, Rohini, was additional evidence of my insanity as far as my friends could see. But I could see much farther. I saw in Manisha what I hoped for in a wife.

I lost Manisha to a drunk driver. I retreated to our garden to maintain my sanity. The beauty, the order, of the plants were stabilizing. The new growth gave me hope my life could again be filled with beauty.

As I lugged the tools from my storeroom, I thought of Manisha. As I carried the sacks of mulch from the car, my eyes teared. Manisha would have been appalled by those tears. She was probably sitting on the white cloud hovering over me, watching as I leaned on the handle of my spade in disconsolation. I could see her head gently shaking back and forth in a silent 'tsk tsk'.

"Rajesh," she would say, a hand lifting my chin to make me look at her. "Life goes on. You need to live each day to the fullest, to relish its beauty and uniqueness. No pity parties. No gloomy Guses. Come on, Rajesh. Get on with your living."

Yes, Manisha would say that. She faced more than one loss with grace and serenity I envied. Manisha would be right. It had been seventeen months since she died. It was time to stop grieving and get on with living.

Saying it is a lot easier than doing it. I had told myself a hundred times to start anew, but my own advice fell on sterile soil. Maybe it was the passage of time. Or, maybe it was the spring season when life is renewed. I knew now was the time to start. I shoved the spade into the heavy soil, driving the blade deep with my foot. I turned the first shovel full. I began.

By two thirty, the sun was high overhead. The temperature had soared. My muscles moved easily in the hot sun beating down. Sweat poured from me, its residue prickling my skin. By evening, those muscles would be sore. In spite of jogging and gym time, some muscles always ached from the hard toil of spring.

Dirt streaked my sweat covered body. Dressed only in shorts and sneakers, I was on my hands and knees. The earth felt good. I was lost in the reverie of the gardener, communing with nature a handful of soil at a time.

A shadow passed over me. Ten pink toes sticking from the thongs of sandals came into view. I fought to still a quiver as I sat back on my haunches, hands on my thighs. My eyes slowly travelled over the shapely calves to long, muscular thighs. Perhaps for too long, my eyes hesitated where thighs widened into hips covered by brown shorts. Continuing past the narrow waist, I lingered on the swelling under her bright green halter. I finished my visual journey staring into twinkling, big, brown eyes over a grin bordered by dimples.

"Hello, Rajesh uncle."

"Hi, Nayantara. Join me. Please."

Gracefully, she knelt and leaned forward to be kissed. She always did that, offering a cheek to me in greeting. The angle was askew: our lips touched. We each looked away, but not before our eyes had met for an instant.

"It's good to see you," she said, a small catch in her voice.

"I've missed you," escaped from me. I looked away quickly. "Rohini's not here. She went to the mall."

"I knew she'd be gone. She told me you were starting on your garden. I came to help."

"All the way from college to spend break working like a Bihari? It doesn't sound very appealing."

What did she not say? What was the look she gave me? That look evaporated like my sweat on this hot day, leaving a residue which prickled my imagination. She was grinning when she answered.

"Hey! Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm a good worker."

"Well, put on some work gloves and let's get after it," I replied, my own smile matching hers.

Nayantara was my step-daughter's best friend and college roommate. She was fifteen six years ago when she arrived at our house for a party. Even that first time, I noticed her. Those big, brown, eyes and warm, quick, smile drew my attention. Nayantara had an easy way about her, as though being happy and positive was so embedded in the core of her personality, no other emotion was possible.

As the girls grew, Nayantara was a frequent visitor to our home, spending almost as much time there as Rohini. Manisha welcomed Nayantara with open arms. I, too, developed a caring relationship with Nayantara. I told myself we were like father and daughter. I resisted the thought of a different relationship, which sometimes required conscious effort.

As we worked and talked, my mind's eye suffered from double vision. Nayantara and the present overlaid memories of the past which flowed like a disjunctive home movie. A party Manisha and I chaperoned when the girls were seniors in high school. Trips to Juhu beach. Quiet evenings in winter by the fire, all of us bundled for warmth.

There were sad memories, too. Memories of life after Manisha. Without being asked, Nayantara moved into the house, occupying the guest bedroom. What needed to be done, she did with a quiet and loving competence. She listened and consoled. After living with us for four months, she left as unobtrusively as she came.

When she left, I was surprised how much I missed her. There had been nothing sexual between us, but our relationship had deepened. Since that time, I talked to her often. I must admit I sometimes called Rohini at school hoping Nayantara would answer. With each call, each visit when the girls came home, our relationship ripened.

I had been blinded by grief to the loving woman near me. The sunlight of that bright spring day pushed away the shadows letting me see clearly, maybe for the first time.

She was on her knees, legs spread for leverage. Her brown hair was piled on her head, secured by a blue and white bandana. She was valiantly pulling on the stump of a dead bush to extricate it from the soil. Holding it with both hands, she was wisely using her legs and shoulders to pull. I could see her muscles flexing under sweat-sheened skin. Her muscles stopped and she was looking at me.

"Are you going to watch me or help me?" she asked.

"What?"

I was shaken back into the present. Nayantara had a soft, gentle expression as she stared at me over her shoulder. Perhaps it would have been easier for her to turn her body. My view was certainly better with her turning the way she did.

"Well, Rajesh uncle?" she said.

A wise gardener would have used a shovel to cut the bush's roots below the surface, making the task much easier and quicker. A wise man would have knelt in the soil to be next to Nayantara. I knelt. Dirt covered her calves. Her thighs were streaked with the same brown colour. There was a smudge on her cheek where she wiped sweat away with her dirty glove.

A rivulet of sweat slid down her throat, caressing the mound of her breast before disappearing into the halter. Nayantara watched me watching her.

Kneeling now, facing her, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer feminine attractiveness of this woman. As I leaned toward her, she moved to meet me. I saw her lips part and her eyelids flutter. Our lips touched in a soft and gentle kiss so electrifying I twitched all over. When my eyes opened again, she was still leaning forward, her eyes closed, a sensual expression on her face. Her eyes opened dreamily.

"Maybe I should get the sharpshooter to cut the roots," I said.

"Maybe," she replied in a low, husky tone. "Or, maybe we can dig it out with our hands."

Working in the dirt around the dead and forlorn shrub, we used our hands to scoop away the soil, to pull out the roots. No speech was necessary. Four hands worked as one to slowly free the bush from its death trap. We sometimes touched, bumping into each other: a thigh against a thigh, a hip against a side, an arm touching a back.

I could smell her. She smelled of light perfume and natural womanly odour heightened by her sweat. Her sweat was sweet, unlike my own. It was fragrance spewed by a flower: alluring, appealing. I could hear her ragged breath when she struggled: a little grunt, sometimes a "humph," as she worked the soil. Heat radiated from her. Not just physical heat or reflection of the day's glorious sun, it was energy, a magnetic field drawing me to her.

"Okay. It's loose enough. Let's pull it out," I said.

Shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, we each took a handhold on the dead bush. Moving as one, we pulled, our muscles straining. The roots gave with a pop. Nayantara squealed as we fell back together. She landed on her back. I fell over her. I gazed into her face, seeing a twinkle and the tip of a pink tongue snake between her lips. I bent to kiss her. Her arms went around me, holding me to her.

We kissed, slowly, deeply, powerfully. Her breasts were against my chest. Her hands stroked my back. Again, I brought my lips toward hers.

"Am I interrupting anything?" Rohini's sharp voice rang out.

I jumped, landing a yard away, feeling like a child caught in the candy jar. Nayantara quickly sat up, trying to straighten her appearance. She hoped her blush would disappear before it was seen, but that was not to be.

Rohini laughed. It was not a girlish giggle. She guffawed. Nayantara twittered, covering her mouth with her dirty gloves, smearing her face with a brown hue. I had to laugh, too. We stood and began brushing the dirt from our bodies. It was a lost cause.

"Here. You need this for more than one reason," Rohini said.

"No, Rohini!" Nayantara screamed as the stream of water hit her full force.

Using her thumb to create a biting blast, Rohini relentlessly sprayed Nayantara who danced and twisted under the stinging water.