Mr. Cole and Mrs. Vega lived on opposite sides of a low fence. Every spring they planted tomatoes. Every summer they insisted there was no competition. Every September they entered the village show and asked who had won before asking about the weather.
This year Mr. Cole grew a variety called Golden Crown. Mrs. Vega planted Ruby Giant. He said his were sweeter. She said hers had more flavor. He measured sunlight with a little meter. She moved her pots whenever she saw him measuring.
In June, Mr. Cole took a holiday and asked Mrs. Vega to water his plants. She did. When she went away in July, he returned the favor. They left notes on the gate about fertilizer, pruning, and which hose had the troublesome fitting.
By August, the plants had climbed over the fence. Leaves tangled, stems crossed, and both gardeners argued about which side a particularly large cluster belonged to.
“The roots are in my soil,” Mr. Cole said.
“The fruit is over my path,” Mrs. Vega replied.
They tied colored ribbons around their stems. Yellow for his, red for hers. One rainy night the ribbons came loose. The next morning they tried to reattach them from memory, but the plants had become a green knot.
On show day they each chose three beautiful tomatoes. Mr. Cole’s were red. Mrs. Vega’s were gold. This caused an awkward silence at the exhibition table.
Their children, who had grown up watching this annual contest, arrived together. Mr. Cole’s daughter photographed the entries and asked why the colors were reversed. Both gardeners blamed the light. Mrs. Vega’s son moved the plates to a brighter window. The colors did not change. He offered to check the seed packets at home. Both parents said that would be unnecessary with suspicious speed.
“Your Golden Crown has changed color,” she said.
“Your Ruby Giant has too.”
They could have withdrawn. Instead they decided the judge wouldn’t know the difference. Mr. Cole placed his red tomatoes under the Golden Crown label. Mrs. Vega entered her gold ones as Ruby Giant. Then they stood at opposite ends of the hall, pretending not to watch.
The judge examined the entries. He tasted a slice from each plate, asked about watering, and announced a joint first prize. Both neighbors cheered, then stopped. They had spent months waiting for one clear winner. A tie was unsatisfactory enough; winning with what might be the other person’s crop was worse.
After the ceremony they went home to trace the stems. They crawled beneath the leaves, followed each branch to its root, and discovered that Mr. Cole’s red entries had grown on Mrs. Vega’s side. Her gold entries had grown on his. The ribbons had merely made the confusion official.
Mr. Cole held his certificate up to the light. “So I won with your tomatoes.”
“And I won with yours,” she said.
“We ought to tell the judge.”
They returned to the hall. The judge listened, looked at their certificates, and asked whether they had both watered the plants over the summer. They said yes. Had they both helped when the other was away? Again, yes.
“Then the labels are wrong,” he said, “but the prize is accurate.”
Mrs. Vega smiled. Mr. Cole considered this carefully.
“Next year,” he said, “I’m planting potatoes.”
“On which side of the fence?” she asked.
“Whichever side you’re watering when I go on holiday.”