The dahlias my grandmother grew on the farm she left to me—that theoretically I now grow—are the model for my free-form design today. I’m sitting at the table, intently and delicately layering dusky bluish pink into the throats of petals, so deeply focused that when the knock shatters my concentration, I literally jump.
Lifting my head in confusion, I peer toward the door, trying to come back from the place on the other side, wherever it is that my mind goes when I get into the flow. Music is playing softly from the speakers, Enya and Loreena McKennitt. Sunlight pokes through clouds in a couple of places.
The knock sounds again. Is it Suze? Maybe. If she comes to me, it will be easier somehow. I wipe my brush. “Come in.”
The person who swings around the door is not Suze. It’s Ben, the farm manager. He leans in, dark hair and a black beard streaked with white. “Is this a bad time?”
His face is always welcome. “Not at all.”
He steps in and closes the door behind him. He’s a solid man. Broad shoulders, strong thighs, a little belly beneath his shearling jacket. Big and sturdy.
I hired Ben last spring to manage the farm that my grandmother inherited from her father and ran brilliantly for decades. It’s four acres of blossoms starting with daffodils in the spring, then lilies and dahlias in the summer. A manager had taken care of it for a long time, and when he died, I had to replace him ASAP. Ben applied. I’d known him distantly as a teen—he grew up here but spent his life in Africa and other far-flung locations helping build field systems for farmers in poverty-stricken places. He came back a year ago, after his wife died a couple of years before. Like me, he had inherited property in the area, in his case an alpaca farm he sold to a local family, keeping only the house and a few acres for himself.
He walks to the windows and runs a finger along a seam. “Any leaks?”
“No. It’s at least twenty degrees warmer in here.” One of his projects—there are many—was to install better windows in the studio before the rains come. “I can’t imagine you ever do anything that isn’t perfect.”
He’s still testing the seal with a thumb, tapping in a couple of places. “I’ve had my share of messes.”
“Yeah?” I swirl my brush in mineral spirits, rub it again, distantly wondering if I should dive back in when he leaves or pause and get some lunch. In response, my ignored stomach growls. “What time is it?”
“Just after two.”
“Ah. That explains my growling stomach.” I toss the brush down on the battered wooden table, scarred and stained a multitude of colors. “What’s up?”
He turns, and my artist self notices the way light falls on his face. Pale swaths gloss his straight nose, edge his lower lip, fuller than the top. His eyes are always a little twinkly, as if he’s going to tell you a secret that will make you laugh. I have the feeling that he’s mulling something over, and then he shakes his head. “Just checking on the windows. The rainy season is on us.”
I nod, wipe the rest of my brushes clean, and toss them into a bucket. “You hungry? I’m going to make a BLT for lunch.” We’ve become good friends over the past few months, unified by the weirdness of coming back after such a long time, and age and proximity.
“I could eat. Do you have any of those homemade pickles?”
“I do.” Smiling, I scrub my hands at the sink, but even after a second round, orange stains my cuticles from the poppies I’ve been painting. “And the oolong tea you like.”
“Excellent.” His attention is captured by something outside. “Is that Suze? Is she back?”
I cross the room to stand beside him. She’s on the beach, standing there with her hands in her pockets, her trademark hair flying in the breeze. Worry and hope mingle in my body. A lot of things in her life have tried to break her, but this last one seems to almost have succeeded. I don’t know what’s happening between us, but seeing her sparks something in my chest. Hurt, resentment. Longing. “She is.”
“She’s had a pretty hard time.”
“Yes.” A flash of the news video about her beating rips through my gut. “It will help to be home. She’s safe here.”
“Doesn’t the press follow her?”
I shrug. “They used to. Not so much anymore.”
“Really?” He’s frowning, watching her, his hands in his pockets, and I feel a tiny ripple of disappointment. Like everybody else, he’s dazzled by her fame, even though we both knew her before. “Because . . . ?”