Is that the one on Columbia Circle?I wrote back.
They have this glass flamingo goblet I’m really into, he said.
I typed quickly:Don’t steal it.
A pause. Then:Why not?
I sighed and put the phone down, rethinking my life in general, then picked it back up.Because I need you.
I didn’t know you cared, he replied.
Shut up, I typed.I need you to take me and my mom through to Poppy.
He sent a selfie next to the flamingo goblet. A flamingo formed the stem and supported a trumpet-shaped pink glass vessel on its head. Lit from behind with pure white light, it beamed in a kitschy, cheerful way.
Lovely, I wrote.
Me, or the goblet?
I debated the flattery before I went ahead and sent it:Both. Now can you please stop drooling over expensive breakables and meet us at Riverside Park?
So you’re actually introducing me to your mother?
I closed my eyes and took a breath, then reopened my eyes. Needs must, as Poppy would say.Behave, I texted.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later, when I was getting ready myself, that my phone dinged again, with his response:Where’s the fun in that?
We bundled up for the cold, including a little jacket for Jester, and headed out.
At Riverside Park, the fallen leaves had drifted to the sides of the pathways like windblown confetti after a parade. We followed the broad, paved pathway north to the 91st Street Garden.
You would think that the garden would have fallen into a restful sort of decay, fast asleep until spring—but in fact, it was so carefully managed that even deep into autumn, it was wide awake with green plants and colorful flowers.
“Oh, my goodness, elephant ears! Japanese beautyberry! And that’s billygoat weed right there,” she said, pointing to a fluffy, light purple flower. She rubbed her gloved hands together with delight. “Who takes care of this garden?”
“The Garden People.”
“Thegardenpeople?”
“No, really—that’s their official name. They’re volunteers. They each take care of a plot.” I leaned on the fence railing and searched for a plant I could identify. Mostly I just called themthat red one, orthat green one with the funny-shaped leaves, but with my mother around I had to try harder. “Are those… mums?” I guessed wildly.
She beamed. “Zelda! You know what a chrysanthemum is!”
“You taught me well,” I replied, hoping she didn’t ask me to identify a single other plant, because I couldn’t. Thankfully, I was saved by Berron’s approach. “Oh, good,” I said as he walked up. “You aren’t carrying a stolen flamingo glass.”
“Who said I didn’t drop it off at your place on the way?”
“You don’t have a key.”
“Keys, bah,” Berron said, waving away the minor inconvenience of locks. “And is this your lovely mother?” he added, fixing Mom with a smile.
“Mom, this is my friend, Berron. He helped renovate the shop and make the furniture for it. Berron, this is my mom, Effie.”
Mom patted her hair. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Berron draped his arm over my shoulder and gave me a side-hug that turned into something more like a side-earthquake. “Do you know what your daughter did?”
“Berron, I don’t think we need to get into all that—”
