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He did not feel careful, at this moment. He felt alive, sparkling, intrigued. Crackles over the ocean. Thunderstorms, the electricity he’d always loved.
Hewantedto write back. To answer those questions. Tap dancing along the edges of the unknown.
He gulped down the end of his tea, hopped out of the swing with some difficulty—he wasn’t graceful in person, especially not when wrapped up in blankets—and wandered inside and found his flower and then his desk and his favorite paper and pen. He thought best while writing, doodling, in motion.
Professor Cameron—
No. Too formal.Burne, the man had signed it. Though that didn’t always mean first-name permission; it wasn’t explicitly given. Drat.
Devon crumpled that one. Tried again.
Burne—Professor Cameron—
Both? No.
Burne—if I may—
Better. Very well, what next?
Thank you for the buttercup. I confess to not knowing much about flowers, but it is lovely, and I’ll treasure the color.Surprised, he realized he meant that. His office felt too dark, suddenly. The yellow on his desk, beside his laptop, was—well, he wouldn’t have doneyellow, but it was interesting. A spotlight. A lighthouse amid stormy hues.
To answer your questions—I’m not an artist, though I am an architect, and I do sometimes sketch and paint a bit, simply for fun. I’m more skilled at architectural drawing, but I enjoy trying to picture the world—including the unicorns, though unfortunately the buttercup variety have not made it here to Summervale.
He hesitated over the next thought, and wrote it down anyway. He could start over if he had to.
I admit I used to want to be an artist, but my parents thought I needed a steadier career; they were perhaps right. But you love what you do, don’t you? The way you describe the hills, your notebook—it all feels so alive, so vibrant. And your work is so important—studying the grasses, the ecology, the development in a place that’s been so wild and self-sufficient, everything that can tell us. Was that always something you knew you wanted to do?
In case that was growing too intimate, he added,I mean science, biology, if not the sea grass specifically. Unless you always did want to live amongst tide pools.
I’m not certain how much space you’ve got, out there at your research station, so don’t worry about keeping this or sending it back—it’s a gift. I went to a bookshop, and honestly I’m a bit proud of myself for doing that, and I saw this and thought of you. It’s not very expensive, so, again, please don’t worry about leaving it behind or dropping it into an ocean or anything. I did flip through it, and I liked the art style, so I thought perhaps you would as well?
The book in question was a slim fifty-year-old hand-illustrated guide to plants of the California coastal national parks. Any science would be out of date, but flowers bloomed in pinks, yellows, sage-green, cloud-white, across the pages. The ink-lines were clear and strong. Burne might find it amusing, at least.
Of course I also bought three mystery novels and a book about bridges for myself, because I can’t resist when I’m around books. Fortunately I’ve still got shelf space, though not for long. I do like the feel of books, the scent of them—you might know what I mean, from doing research, writing your first book? That warm antique paper scent, like vanilla and woods softened by time?
Speaking of time, I should get some work done. I’ll try to mail this tomorrow, if I can. Thank you again for the flower; I’ve put it on my desk. It’s a bit of sunshine for this very grey morning.
He signed it with just his name this time, the way Burne had.
He looked at it for a minute, sitting at his desk.
His desk was clean and smooth and large, dark wood and neat stacks of paper and space to draw or take notes. He kept a small magnetic board for inspirations; he’d put the dried flower up there, carefully held in place by lavender dots. It glowed at him.
He said aloud to it, “I’ll go out tomorrow, and mail this.” The flower got brighter, as more light bounced in: the sun shaking loose cloud-veils, in order to approve. Gold on gold: like Burne’s description.
He found his folder of museum designs and opened that up.
He’d been thinking about metal and glass and open spaces. He still wanted the sense of modernity—it was a modern art museum—but he wondered about softening those lines. About other inspirations, the wave of sea grass in wind, a pale gleam of beach-sand gold.
Chapter 3
The mail boat did not come every day, and even the first arrival, three days later, was a disappointment; Burne knew rationally that that was too soon, given that the post took time and Devon likely hadn’t answered immediately, but he nevertheless felt a pang in his chest, a drop of rain piercing inside.
He did some comparative growth rate analysis, grumpily. He went for walks along the pebbled beach, down to the harbor amid the sound of lapping water, up alone into the rolling summertime green-gold hills. He had meals with friends and colleagues, and chatted about research and family updates and plans upon returning home: in one case a baseball game, in another case a family reunion.
He looked at his art. He ended up smiling: even if Devon hadn’t bothered to write back and this whole odd pen-pal conversation had ended, he still had those sketches. A gift. Because someone had been kind.
He did hope Devon would write back. He’d understand if not. He’d asked questions and been intrusive, and Devon no doubt had a life and no time for a random letter-exchange with a random scientist who rambled about flowers and had sand in his beard.
