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“I would argue that he started it by being the rudest person on the planet. You should have seen the disgusted way he looked at my poor ZZ plant. I mean, what did the plant ever do to him?”
“Maybe he really doesn’t like plants,” Avery offers.
I stop and look at them both. “Did you not notice the two big cut-open wine barrels overflowing with flowers on his front porch or the ones next to the cider house doors?”
“Those repurposed wine barrels did look pretty good,” Juliet says.
“Okay, well, maybe he has a groundskeeper, a lawn guy, or someone who maintains them?” Avery says.
“Or maybe we call a spade a spade. He’s a grade A jerk.” I frown.
Neither of them says anything after this. Instead, they watch me prowl around the nursery.
Eventually, Juliet asks, “So if we’re just here for daffodils, then why are you grabbing all of these extra plants?”
I glance down at the flatbed cart to the two large Boston ferns and the large pot filled with rosemary. I didn’t even realize I was picking up other plants, but how can I not? They all look so wonderful.
It’s then, a light bulb goes off.
“You know what I need? A greenhouse!” I declare to both of them.
A greenhouse and a garden in the backyard sound like heaven to me, and with the greenhouse, I could have plants all year.
“A greenhouse?” Avery pops an eyebrow at me. “That would mean you plan on spending more time here than in the city. The maintenance would be hard. And what about if we’re traveling for work?”
My gaze shifts down to Avery’s stomach as she’s unconsciously rubbing the tiny bump, and then it rises back to her face. I stare at her blankly, and she laughs.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Quick trips. But don’t you want to spend some time in the city? You’ve always loved it.”
I have always loved it, but what did I love about it? Is it because I was raised there? Is it because it’s familiar? Also, am I hanging on to how it felt when the three of us were there together? Things have been different since Avery moved here to be with Ash, and Emma to be with Clay.
I let out a deep sigh. Her question is a question I’ve been asking myself over the past couple of weeks. How much time do I plan to spend here? What is meant to be a vacation home is starting to feel more like a real home. Don’t get me wrong, the condo and the house are about the same size in square footage, so it’s not like I suddenly feel I have all this space, but I love how I’m not surrounded by others.
I’ve also been thinking about our schedules. Emma wants to be in the city in the summer and here at the lake in the winter. I want to be here in the summer and the city in the winter. How will that work if we’re trying to write new music? And then I ask myself, do I really want to be in the city if they’re both here? And the baby. I want to be a part of its life. How can I do that if I’m living there and Avery is here? I hate to admit it, but I already feel closer to Avery’s child than I do to Winston’s.
That’s right, Winston has a son. But I only see him on our annual family trip between Christmas and New Year’s. For the rest of the year, either I’m not invited to family functions or he’s hidden. He’s only four, but maybe they think I’ll rub off on him.
“I do love the city, but I feel different here and like it,” I tell them both without pouring out my soul. “Besides, I could always hire someone to help if I needed it.”
Hiring someone. Just the thought makes me cringe. I love my space, and I love that I’m able to do things on my own. Right now, the only thing I’ve hired out for is someone to mow the grass, but give me time. By next summer, I’ll be able to do that too.
“You know he looks like your type,” Avery says as we resume wandering and turn down a new row. This row has the tiny wind chimes, and my heart leaps.
“My type of what?” I ask her.
“Guy,” she says as she pulls her water bottle from her bag and takes a sip.
At this, my heart stutters. I stop pushing the cart and turn to face her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
She laughs. “I’m not. In fact, he kind of looks like that football player from the Tampa Tarpons you were with last year.”
“He does not,” I declare, a flush burning its way through my cheeks.
“Let’s see.” She holds up her hand to tick off her fingers. “Tall. Muscular. Dark haired. Scruffy beard.”
I think about what she’s saying, then shake my head. “Nope. Not similar at all. And Timothy was more like a teddy bear than an actual grumpy bear coming out of hibernation.”
“You think Briggs is grumpy?” Juliet asks.
