Brody stops pruning the bush next to me so that he can answer. Most men would be irritated that I was interrupting their work, but not Brody. In fact, I think he likes these questions because they give him a chance to show off his vast knowledge of all things rose-y. It really is impressive how many flower facts he has stored in that handsome head of his! I’ve learned so much from him already, like the world’s oldest living rose, which has been around for over a thousand years and survived being buried under rubble during World War II, grows on the wall of the Cathedral of Hildesheim in Germany. Visiting that church is now on the top of my bucket list, right after swimming with dolphins and leaving a note for Shakespeare’s heroine in the courtyard of Casa di Giulietta in Verona (I’ve been obsessed with doing this ever since I saw Letters to Juliet.)
“The Medallion is a hybrid tea rose,” Brody informs me, “and no, all the flowers in that class don’t smell like licorice. The Sweet Surrender over there . . .,” he points, with a gloved hand, to some pale pink blooms to my left, “. . . have the typical old rose scent. While these . . .,” he moves a few steps to the right so that he’s in front of a bush filled with golden yellow flowers, “. . . have a warm, musky fragrance.”
I take a whiff of the Sweet Surrender and find that they live up to their name as their scent is absolutely sublime, then I cross over to where Brody’s standing and inhale the aroma of the yellow blooms. “What are these roses called?”
“Midas Touch.”
“Aw, poor Midas,” I say, caressing the velvety petals of the rose. “I always thought his story was so sad. He might have been greedy, but did he deserve to lose a child? And why did his little girl have to be turned into a gold statue just to teach him a lesson? Those Greek gods were harsh!”
“According to Greek mythology, the first rose was created when the tears of Aphrodite, goddess of love, combined with the spilled blood of her beloved Adonis.”
“I’d forgotten Aphrodite had a thing for Adonis.” Aphrodite was always my favorite of the Olympians when I studied mythology in school. I loved reading stories about her adventures and romances in The Iliad and Bulfinch’s Mythology. “She was one busy deity – Hephaestus, Ares, Dionysus, Hermes, that young sea god she turned into a shellfish because he didn’t want to move in with her . . .”
“What kind of shellfish? A shrimp? A lobster? Or was it an oyster? That would make sense since oysters are supposed to be aphrodisiacs.” Brody smirks, clearly amused by himself.
I smile indulgently. “No, it wasn’t an oyster. I think it might have been a sea snail. Would a sea snail be considered a shellfish?”
“We’ll have to Google it later and find out.”
Ooooo, “later.” That implies that the two of us will be spending more time together after we’ve finished our work in the garden today. Brody didn’t mention us hanging out, but maybe he just assumes we’ll be taking another walk in the park with the dogs. I’ve really been enjoying those walks, and the accompanying chats, but it might be nice to mix it up once in a while, grab a smoothie or catch a movie – we could even go glow-in-the-dark bowling at the Presidio. How fun would that be? Not that I would ever suggest any of those things. If Brody wants to expand the parameters of our friendship, that’s entirely up to him.
“Do you wanna help me feed the roses?” Brody wonders as he walks over to the wheelbarrow where he has some tools and supplies stored. He hoists a huge (twenty-five pounds at least!) bag up on to his shoulder and carries it back over to me. “This is alfalfa meal . . .,” he drops the green bag with the red rose on its front down by my feet, “. . . which will condition the soil and promote growth in the bushes.”
I am so glad he’s not using compost. That’s what my grandmother always fed the roses with, and it stunk to high heaven!
“I’d love to help, but first, would you tell me something about these Double Delights?” I ask, cupping one of the bi-color roses on the bush at the far edge of the garden, then bending down to sniff it. “They have a slightly spicy scent. Kind of fruity, too, like peaches.”
Brody grins, deepening the laugh lines in his tanned face and making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You have a good nose.”
“Thanks.” Brody’s approval makes me blush, so I turn away from him and focus on the roses, willing my cheeks to return to their normally pale state. “Are the Double Delights hybrid teas, too?” I query.
“They are. How do you know the names of these roses when you had no clue on the others?”
“Lovey planted these roses in honor of Sloane and me, a month or so after we were born,” I say, sneaking a few surreptitious glances at him out the side of my eye. “She always said we were a ‘double delight,’ just like the roses. When we got older and our personalities became more defined, she told us that the white interior of the flower symbolized me and my purity of heart while the crimson edges symbolized my fiery sister, who was always reaching for the sky.”
Brody joins me by the Double Delights, and I’m very aware of not just his close proximity, but the difference in our heights. The top of my grandmother’s gardening hat, which I dug out of a box in the attic last night and decided to wear today as a tribute to her, hits the ridge of Brody’s shoulder.
With his fingertip, he traces the edge of the flower I’m holding. “This red coloring is a result of exposure to the sun’s ultraviolet rays, which brings out the natural pigments in the petals. No two Double Delights are alike, because the weather that produces the color variations is always changing and affects the flower depending on its position.”
I look up at him. “So, even though the Double Delights look similar, they are, actually, very different, which just about sums up my sister and me!”
“Your grandmother chose your floral doppelgänger well.” Brody draws back his hand from the rose, and it brushes the side of my bare arm ever so briefly, making me feel tingly all over.
I shake it off, reminding myself that it was just an accidental touch. Brody certainly wasn’t making a move on me. We’re just friends as far as he’s concerned, and who knows when, or if, he might be interested in more. I just have to stay the course and see how things play out, keep my feelings to myself, be cool like Sloane. Well, not exactly like Sloane. I don’t want to be so closed off emotionally that I don’t see love when it’s staring me right in the face.
“What’s your floral doppelgänger?” I ask.
“Hmmmm, I don’t know. That’s a good question.” Brody purses his lips thoughtfully as he ponders it. “Maybe a snapdragon. They represent strength, and on a scientific level, snapdragons are pretty awesome. They’re considered to be model organisms in botanical research, and their genomes have been studied in– No, wait! I changed my mind. I think my floral doppelgänger is the gladiolus. It’s associated with moral integrity and symbolized the Roman gladiators back in the day. Gladioli are bad ass.”
I chuckle. “You’re bad ass?”
“In the world of botany, I am.” He winks at me cheekily.
“Okay, so you’re a gladiolus. I’m not sure I know what those look like.”
“They’re tall, tightly packed spikes, with sword-shaped foliage and six to eight blossoms that open in sequence from the bottom,” he tries to explain with a series of hand gestures. “They come in all different colors. I have a nice assortment of red, orange, and yellow in my garden at home.”
“You have flowers other than roses in your garden?” This surprises me. He is a rosarian, after all.
“Oh, yeah, I have twenty-eight different species of flowering plants in my garden. Everything from allamanda blanchetii, also known as the ‘Mexican love vine,’ to zinnia elegans. The zinnias are there because they attract lots of butterflies and hummingbirds.”
“Roxie must love that!” His dog is currently lounging on the other side of the yard, along with Cicero, happily chomping on one of the organic beef marrow bones I brought for them.
“She does. She can sit for hours in the garden, watching the b
irds and insects flit around.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
“Yeah, it’s my favorite place to be. The rest of the world just melts away when I’m there. Did I mention that eighty-five percent of the flowers in my garden are edible?”
“Really? So, you could just pull up one of your gladioli and start chowing down?”
He laughs. “I wouldn’t advise that, but you could stuff a glad blossom with shrimp salad, or a good dip, or use one in a dessert with gelato and a berry sauce.”
“Now you’re making my mouth water!”
“A friend just gave me a cookbook with edible flower recipes, and there are several I’ve been dying to try out. Wanna be my guinea pig?”
Woah, what? Did I hallucinate that, or did Brody just ask me on a date?
Let’s see – he invited me to his home, where he’ll be cooking food for me . . . with flowers, which is super romantic any way you look at it. Sounds like a date to me! SQUEE I’m tempted to do the happy Snoopy dance, but I think that would blow my cool cover, so I refrain.
“Sure,” I accept casually, like I get invitations of this sort from smart, gorgeous, interesting guys every day. Ain’t no thang, as Tommy often says.
“Great. Do you and Cicero have plans tomorrow? Maybe the two of you could come over for lunch.”
Aw, he included my dog in the invite. How sweet is that? Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I’m supposed to be spending the day working on Sloane’s party dress. But I’ve already made the patterns and pinned them to the fabrics, so now I just have to cut and sew. Of course, the sewing will probably involve a lot of hand work because the lace is really delicate and I do have to create the silk flower, but I can do all that on Sunday. Sunday’s wide open, unless my lunch date with Brody goes so well that he wants to spend the entire weekend together – squee again! Okay, calm down, Willa. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Um, yeah, that works. Lunch tomorrow. What time?”
Brody considers the question for a minute. “Let’s say, one o’clock. That’ll give me time to put a few courses together.”
“Courses? Is this going to be a formal lunch? Should I break out Cicero’s bow tie?”
“That won’t be necessary. This lunch is ‘come as you are.’” He smiles and playfully tugs on one of my braids. Wow. That hasn’t happened since the third grade when Colton Miller, who sat behind me in Mrs. Teal’s class, pulled on my braids every day for two weeks before finally asking me to go steady with him.
Brody likes me! He really likes me!
“We should feed these roses,” Brody says, going back into work mode. “Here, wear these.” He extracts another pair of gardening gloves from the back pocket of his Levi’s and hands them to me. “They’ll save your manicure.”
I take the gloves, then watch as Brody bends down on one knee and rips open the bag of alfalfa meal with his hands. What a man! SIGH
Chapter 18
(Willa)
I don’t believe it.
I’m standing right here in front of Brody’s house, the house in Bernal Heights that took me the better part of an hour and two different buses to reach, and I’m staring straight at it, but I still can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
A fence.
A white picket fence.
I know it’s a girly cliché, but I can’t help it. I’ve always dreamed of living in a house with a white picket fence. They’re a traditional sign of blissful domesticity, and I am nothing if not traditional. A house with a white picket fence is where you live with your soul mate, your two adorable children, and the rascally dog you rescue from a shelter. It’s where you bake pies made with organic apples you picked as a family. It’s where you string up Christmas lights, have Easter egg hunts, and blow out candles on your birthday cake every year. It’s a home where love is shared, and memories are–
“Hey, you’re here. Right on time,” Brody interrupts my daydreaming. He unlatches the gate and waves me on to the brick path that bisects his garden and leads to the front door of his home.
“Nice dress,” he observes in an appreciative tone as I walk past him, and I do a fist pump in my head. Staying up until two in the morning so that I could try on every single outfit in my closet was totally worth it just to get that response from him. Apparently, the way to a man’s heart is through cherries, because they’re all over this A-line, ‘50s style sundress I’m wearing.
“Nice fence,” I say because it’s the first complimentary thing that pops into my head. Duh, Willa, you couldn’t have said how much you love the blue and gray plaid button-down shirt and navy chinos he’s wearing? The man looks like he just stepped out of a Banana Republic ad – so cute! On second thought, it’s probably better that I didn’t comment on his appearance, because I probably would have gushed and gushing might make him uncomfortable. Roxie nuzzles my leg, which is a welcome distraction. At least I know how to interact with dogs! I bend over to pet her and see that her tail is wagging furiously. She’s very excited to have visitors and can’t wait to show us her favorite toy (a purple octopus with a squeaker in each of its eight arms), where she sleeps, and the tree behind the house she likes to bury her Jumbones next to.
“Yeah,” Brody scratches his chin, which he hasn’t shaved today (Too busy preparing our lunch?). “It’s a great fence, but it could use a fresh coat of paint. I think the last time it was touched up was when the previous owner was making improvements so she could sell. That was about eight years ago.”
I am so tempted to squeal, “Painting party!” and invite myself over to help, but I resist the urge, not wanting to scare the poor man. Instead, I turn around slowly, soaking in all the color and beauty of the wide variety of flowers on both sides of the garden. “This is amazing! I was expecting something structured and meticulous, but . . .”
“But?” He raises a dark eyebrow.
“There’s a wildness to this garden that’s really lovely. The flowers seem to be growing as they please, and they’re flourishing with that freedom. They’re happy, which makes anyone who looks at them feel the same way.”
Brody smiles sheepishly. “Will it ruin things for you if I tell you that the garden’s wild appearance is by design? Even though cottage-style gardens look unplanned, there’s an underlying geometry–”
I put my finger to my lips and make the “Shhh” sign as I shake my head.
“Okay, in that case, this . . .,” he sweeps a hand around the garden, “. . . just happened spontaneously. All I have to do is throw a little water on the flowers once in a while if I feel like it.”
I chuckle. “Better.”
“You ready to head in? I just blended the ingredients for the gazpacho and I want to serve the soup while it’s the right temperature.”
“Oh, yum! I’m a big fan of gazpacho. It’s so light and refreshing – perfect when the temp’s a little warmer like today.”
“That was my thinking. But this is a white gazpacho, not the typical tomato-based one, and it comes with a few surprises.” Brody ushers me up to the wisteria-covered porch of his charming yellow cottage. No lie it looks like something out of a fairy tale. I’m surprised the roof isn’t made of gingerbread!
“I love a good surprise!” I enthuse as he opens the front door for us. Not standing on ceremony, Cicero bounds over the threshold, pulling me with him through the small entryway into the living room. He screeches to a halt the second he sees a plastic frog peeking out from behind the leg of a coffee table and I pitch forward, about to trip over him, when Brody grabs me from behind, helping me keep my balance and my dignity.
“You saved me,” I say a bit breathlessly, twisting my head around to look at him. Our eyes lock, and I can feel myself blushing because I’m embarrassed my dog showed such poor manners in his home, because I’m a terrible klutz who almost went tail over teakettle in front of him (which is most definitely not how I want him to get his first glimpse of my underwear), and, oh yeah, because he’s still got his arm wrapped snugly around my waist.
“Had to. My homeowner’s insurance policy doesn’t cover personal liability,” he says, making light of the situation. He gives me a cute, lopsided smile, then releases his hold on me. “You want some iced tea?” he asks, walking toward the open-plan kitchen.
“Uh, yeah . . .,” I might need to splash it in my face to cool down my cheeks, which are still burning, “. . . that’d be great.” I unhook Cicero from his leash and give him a recriminatory look, but he’s too busy trying to destroy the frog, which is squeaking for mercy, to notice.
I glance around, doing a quick survey of Brody’s living room. Dark wood floors (walnut, maybe), sisal carpets in neutral colors, comfy-looking furnishings in cream, taupe, and pale blue, brown woven shades for the windows, and there’s a bright pop of color provided by some fresh purple flowers in a couple of white jug-style vases that are situated on the coffee table and a distressed (antique?) bureau in the corner. I search in vain for any sign that a woman once lived here, but I don’t see any ruffled sofa pillows or scented candles, no old issues of Glamour, not even a cute knickknack like a wood word cube that spells out “LOVE” (I have one of those in my living room.) There aren’t any photos of Brody and Justine in happier times sitting out either, so she must have taken them with her when she left or Brody put them away. Yes! Sloane was wrong about Brody still being hung up on his ex. I knew it. The proof is in the décor.
“Your tea.” Brody hands me one of the two glasses he returns with.
I look down into my amber-colored drink. “Oh my gosh, are those real flowers in the ice cubes?”
“Yep. As they melt, the flavor of the flowers will infuse the tea.” Brody takes a sip from his glass. “I made this with lemon, lavender, and mint. What do you think? Too heavy on the lavender? You can get a bitter aftertaste if you overdo it.”
I sample mine. “Mmmmm, I’m not getting any bitterness. It’s a nice blend of citrus, floral, and sweet.”
“We’re off to a good start then. On to our first course. Follow me . . .” He leads the way through his beautiful, airy kitchen, with all of its white cabinetry, granite countertops, and herbs growing in bright blue pots on the windowsills, and points me to a little dining nook on the far side. “Have a seat,” he says. “I’ll bring out the gazpacho.”
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