Page 3 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

CHAPTER THREE

BEN

I trace my finger along the edge of a newly rendered landscape design, feeling the slight texture of the premium paper beneath my fingertips.

The client's property comes to life on the page: a meandering stone path that leads through a series of garden rooms, each with its own character but flowing naturally into the next.

A reading nook nestled beneath a pergola draped with wisteria, where dappled sunlight will create patterns across comfortable seating.

A meditation space surrounded by ornamental grasses that will catch the breeze and create a soothing whisper, with a small reflecting pool to mirror the changing sky.

A kitchen garden with raised beds arranged in a pattern that's both practical and visually pleasing, herbs and vegetables mingling in a tapestry of textures and scents.

It's good work. Some of my best, actually. The balance of structure and wildness, the careful consideration of seasonal interest, the thoughtful integration of the clients' lifestyle needs; it all works together seamlessly.

So why do I feel so empty looking at it?

I push back from my drafting table and stretch, feeling the satisfying pop in my shoulders after hours hunched over the design.

My studio is bathed in late afternoon light, dust motes dancing in the golden beams streaming through the tall windows.

Plants fill every available surface: specimens I've collected over years of travel and study.

A Japanese maple in a handcrafted pot, its delicate leaves shifting from crimson to burgundy with the changing light.

A collection of native ferns, their fronds unfurling in graceful spirals.

Architectural succulents arranged in a modernist concrete planter I designed myself, their geometric forms creating a living sculpture.

This space is my sanctuary. My creation.

My life's work manifested in a converted warehouse loft with concrete floors stained the color of fertile soil and exposed brick walls adorned with botanical prints and photographs of gardens I've designed.

The ceiling beams still show marks from the building's industrial past, now softened by trailing vines I've trained to climb along custom trellises.

And yet lately, I find myself wandering through it feeling like something's missing. The silence that once felt peaceful now seems to echo with absence.

"You need a life outside of plants, Ben," my sister Leah had said during our last lunch together, her expression equal parts exasperation and concern as she pushed her salad around her plate, poking at it as if it was one of the plants that personally offended her.

"When was the last time you went on a date?

Or even just out with friends who don't talk about soil pH levels and drainage systems?

You've got this amazing talent for creating spaces where people connect with nature, but you're not connecting with anyone yourself. "

I'd brushed her off with some comment about being busy with the Westridge project, but her words had stuck with me.

They're still sticking with me three weeks later as I stare at my perfect, empty apartment.

The bookshelves filled with volumes on landscape design and botanical history.

The kitchen with its herb garden thriving under grow lights.

The comfortable furniture arranged for optimal views of both the city and my indoor garden.

Everything in its place. Everything carefully curated.

No evidence of anyone else's presence or preferences.

My phone buzzes with a text from Krissa Phillips, the matchmaker Leah somehow convinced me to meet with. Against all logic and my better judgment. I still can't believe I let my sister talk me into visiting a dating agency, of all things.

Lil Sis: Arts festival tomorrow at Riverfront Park. Your sister mentioned you're looking for inspiration for the Hamilton project. Lots of local artists showcasing work. Some incredible botanical pieces that might spark ideas. 10 AM?

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen.

The Hamilton project does need something special The clients want a garden that feels like "living art" rather than a conventional landscape.

And I have been stuck in a creative rut lately, recycling elements from previous designs rather than pushing into new territory.

Maybe seeing how other artists interpret nature could help break through this block.

That's what I tell myself, anyway. It has nothing to do with Krissa's not-so-subtle hints about a certain artist who'll be displaying her work there.

An artist who, according to her, "sees beauty in the overlooked corners of the natural world" and "captures the spirit of plants that most people walk right past without noticing. "

Me: I’ll be there

I ignore the flutter of anticipation in my chest. A flutter that feels suspiciously unrelated to professional inspiration.

I set my phone down and walk to the wall of windows overlooking the city.

The sunset paints everything in shades of amber and rose, softening the urban landscape.

The harsh angles of downtown buildings glow golden, their windows reflecting the fading light.

Below, people stream along the sidewalks—couples holding hands, friends laughing together, families herding children toward dinner.

All these connections. All these lives intertwined.

And here I am, alone in my perfect space, surrounded by beautiful things I've created, feeling the hollow echo of emptiness. Designing spaces for others to enjoy together, while I experience them in solitude.

The community arts festival transforms Riverfront Park into a vibrant maze of white tents and colorful displays.

The morning air carries the mingled scents of coffee, fresh-baked pastries, and the earthy perfume of the river.

Musicians play at scattered locations throughout the grounds, creating pockets of melody that fade in and out as I walk: a violin here, an acoustic guitar there, a jazz quartet near the food trucks.

I navigate through the growing crowd, coffee in hand, observing how people interact with the space.

It's something I always notice—the flow of human movement through an environment, the natural gathering points, the quiet corners where people seek respite.

Understanding this is essential to good landscape design.

Gardens aren't just about plants; they're about creating spaces for human experience. For connection. For memory-making.

My conversation with Krissa at the Zaftig Dating Agency replays in my mind as I walk.

I'd gone there mostly to appease Leah, expecting to politely decline whatever service they offered.

Instead, I'd found myself talking more openly than I had in years, sitting in their comfortable meeting room that felt more like someone's living room than an office.

"So you create spaces for people to connect with nature," Krissa had said, leaning forward with genuine interest, her blonde hair styled in a distinctive retro updo. "But when was the last time you felt truly connected to another person?"

The question had caught me off guard with its simplicity and accuracy. No one had asked me that in years—maybe ever. People usually asked about my design philosophy or my favorite plants or my opinion on sustainable landscaping practices.

"I connect with clients all the time," I'd answered, knowing even as I said it how hollow it sounded. How professional. How safe.

"That's work, Ben," she'd replied gently.

"I'm talking about the kind of connection that makes you lose track of time.

That makes you want to share the beautiful things you see rather than just create them for others.

When you spot that perfect light filtering through autumn leaves, who do you want to show it to? "

Her words echo in my head as I wander through the festival, observing couples sharing experiences, friends laughing together, artists explaining their work to interested viewers.

All these connections happening around me while I stand apart, observing rather than participating.

Designing the container but never being part of the content.

I stop at various booths, admiring woodwork with grain patterns that could inspire garden pathways, ceramics glazed in colors that mimic water reflections, metal sculpture that captures the movement of wind through tall grasses.

The craftsmanship is impressive, but nothing speaks to me until I round a corner and see a flash of color so vibrant it stops me in my tracks.

Wildflowers.

Not just any wildflowers, but paintings that capture their essence in a way I've never seen before.

Not botanical illustrations with scientific precision, but emotional interpretations that somehow convey the spirit of each bloom.

A dandelion pushing through concrete radiates defiance, its yellow petals almost glowing against the gray.

A wild rose with slightly torn petals speaks of resilience, its imperfections making it more captivating than a perfect specimen.

Queen Anne's lace capturing dewdrops shimmers with unexpected beauty, transforming what many consider a roadside weed into something magical.

I move closer, drawn by the raw emotion in the work.

These aren't the showy, cultivated blooms I typically avoid in my designs.

I've always preferred the architectural quality of foliage, like the texture of ferns, the structure of ornamental grasses, the form of shrubs.

Flowers always seemed too fleeting, too obvious in their appeal, too dependent on perfect conditions.

But these paintings make me see wildflowers differently.

They're survivors. Fighters. They create beauty in unlikely places without anyone's help or permission.

They don't need carefully amended soil or irrigation systems. They find a way to thrive in the margins, in the forgotten spaces, in the cracks of our constructed world.

As I study the collection, I notice a larger piece slightly apart from the others.

It's a meadow scene where all the individual flowers grow together in what should be chaos but instead forms a harmonious whole.

Queen Anne's lace creates a delicate architecture above nodding black-eyed Susans.

Chicory adds splashes of periwinkle blue.

Clover forms a soft groundcover beneath it all.

It's breathtaking in its complexity and emotion, capturing both the individual character of each species and the community they create together.

"What do you think?"

I turn to find Krissa beside me, a knowing smile playing at her lips. She looks completely in her element in a vintage-style dress with a full skirt, her height accentuated by red heels.

"They're incredible," I admit. "Not what I expected. There's something about the way she captures these plants. It's like she's painting their personalities, not just their appearance."

"The artist should be back any minute. She just ran to grab coffee.

" Krissa glances at her watch. "I need to check on another client, but you should stay and meet her.

Jasmine Carter. She has a fascinating perspective on finding beauty in overlooked places.

I think you two might have more in common than you'd expect. "

Before I can respond, she's gone, disappearing into the crowd with a wave and leaving me standing before these extraordinary paintings. I move closer to read the small cards beside each piece, handwritten in an expressive, flowing script.

Wild Rose (Rosa canina) – Found growing between cracks in an abandoned parking lot. Nature always finds a way. What would our lives be like if we adapted to difficult circumstances with such grace?

Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale) – Considered a weed by many, but look closer. What persistence. What perfect design. What determination to thrive despite being unwanted. The first food for bees in spring. Medicine in its roots. A wish-maker for children.

Queen Anne's Lace (Daucus carota) – Overlooked beauty that transforms ordinary roadside ditches into fairy wonderlands. Named for a queen but democratic in its growth, offering its lacy canopy to any insect seeking shelter or food.

Each description reveals not just observation but a deep emotional connection to these resilient plants.

A perspective that resonates with something long dormant inside me.

A reminder of why I fell in love with plants in the first place.

Not just for their design potential, but for their inherent character and tenacity.

I'm still standing there, absorbed in the meadow painting, studying how the artist captured the way sunlight filters through the delicate umbels of Queen Anne's lace, when I sense someone approach.

Turning, I find myself looking at a woman who embodies the same vibrant energy as her artwork.

Auburn hair catches the sunlight, shifting between copper and deep red as she moves.

She's shorter than me by nearly a foot, wearing a paint-splattered apron over a dress the color of spring leaves that makes her hazel eyes seem more green than brown.

It's those eyes that hold me—flecked with emerald that seem to change intensity as she looks from me to her painting and back again.

She carries two coffee cups and moves with a graceful, expressive energy that immediately draws my attention.

A smudge of yellow paint marks her cheekbone like an accidental highlight.

Her face is animated, open, curious as she takes me in, her expressions shifting rapidly as though her thoughts are too lively to contain.

Something shifts inside me—a recognition, a possibility—as I realize this must be Jasmine Carter. The artist. The woman Krissa thought I should meet. The creator of these paintings that have awakened something I thought I'd lost. A sense of wonder at the raw, undesigned beauty of the natural world.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel a spark of something beyond professional interest or aesthetic appreciation.

I feel a desire to connect. To understand the mind that created these paintings, to know the person who sees beauty where others see weeds, to share my own perspective with someone who might actually understand it.

I turn back to look at the paintings, not wanting to start at her in an upsetting way. That’s when I feel a very warm splash on my back.