Page 13

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Rose slowed to a stop in the circular drive and got out of her car. Unlike the night of the party, no other cars lined the lawn or driveway. And though the door and window sconces were lit, the house itself looked vacant. She took a moment to look up at the ivy-covered brick, the two-story-high windows, the towers and turrets poking into the sky, all of it coming together to give the house a welcoming yet imposing feel. Cottage and castle.

Rose climbed the stairs, sensors flooding each step with light. At the heavy oak double doors, she rang the bell and waited. A pair of lion-head door knockers stared back at her, but she didn’t touch them, figuring that in a place this big, no one would hear them. After nothing but stillness, she stepped back, ready to leave, when she heard a few faint notes of music, wafting from the garden. She followed it, skirting the house, down the stone terrace steps and past the pool. The music only got louder. Then she saw where it came from. A light-filled house made of glass.

Rose hadn’t come for Hart (she could see him through the glass, his hunter-green T-shirt damp between the shoulder blades as he worked on something), but the greenhouse pulled her like a magnet. Moth to the flame. She knocked on the door and it bounced back slightly on springy hinges. Hart looked over his shoulder and stopped what he was doing when he saw her through the glass panes in the door. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and came over to let Rose inside. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she responded, but she could barely hear anything over the pounding beat, blasting on full volume. “Is this… Biggie?”

Hart turned off the portable speaker on the corner of a workbench, cutting the Notorious B.I.G.’s flow. Of all the music Rose imagined Hart might like, she never would’ve landed anywhere near nineties rap.

“The plants really respond to it,” he said.

Rose looked around at the plants in question. They crowded every inch of the tiny room. It was a shoebox. Small enough that Rose could glance around once to get the full tour. But she took her time lingering on every surface. The walls and roof were made of tempered glass panels connected by a metal skeleton frame. The floor was a mix of brick and chipped tiles in browns and faded yellows. A pair of wooden workbench tables butted up against the walls, rows of plastic seed trays on top and bags and boxes of storage packed underneath.

And along the glass, on shelves and hanging from hooks, were plants. Long vines spilling out of terra-cotta pots, shoots that snaked up, and baby seedlings with only a couple of true leaves in their tiny pots. Every shade of green on earth seemed to exist in this room, and the one lamp in the corner splashed it all with a golden Baroque glow.

“That was a joke, by the way,” Hart said. “I don’t actually know what kind of music the plants like.” He wiped some loose dirt from his fingers, and the way the light hit them mesmerized Rose, too. His fingers were long, used to work, earth embedded in the fine lines of his knuckles like cross-hatchings. They would be perfect hands to draw. “Truth is, they’re stuck listening to whatever I like to listen to. So if they hate hip-hop, we should probably feel bad for them.” He sighed, and Rose’s eyes followed his hand as it combed through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m saying. You make me nervous.”

“What?” she said. “Why?”

But Hart only folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “You just do.” He seemed embarrassed by what he’d admitted, and eager to change the topic. “Welcome to my greenhouse. There’s another one, over by the barn, but it’s the one the gardeners use. This is where I play around.” He took one step and crossed the room, pointing to the seed trays on the bench behind Rose. “Got started on these zinnias kinda late, but I’m hoping to move them out into the Abundance Garden soon.”

Rose nodded as though she even knew what a zinnia was, but she caressed the tiny leaves of the little seedlings, curious to see what they’d look like in full bloom. She breathed in deep, inhaling the earthy scent of life in the greenhouse. It was probably the smallest enclosed space she’d set foot in since leaving New York. Unlike some people, she never felt claustrophobic in small spaces. They felt like home to her. Which was maybe why she loved it in the greenhouse already.

So many big and small moments would transpire within its transparent walls. It would be the place where she’d tell Hart her deepest secrets; the setting where they would share their first kiss. She’d learn just how hot it could get inside, but how you couldn’t even tell when the argument you were having was just as heated. She’d know every nick in the workbenches like they were the backs of her hands. She’d spend hours lying on the tiled floor and gazing up at the dead leaves that collected on the gabled glass ceiling. And she would discover just how soft a bag of potting soil could be when used as a pillow.

She’d learn how private a room made of glass could feel.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” Rose said now.

“Not barging.”

“I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Not interrupting,” Hart said. “It’s good you came in. It’s about to rain.”

“It is?” Rose never checked the forecast, but Hart seemed sure, squinting up through the panes like he could see the drops forming in the clouds. It gave Rose a good view of his neck, the contour of his throat. The landing strip of floor between the plants was so narrow it forced them to stand in close proximity.

But she curbed her encroaching thoughts, remembering why she was here. She held Heather’s phone like a shield. “Your sister forgot this at work.”

“Thank you,” Hart said, placing the phone on the workbench.

Rose wondered if Heather ever talked to Hart about the hospice. Did they trade small talk at dinnertime? Text each other throughout the day? Mostly, Rose wondered if Heather ever brought her up.

“I’m sorry about how we left things,” she said. “You’ve been really nice to me, and I feel like I came at you out of nowhere.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Hart said. “I’m the one who…” He glanced around the room and leaned back, curling his fingers over the wooden edge of the workbench behind him. “I don’t know if you can tell, but I spend a lot of time by myself. I’m pretty rusty when it comes to… connecting with people. I was obviously being too forward, and the last thing I want to do is push you away.”

He was apologizing, but the subtext was that he still meant what he’d said. He liked her. He was only sorry that he’d said it out loud. And already, Rose felt bad for making him feel that way. Full of doubt.

“And I’m sorry I haven’t asked you anything about yourself,” he said. “I want to get to know you.”

“So ask me something,” Rose said, taking an imperceptible step forward.

A smile tugged on his lips. “What’s your favorite color?”

When Hart looked at her, his eyes captured all the light in the room. Asking Rose to pick a favorite color was like asking her which of her lungs she preferred most. But looking at Hart’s eyes, only one color came to mind. “Green.”

Hart stood straighter, pushing off the workbench. He liked her—so much that he’d skipped a few steps along the way to tell her that. And Rose understood now. Since the first time she saw him, she’d been drawn to him. Inexplicably, emotionally, and at this moment physically, as she inched closer to him. “When I told you we don’t fit together,” she said, “I didn’t mean it.”

Hart nodded. “Good.”

The lamp’s soft light reflected off his jaw like the glare on a knife’s edge. Rose wanted to reach up and touch that spot, just to see if it would cut her. They stood so close Hart had to tip his head to properly look at her. And a strange feeling came over Rose, like she already knew what it felt like to kiss him. When she leaned toward him, it was almost second nature. An expectation. A confirmation.

Hart’s gaze drifted to her lips. “Can you feel it coming?” he asked, low as a whisper.

It was no use trying to stop it now. Rose’s fingertips found their way to the line of his jaw. It didn’t cut her, and yet, the moment she touched him she felt torn open. “Yes,” she answered.

First the rain. A thunderous clap, followed by pebbles of raindrops pelting the glass house.

Then the kiss.