Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“I would love to.”
The woman smiled serenely and opened the gate a few paces down. Greta hadn’t even noticed the entrance. On the street side, it had tree boughs growing over it, blocking it from view. It opened in, and Greta unwedged her sneaker from the fence, brushed herself off, and walked through the gate.
“Um, I have a dog here. Is that okay?”
The comment was clearly unnecessary, as Horse could hardly be overlooked since he was big enough to be seen from space.
“It’s fine,” the woman said. “I love dogs.”
The gate swung shut behind Greta, and as if by magic, the street beyond it disappeared. Gone were the sounds of the city waking up. They were dampened by the growth and replaced by the steady sound of a small fountain that burbled cheerily.
Greta blinked. She was in paradise.
The woman plucked her phone from the ferns and held it out to her. “You can take pictures if you like,” she said.
Greta felt instantly ashamed.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. Not that it would be okay to climb on your fence if you hadn’t been there. I just—your garden is… And I love… It’s… I’m from Maine,” she settled on finally.
The woman nodded as if that explained things, and Greta rolled her eyes at herself.
“Your birds-of-paradise are amazing, and I was just gonna get a picture for my friend. He’s a florist and they’re his favorite flower. I just can’t believe they grow here. I mean, of course they grow here. But I’ve never seen them growing in the wild. Er, not that your garden is wild…”
“Stop talking,” the woman said kindly. “Everything’s fine. I understand. One plant lover to another, I’ve climbed many a garden fence myself.”
Greta smiled at the image of this incredibly elegant woman climbing anything.
“I’m Greta.” Greta sketched an awkward wave. “And this is Horse.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Greta. And you, Horse.” The woman held out a graceful hand to Horse, who sniffed it interrogatively, then gave it a welcoming lick. “Muriel Blondeau,” she introduced herself. “You’ll stay for coffee?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t want to intrude.”
Muriel smirked and raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Of course you do,” she said and swept through the garden into what Greta assumed was the kitchen.
The second she was gone, Greta crouched next to the birds-of-paradise, tracing their magnificent beaks with a gentle finger. The greenery around them set off their spikes of color; the delicate radial blossoms of passionflowers balanced their geometry. Everything in the garden was in harmony.
She found herself next to the banana tree. It was a strange-looking thing, bunches of bananas sprouting from it like the fingers in a child’s terrible drawing.
So often with plants, Greta goggled at their beauty, at the elegance of their design. But when a plant seemed to defy grace and order, Greta was reminded anew that beauty was a merely human designation. The thriving banana tree was one of those that reminded her.
Muriel came back into the garden carrying a tray and gestured Greta to the small table she’d been sitting at before. The chairs were wrought iron and looked to be made of twisted vines. The cushions on them were emerald-green. The table was a similar wrought iron, but its top was mosaic in iridescent shades of green like a dragonfly’s wings.
The entire effect was of something that had been upthrust by the very earth and grew into forms nearly indistinguishable from the roots and stems of the garden itself.
“Wow,” Greta sighed.
Muriel smiled and placed the glass tray on the table top. It fit perfectly, showing the mosaic beneath.
On it were delicate white china cups with gold-etched rims and peonies. A small glass cafetière was filled with dark coffee, and a pitcher that matched the cups was filled with milk. Pale pink sugar cubes were piled in a clear glass dish, tiny tongs resting beside it.
“Wow,” Greta heard herself say again.
It was the most beautiful tableau she’d ever seen.
Then Muriel placed a white china bowl full of water on the ground beside her chair and rubbed her fingers together. Horse walked to her side, licked her fingers, then lay down to drink from the bowl.
“My mother planted this garden,” Muriel said as she poured coffee into the peony cups. “Cream and sugar?”
Greta usually drank it black, but she was curious about those pink sugar cubes. “Yes, please.”
“She was a painter, and she loved to paint flowers most of all. She planted every flower you can think of, in every possible color. When you looked out the windows into the garden, all you saw was a riot of color and shape, like a pointillist painting. It looked like chaos all together. But when my mother would set up her easel, she would frame the painting exactly right, so that the flowers she painted went together perfectly.