That’s when I see the man. He’s now standing next to the French door leading into the house, his hands clasped around some kind of book in front of him.
Oh God. Maybe it’s a bible. Maybe he knows Jeff somehow.
But that doesn’t make sense. Not with the way he spoke to Jeff.
Actually, he didn’t speak. Just acted. That’s all Jeff needed.
The man’s staring at me in a way that makes me feel exposed. Not in a bad way. More like he’s really seeing me for me. I guess it’s a little harder to be a wallflower, given the circumstances.
“Hi,” I say.
He lifts a hand in a little wave.
“What’s this one called?” I point to the gorgeous coral rose I’ve just been smelling. “I know from my mom’s garden that they all have ridiculous names. She had one called Gardener’s Opus. And another one called John’s Timepiece. Or clock, or something.” I laugh, remembering.
The man is silent.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry, I guess I should go. I?—”
But the gardener shakes his head, ducking it.
And comes over to me.
As he approaches, I take him in for the first time. He’s big—I already ascertained that. But he’s, like, really big. Six-five, maybe. Or six. Thick across the chest. The kind of body that looks like he’s used to hard work.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded forearms dusted in light hair.
His face is slightly downturned. But I can see it’s not handsome, necessarily—at least not in the conventional sense. He has strong features: a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once; a firm, clean-shaven jawline; heavy brows. His ears stick out a little, and his messy, unkempt brown hair looks like it hasn’t been trimmed in a long while.
But when he looks up again, I find my breath hitching.
Those eyes. They’re blue, but dark. Stormy, almost, if it weren’t for the kindness etched into the set of them. I can’t quite describe it, but there’s something beautiful about all of his features together, even if, aside from the eyes, there’s nothing remarkable about any one of them.
He blinks, and I realize he’s holding the book up, wanting me to see.
I look down and read, in neat, slashed writing,A Rare Beauty.
For a moment, I’m thoroughly confused.
Then he points to the rose.
Of course it’s the name of the rose. I laugh, then it falls short. “You wrote it down,” I say. Realization dawns. “You can’t speak.”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t look regretful about it. It’s just a fact.
“Can you hear?”
He shakes his head. But points to his mouth.
He’s deaf. But he can read lips.
I nod. “I understand.”
I adjust to this and realize I love this silence.
I hesitate, then look around the house; the roses; the meadow. “Is this all yours?”
He writes in his notebook.
