“You’re thinking too much,” I mumbled to the roses.
Late afternoon painted the sky in pinks and yellows andoranges. I closed my eyes and inhaled a deep, calm breath. There was rustling behind me, and then Wykofski poked his head into the Rose Court.
“I think you need a lemonade break,” he said matter-of-factly.
“No, I’m fine,” I tried to say, but he interrupted me immediately.
“Wasn’t a question!” he called, dipping out of the Rose Court again. “Get your butt to the shed or I’m sending my daughter after you!”
I sighed.
He was right. I could use a break.
So I left my gloves by my pruning shears and followed Wykofski out of the Court and down a narrow, pebbled path that led to the garden shed. It was mostly disguised behind the Hedges, tucked up against one of the water reservoirs on the property. The shed doors were open, and Wykofski had a table set out with a jug of lemonade. I took a cup and fell into a fold-out chair, eyeing Damnit in her pet bed before I decided that she was too content to chase me away, and I nursed my drink. My anger slowly ebbed.
It was hard to stay angry when you were drinking Wykofski’s lemonade.
He said he didn’t measure the ingredients, so he could never guarantee the flavor. I think that made it better, honestly. Some days you didn’t realize you needed a sour lemonade until you drank it.
“Sorry to threaten you with the goose, but you just seemed like you needed a drink,” he said as he pulled out his folding chair—one of those fancy ones used for tailgating—and sankdown into it like he never wanted to get back out of it again. “Icertainly need a drink.”
Then, to emphasize his own bleak mood, he pounded back his glass of lemonade in one long gulp. I refilled it for him. And he drank most of the second, too.
Then he smacked his lips, visibly happier, and said, “So, what’s got you frustrated, Sunny?”
“Vines are in the roses now,” I supplied woefully.
He groaned. “Seriously? Do you even know what they are? Kudzu?”
“No . . .” I rubbed at the back of my neck. “Not kudzu. And it’s not a creeper . . . and I don’t think it’s wisteria. It has double leaves like a crossvine . . .” I shrugged. “Maybehoneysuckle? Carolina jessamine? I won’t know until it flowers, and until then, it’s going to choke out everything.”
He nodded gravely. “Got a real kink in the garden, eh.”
“That wasbad,” I said, trying to keep a straight face, but then he giggled and it broke me, too.
We laughed, and it felt good to just acknowledge thesillinessof it all. In the grand scheme of things, having to deal with a few vines wasn’t world ending. I got myself another glass of lemonade, and he chatted about what it’d take to open the Willow Grove. He’d kept the lawn cut, but we still had to treat it for voles and trim up the willows. It wasn’t a space that would be hard to bring back up to standards, it was justbig.
“I have to wonder why it was one of the first ones Eula closed off,” I mused, sinking back into my chair. “It’s not like it’s the Hedges or the Court. It doesn’t take a lot of effort.”
He shrugged. “Close to the greenhouse, I suppose. Got a wall that faces it. So she didn’t want to dredge up thosememories.” He sipped on his lemonade. “I get the feeling she’s bricked up a lot of things that remind her of Henry. Some she probably doesn’t even remember anymore.”
Which made our job that much harder. I sighed, looking up at the blue sky. Soft cottoncandy clouds drifted overhead, slow and meandering. “What’ll you do, you think, after Eula retires? Will you stay?”
His mustache twitched. “I dunno. I can’t imagine this place without her. But Oliver might not be so bad—I think he’ll surprise us.”
“I wish I had your optimism,” I said, remembering my conversation with Oliver yesterday, “but people are inherently selfish. They’ll let you down if you put too much faith in them.”
“Sure, Sunny, but isn’t it exhausting living your life like that? We live in a world that likes to take, but the world likes to give, too. A lot of us forget that. Maybe,maybe, there’s a way for everyone to win.”
“Taarradhin,” I mumbled.
“Hmm?”
“It’s Arabic, I think.” I ran my thumb against the condensation of the Solo cup. “It means something like coming to a happy compromise. One where no one loses.”
“Taarradhin, eh?” He sounded the word out slowly, stroking his mustache. “I like the sound. It’s a good one. So I’ll be optimistic for the both of us,” he declared. “And for Damnit.”
The goose, sitting on her pet bed beside the shed, had her beak tucked into her wing, sleeping. I think this was the closest I’d ever come to her without being chased within an inch of my life. Maybe by the end of summer, she’d actuallylikeme.
