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“You’re wearing gardening gloves.”

“They are practical.”

“They have little yellow bees on them.”

I look down.

“Your choice, not mine.”

She laughs.

I clip another stem.

“Besides, even roses have thorns.”

Wren smiles.

“Was that supposed to be profound?”

“Naturally.”

“You’re getting very philosophical in your old age.”

I glance at her.

“Careful, little flower. I am still capable of summoning thunder.”

She rises onto her toes and kisses my cheek.

“Then summon some rain. These hydrangeas are thirsty.”

I look toward the cloudless sky.

A gentle shower begins falling outside the shop.

Wren stares.

Then bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God. I’m dating a supernatural sprinkler system.”

I grin.

“And yet you remain hopelessly devoted to me.”

“Tragically.”

Our new house sits just off Saint Street.

It is small by divine standards, with crooked shutters, a narrow balcony, and a courtyard surrounded by old brick walls.

Wren loves it.

Therefore, I love it.

Although I remain suspicious of the staircase.

“This is perfect,” she declares, spinning beneath the courtyard’s flowering vines.