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)
Muriel smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “It’s a mindset, dear. If you think about it when you’re talking to her, I’m sure you’ll find things to respect. Respect isn’t the same thing as like.”
She walked into the back room, leaving her paintings behind.
As Greta carried Muriel’s bags to the garden gate, she tried to replay the last conversation she had with her mom to find things to respect. Nell had been worried that she was in a city alone, sad that she was gone during the holidays, and resentful that Greta had left “because of something so silly.”
So her mom judged her too.
“Muriel? Do you feel wise? And if so, when does it start?”
Muriel chuckled. “I don’t feel wise. I feel certain. It’s wonderful. It started gradually, I suppose. The more experiences I had, the more things fell into slightly more predictable patterns. It meant I had to do less work to understand people’s motivations and behaviors and my own responses to them. It meant I knew I had a limited amount of time on earth and could more easily choose how to allocate my resources. Maybe in my early forties? Don’t rush it, darling. You’ll get there, but you can’t shortcut it—it’s these experiences you’re having now that allow you to feel certain later.”
“I don’t feel certain about anything,” Greta admitted.
“I think that’s fairly normal.” Muriel sounded utterly unconcerned.
“But, like, not even about what I want to do for a job. I don’t want to end up mindlessly becoming…I don’t know, an accountant or something.”
“I doubt there’s much chance of that,” Muriel said with a wink.
Greta started to take it as a compliment, then remembered that earlier in their conversation, she’d mentioned how bad she was at math.
“Still,” she grumbled.
“What would you do all day if you could choose?” Muriel asked.
“Something with plants.”
“There you go,” said Muriel.
“I don’t know what I could do with plants that would actually make a living, though,” Greta said and sighed.
“Don’t mistake not knowing with there not being an answer. There’s some wisdom for you. Now, it’s noon. Shall we segue from coffee to champagne?”
Greta grinned. “You’re so fucking cool.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Do an old lady a favor and fetch it from the refrigerator?”
Installed back in the garden with flutes of champagne, Muriel regarded Greta fondly. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Plan.”
Hours later, leaving Muriel’s tipsy and delighted, Greta repeated it to herself as she made her way home.
Don’t worry; plan. Don’t worry; plan. Don’t worry; plan.
Chapter 10
Truman
“We should definitely get ones with you in them,” Truman insisted.
“What? No. Why?”
Ash stood in the cool morning light, hair in a messy bun, waxed-canvas apron over a baby-blue wool sweater fraying at the cuffs and collar. He held a bouquet of pink and yellow ranunculus in one hand and shears in the other.
Truman snapped his picture. “Because.”
He held up his camera to show Ash. Everything was soft and pastel except for the pop of sunshine yellow and the hard line of Ash’s stubbled jaw.
“That’s…that’s a hell of a picture, Truman.”
“Thanks. I just got this camera last year. I’d only ever taken pictures with my phone before that, but I love it. Okay, now show me some of the bouquets you’d have the stuff to make anytime, and we can photograph them.”
Ash snipped, twisted, and pulled so quickly Truman hardly noticed he was seeing bouquets come together. So far, he’d only seen Ash slow and deliberate, but this was him adroit and in total control. Truman wondered which version of Ash he would see if they—
Nope. No. Nuh-uh.
“What do you do for work?” Ash asked as Truman stuffed down all thoughts of Ash in bed and began to photograph.
“I’m an accountant.”
“Come on.”
Truman looked up. “What?”
“You’re… Sorry. I thought you were…” Ash shook his head. “That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I suppose some kind of photographer or social media management…thing. An accountant is like…my great-uncle Morty.”
“Well, sure, me and your great-uncle Morty are like that.” He held up crossed fingers. “Nah, I’m not creative really.”
Truman is our practical child.
“How’s that? You’re being creative right now.”
Truman waved that away. “This is just practical. Like, you need pictures for the website so we’re taking pictures. My sisters are the creative ones. Miriam is a painter and Eleanor is a singer.”
Ash put together another bouquet, this one darker and more somber. “Do you like it? Accounting.”
Truman looked through the camera’s viewer at the beautiful colors and forms. When he’d started college, he hadn’t known what he wanted to study. He was curious about all the subjects and excited to learn. He’d hoped interest and skill might make the choice for him, but he liked most of them, was good at most of them. He found himself, at the middle of his junior year, meeting with his advisor and having no clue what he wanted to major in, much less do after college.