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)
“Should I mix them up or keep each type together?”
“Camilla likes them mixed together,” Toni replied. “Three inches apart.”
Greta knelt in the dirt, happily interplanting the exotic-sounding radishes. She was used to the calm that came from repotting her plants, fertilizing them, and trimming away dead leaves. But kneeling in the dirt in December, with plants thriving all around her, filled Greta with hope.
She wanted this. She wanted to be in a place like this, teeming with life year-round, full of people and possibilities. She’d never done much gardening outside. The growing season in Maine was fairly short, and her indoor plants took most of her energy. But the idea of growing her own vegetables, having a plot in a community garden—hell, having even a little bit of space in this climate where things could thrive. She wanted it.
When the radishes were sown and the group headed back to the others to mulch, Greta snapped a picture of her hand in the dirt with greenery all around her and sent it to Ash.
playing with plants in december wth!? she wrote and added a heart eyes emoji. how are you?
Then she slid her phone into her back pocket and went to learn how to mulch tropicals, whatever that meant.
***
After a much-needed nap (six a.m. was not her preferred time to rise), a long walk with Horse, and a lot of googling how to grow tropical plants and vegetables in the New Orleans weather, Greta got ready to meet up with Carys, who’d texted earlier to invite her to a pool party.
Greta threw on a sports bra and some tank underwear beneath her jeans and A-shirt, hoping Carys’ friends were okay with impromptu swimwear. Carys hadn’t said anything else about the vibe of the party except to say there would be food, drinks, and a special guest.
She walked to Carys’ and found Carys, Helen, and Veronica sitting on the porch, sipping their famous lemonade. Greta’s heart filled with joy, not only to see Carys but Helen and Veronica as well. She liked them both so much. After only knowing them for a short time, she felt like they were her friends as well.
“Hi there,” Carys said warmly and wrapped her arms around Greta’s neck, pressing a kiss to her lips.
Greta’s whole body lit up. She wanted the hug to last forever.
“How was school and the square?” Greta asked.
“School was medium. One of the students in my 12:30 is this boat-shoe wearing, floppy-haired creep, and he doesn’t take notes or anything, just leers at me the whole time.”
“God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think that your own students might be like that.”
Helen snorted. “You should hear one of the evaluations she got at the end of term last year.”
Carys grimaced. “I knew exactly who it was too. Little shit. Anyway, the square was good. Teacup and I hit the jackpot with some kind of water polo team. What the hell even is water polo? But they were buzzing with performative testosterone and loudly wanted pictures with Teacup and to ask me math problems, so I raked it in.”
“Suffer from their creepiness in class, take their money after,” Greta said.
“Exactly,” Carys replied.
“So where are we going?” Greta asked as they began to walk.
Veronica balanced a large jug of what Greta presumed was her lemonade on her shoulder, so Greta hoped they weren’t walking too far.
“Our friend Rae house-sits for this family. The husband is some kind of tech dude, and the wife owns an art gallery here and one in LA. They go to California all the time, and they have a pool, so Rae will have us over. It’s pretty sweet.”
The house was tucked behind a gate that surrounded overgrown shrubs whose tendrils crowded the path to the front door. It looked unassuming and modest through the foliage—nothing you’d notice from the street. In fact, Greta realized she’d walked past this corner several times since she’d arrived and never noticed it.
Helen opened the unlocked door, and they entered another world.
Inside was cool and serene, and Greta found herself in a foyer that more closely resembled a gallery than a hallway. There were canvases hung salon style on both walls, from paintings so tiny they appeared to be done with a single strand of hair to photographs blown up to the size of a door.
And there, in the middle of the wall… Greta gasped.
“Is that…that’s not an original Mimi Nakaya?”
“Yup,” Carys said.
“Holy shit.”
Greta walked gingerly into the living room, as if there might be famous, priceless objects lying on the floor and she didn’t want to step on them.
The house opened up into room after room, nothing like the shotgun style that Greta had become accustomed to. It had clearly been gutted and renovated, its modern open plan a showcase for the many objets d’art that stood on pillars and shelves as well as lining the walls.