Love, Artifacts, and You by Sarah Ready

Author:Sarah Ready [Ready, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781954007239
Publisher: W.W. Crown

10

Emma

* * *

I’m in serious need of coffee so we decide to swing by the SweetStop Bakery. The bakery is a short walk from the Historical Society, through a little open park and a rose garden in full summer bloom.

“Look at this. It’s incredible.” I point at the rose garden. It’s about half an acre and is surrounded by a white picket fence covered in purple clematis and flowering vines. A white wooden trellis with climbing red roses is at the entrance. A stone path leads through the garden to the exit into the grassy park and then on to Main Street. Andrew and I walk through the trellis and I breathe in the rich old fragrance of dozens of antique roses.

“Wow. It’s beautiful.”

I look at Andrew to see what he thinks, but he isn’t looking at the roses, he’s looking at me.

“What?” I give him a self-conscious smile. “Don’t you like roses?”

He tears his eyes away from my mouth and looks around the garden. There are at least fifty different varieties, each with a metal label in the ground nearby telling their common and Latin name. Maybe there’s an agricultural school or a club that cares for this garden. Some of the roses are delicate with soft, small, pale petals and frothy yellow centers. Others are robust and showy in vibrant deep reds. There are fat bushes, delicate miniatures, and long-stemmed roses. Yellow, peach, white, crimson and pink. I reach out and touch the deep red petal of a rose hanging from the trellis. The petal is thick and velvety.

I look at Andrew again. The petal is nearly as soft as he was. His eyes go dark when he sees the expression on my face.

“I could learn to like them.”

I smile and pull him along the little stone path.

“I love roses.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

I nod. A bee buzzes by and lands on a pale peach rose.

“I always have. My mom grew them at our family home.” A bit of sadness tugs at me. It’s bittersweet and smells like roses. “When our house was foreclosed on…those roses were the only thing I…they were the only thing it was hard to let go of. I can’t see roses without thinking of her.”

I look up at Andrew. His jaw is tight and his eyes are dark and unreadable. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “It’s not your fault. It was stupid of me to hang on to them. They aren’t her. I put too much meaning in them.”

He reaches down and takes my hand. His fingers stroke over mine. I lean into him for a moment, then start walking along the path again.

“Anyway. The reason I like them is because they’re exactly how I feel about life.”

He stops and turns me toward him. We’re at the center of the garden near a sweet little fountain.

“How’s that?”

I look up at him. I never noticed this before, but his lower lip has the same curving lushness of a petal. It’s a juxtaposition against the

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