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Chapter 8

I stand at the back door, forehead pressed to the glass, staring out at my yard, and I feel like I'm looking into my past and my future. The lawn has already grown tall enough to hide field critters. The weeds still overpower anything that might almost be considered pretty. There was no point in cleaning it up these last couple of weeks. Mr. Crowley was right. The present doesn't matter. It's the past that's coming out, soon to be replaced by the future. From tired greens and browns to swarms of color and fragrance.

Is it possible for us to do with our lives what we can with our gardens? Dig out the bits that have more control than they should, the dying and rotting bits, the stagnant bits, and brighten it all up with what we love, desire, need. Let all of the new take root.

In a way, that was what I'd meant to do after college, in making the choices I did: my career highway, this community for its art and culture. Creativity I lacked at work would be made up for at home. I built this life like a bed, tucked in the sheets—corners neat and tight—threw on some pillows and a self-sewn quilt. No feather-down, no gathered edges, no eyelet or Battenberg lace. No frills, but it's still a place to lie down at the end of the day, where I fit from head to toe. And yet there's this disquiet biting at me.

After my jumps from intern to assistant to escrow officer, there's nowhere else to go but to take my Senior Officer's job, the final destination at our branch. I'm not flying down any superhighway, my compass pointed true north. I'm moseying, rounding bends. And I can't remember the last time I participated in one of our town events. The gallery? I have no idea what theme it's running right now, don't know what the art wall looks like today or what it looked like last month or the month before. The last independent, limited release film I attended in a theater was Sofia Coppola's "Somewhere," three years ago, before I'd moved out of San Francisco. I remember the movie touching me beneath the walls of my flesh and in between my veins in the organ that longs for family, but the only conversation that stands out from that night is when Emily complained that she hated the term "art house" because it wasn't specific enough, and when I'd asked her what she'd rather call such films, she had no answer.

l lift my forehead from the glass, rub the sting left behind from the pressure—a sting I hadn't felt until I lifted away— and move to start the coffee brewing.

At some point I'd lost track of what I was shooting for, or my aim was off. What I wanted was there, but out of focus and coming to mind in romanticized fragments: sporadic pictures of friends, our search for art that has a voice, conversations over wine that matter, that seal themselves to my memory, that can inspire me to live and to do something meaningful. I'm in the job that was supposed to bring me all of this, but it didn't turn out the way I expected.

Maybe these outcomes are meant to be ambiguous until they're upon you, until you're living inside of them. Until one day you wake up to find you're cramped in your bed, the frame off-kilter. The neglected frills are not mere embellishments but necessities.

I wonder if others think this way or if it's only me. It's probably better not to think about it, to just go with it. A bird outside tweets a high staccato over the whir of my coffeemaker heating the water. I check the time as I clasp on my watch. It's nearing seven. Edward will be here soon.

I try so hard not to picture his face that I can't help but see him. I ram my feet into my pumps, and I make sure that the screen door is left ajar so I don't have to wrestle with it when he gets here.

But when the doorbell rings, it's not Edward I invite into my home, it's Gianna, wearing a pair of jeans that look like they were tailored just for her, hair tied to one side over her shoulder, glossed smooth and the ends curled. This is Gianna dressed down, I guess. She tells me that Edward and his guys went around through the side gate. She didn't want them to scare me.

"Beautiful day to begin, isn't it?" she asks as I lead her through to the back.

"Any day is a beautiful day to begin fixing up this yard," I say.

I notice the vacuum brush attachment abandoned on the living room floor, the fine coating of dust on my television screen, that my Run Lola Run one-sheet is slanted. Has Gianna noticed?

She values perfection and I'm not sure what that is. My mismatched flea-market finds might be as laden with lives as her polished antiques, but all she likely sees is flaking paint, scratches and dents, chairs in need of reupholstering.

Atop the coffee table is a heap of magazines and brochures, bills and bank statements. The glossy magazine covers are cracked from my manhandling, the bills long since paid. This summer's Moonlight Cinema flyer lies on top, kept there so that I don't forget about it and so that I can easily remind myself of the dates even though I wasn't totally convinced I'd end up making it. Where does someone like Gianna keep such things? She probably doesn't keep them. She probably records everything in a day planner, or not even a day planner but on an iPad or her phone.

There's a mug, streaked with dried coffee drips, and two lip-smudged wine glasses next to the heap. The black cardigan Emily borrowed on Saturday is balled up on the sofa, slowly being sucked between the cushions. I look over my shoulder, feeling like I should apologize to Gianna for dragging her through my disorder, but she's no longer following me. She stands in front of my bookshelf, her gaze traveling from shelf to shelf.

I take a step toward her. "I need a second one," I say, trying to explain away the books I've crammed in there, some lying on top of others, to utilize every inch of space.

"Edward built ours," she says, "with leftover material from a deck." She gives a quick laugh at that, the type of self-conscious laugh I might've given her a moment ago over my unkempt house.

I picture their living room and don't recall a bookshelf. It must be in their bedroom. My gut tightens as I process the fact that I know more about her house than I do her. I wonder if she's aware of this, if Edward told her I stayed for burgers, used her bathroom, snipped her basil and thyme.

She runs a finger along the spines of books on my "Anthologies" shelf and pauses at the one that still has a USF sticker attached. "English major, too?"

"Minor," I say. "My parents talked me out of it as a major." One thing they'd managed to agree on was the inadvisability of majoring in English.

It's impractical, my dad had said. Not a lot of career options.

My mom: You'll be limiting yourself, Bella. What will you do except teach?

I didn't want to teach. I wanted options.

"Really?" She's taken aback, as though she can't imagine why they'd want to talk me out of it, or perhaps she can't understand why I let them.

Why had I let them? Options, I think. The argument I'd let convince me. I was that malleable. I boxed myself in their practicality and basked under my father's approval.

She pulls out George Sand, Mauprat, only enough to see half the cover. "When I first learned she was a woman, I used to wonder what it would be like to be her."

"Me, too."

"Really?" She looks at me, the book in her hands now.

"I can't imagine pretending to be a man so I could follow a dream."

"Puts things into perspective, right? Because here I am, living my dream." She says it dryly and with a roll of her eyes. Self-deprecation looks wrong on Gianna.

"It had to have been more than a dream for her," I say. "More like... a calling."

She nods and then opens the book, smells it, and leafs through a few pages.

"You – you can borrow it if you want."

"I already have it." She skims the first page, sliding her finger over each line. "I've never read this translation though."

"It's a good one. Take it."

She places it back in the exact place she found it. "Maybe on my way out. Thanks." When she straightens up and turns to me, I can almost see her slip back into her 'professional' role. "Shall we?"

Before I haul open the sliding door, I glance once more at the flyer on my table. I will make it a point to go to the movies in the park this year. I will.

Edward stands with two other guys beneath the maple tree, pointed fingers sketching out what must be their plan of attack. I lag behind Gianna as we walk across the grass and I make the strongest effort not to so much as glance at her husband. It's like those handful of times I had seen him out on a date with other girls. One time I saw him at the mall, his arm across Katie Marshall's shoulders. He'd lifted his hand in a wave and I pretended not to see him, turning away to study a mannequin in a store window. If our eyes had made contact, I was sure he would've been able to see how much I wished it was me tucked into his side. Or worse, Katie would have.

But just like then, it's like all I can see is him anyway, from the corner of my eye, and I feel his eyes on me, or I'm imagining that. I don't check to confirm. Can't.

Control it.

"This is Raoul," Gianna says, "and Collin."

I shake two callused hands. Raoul grips my elbow as we shake. Then I greet Edward with a smile I have to work for. I aim my eyes at his cap instead of his face. Giants, his loyalty seems to be back. He's leaning on a thoroughly-used shovel whose dinged up handle is decorated with a gaudy red bow.

"Ground-breaking ceremony," he says quietly, like he's sharing a joke with me. "Gi's idea."

"Edward," Gianna says, "give Bella the shovel." She produces a small camera from her bag and tells me to say cheese.

"My mother would love you," I say to her.

She moves the camera away from her eye. "I'll make a copy for her."

Edward places the shovel into my hands and, still in his low tone, says, "Put your foot on it there." He taps the metal with the toe of his boot. A dull thunk. "And then push down with all your weight."

I follow his instructions in my pumps and Gianna takes the picture as I lift out a pathetic scoop of grass and dirt. Nobody seems to notice or care so I cast aside any lingering embarrassment. Gianna reminds Edward to keep the noise down before nine a.m. "It's good for business if you can avoid irritating the neighbors." Then she waves to me as she backs toward my side gate. "I'll keep an eye on them."

"No need," Edward says. He's picked up digging where I'd left off, adding to my tiny pile, red bow shining at the end of the shovel.

With a clunk of my gate Gianna's gone, but her voice carries over. "Fix that, Edward. It's rough to open. Too low to the ground."

Edward's gaze catches mine. "I would've fixed it anyway."

I don't know why he felt the need to tell me that. "I have to get to work," I say, not giving him another chance to speak, to make me laugh, make me want to prolong my time with him.

For a moment he looks like he's going to stop me, but then he pulls the brim of his cap down lower and follows the path his wife just took, shovel in hand, calling for the other guys to help him unload their gear.

Keep him at arm's length.

I glance at my watch and rush to the bathroom for a hair-check. Spared the attentions of my hair dryer, it's assumed a mess of waves and snarls to rival The Great Wave off Kanagawa with its sea foam like claws. I dig out some smoothing serum, rub it through to the ends, and tie it up into a ponytail. "That will have to do."

I'm pulling my lunch from the refrigerator when I realize my mistake. My travel mug stands on the counter, empty.

Three years of following a workday routine, and one morning with Edward Cullen around and it's flown out the window, a canary whose cage has been left open.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell the mug. "I'll miss you more than you'll miss me."

A rap on the glass door startles me, and I swing around. My heart flickers when I see Edward, his cap on backwards now. He waves and gestures me over.

"You outta here?" he says as I slide open the door.

"Yes."

"All right. We're gonna clear away any debris, then start digging up all the existing shrubbery."

"Okay."

"We'll start off there." He waves a hand toward the side of my fence. "Work our way out."

He doesn't stop with those smiles that pass right through a person. Will my pulse ever stop reacting to them?

"Edward, do you need something from me? You're going to make me late."

"No," he says, his smile gone, and I find no relief in its absence. He squints at me and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just wanted to touch base." He turns his cap around so it faces forward. His eyes are hidden under the bill's shadow. "You have a good day."

He slides the door closed and despite myself, I watch him walk away. I can see the smudge mark my face left against the glass earlier. Maybe Gianna would clean something like that before taking off. I don't have the time. Not with the kind of traffic I deal with.

It starts to build before I hit the tunnel. I left too late. A horn sounds from behind me. I shift in my seat, adjust the backrest so I sit a little straighter but it feels strange so I return it to its original position. I'm jittery, like I've overdone the caffeine instead of going without. I could blame it on withdrawals, but more likely, it's Edward. It's that look that came over his face when his smile fell. My terseness.

It all feels slow. The crawl of traffic, the fusing of my thoughts, it's like moving through sand. Every day won't be like this, I tell myself. Conversation was expected today. The whole ceremony thing. Touching base. Tomorrow, they'll probably just come in through the side gate and start doing… whatever. I'll do my thing, they'll do theirs. We'll hardly cross paths.

Twenty minutes late, I step into my office. Someone has already dumped a pile of papers on my desk. A double knock comes from my open door and I turn around. Jacob's there, holding a cup. A teabag string dangles down the side.

"Setting your own hours now?"

"Not the greatest idea." I pick up the mound from my desk to show it to him, complaint written all over my face, my posture. The stack can barely fit inside my hand.

"A gift from me," he says. "I've got double on my desk. The Marina branch shut down."

"I forgot that was this week." I set the papers back. "It'll make the time fly by, I guess."

"Here." He offers me the cup. "Take the edge off, babe."

My chest tenses up. "Jacob, can you not call me that? Just... it's just Bella, okay? And I'd rather have coffee right now."

"I'm heading that way," Tanya says. I hadn't noticed her approach from behind Jacob. She threads her fingers through his. "I'll get it for you. Cream and sugar?"

"No, I can..." I stop, soften my voice. "I can get my own. Thanks."

They leave me alone and I start to work, letting enough time pass to be sure Tanya has come and gone from the break room before I go for my coffee.

I'm back at my desk, the coffee already working its magic, when laughter trickles into my office. Jacob and Tanya. I reach for my highlighter. This is the fun part, highlighting each place in a mass of documents where the buyers have to sign or initial or provide information and then double checking that nothing was forgotten or mismarked. Until things calm down here, I'll be doing my job as well as that of an assistant.

My first year here had brought with it a surprising loneliness. For eight, sometimes nine or ten hours of the day, I was surrounded by people. Meetings and appointments, phone calls and corporate Skype conferences. All business. Barely a "How was your weekend?" or a "Do you want to grab lunch at the deli?" We were like a bunch of drones.

Long days bookended by a long commute meant that by the time I got home, I barely had the energy to cook myself dinner. I'd collapse in front of the television with my plate, zone out for a few hours, then drag myself to bed. Rinse and repeat.

I lived for the weekend. The time to recharge my social and emotional batteries.

My father was unsympathetic. "You're not there to make friends," he said. "Keep your head down and get the job done." I don't know if my dad had, or ever needed, friends. For him, life was a series of opportunities to make good decisions. An investment made at just the right time that resulted in what he'd call "a tidy profit." A promotion earned through working harder and longer than anyone else. Always looking to that golden time: retirement.

My mom seemed not to hear my complaints. Or maybe she couldn't understand them—she had buckets of time she was always trying to fill with something new. She'd jabber away about her quilting circle or her laughing yoga class then, her own news delivered, she'd be off again: "Oh, would you look at the time? I need to go, honey. Got to be up early for my aromatherapy session." She'd hang up before I finished saying goodbye.

Security. That's what they're about, my parents. Financial security, job security, home security. Relationship security. Surely that's why they're still together when I haven't seen them smile at each other since I graduated high school.

I can't pinpoint a moment in time when I decided to make their priorities my own. It's more like I breathed them in until they became a part of me without my acknowledgement.

At the nursery, Edward had shown me what he called a "fruit salad tree." Set a little apart from the Meyer lemon saplings, it was a lemon tree grafted to grow limes and mandarins as well.

"They graft on branches from the other trees." He trailed his finger along a branch, stopping at a hard green fruit. "The ripening is staggered, so only one kind of fruit grows at a time."

I raised my eyebrows.

"They can do it with stone fruit, too. That apricot tree you want? It could grow peaches and plums. Almonds, even."

I said, "Just apricots, thanks."

I try to imagine grafting myself like that, severed from my upbringing, from all the admonishments my parents have loaded on me until I'm bowed and straining like a branch carrying too much overripe fruit.

I swipe a few marks with my highlighter, turn the page, and let out a long sigh. Grafted lime branches still grow limes. Even when they're attached to a lemon tree.