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Chapter 16.

We walk among pagodas, stone statues, and trees with twisted trunks to find Maggie's old colleague. The garden's perfume billows around us, sometimes strengthened by the wind, sometimes relaxing into the background.

"Laurent? Is that it? A photographer? You're sure he can help me?"

"He can explain it better than I can. And look, a lead is a lead."

She met him during her short career as a cooking teacher. He taught photography through the arts and recs department, but now he has his own startup website or something. Too busy to have a normal meeting, due to a trip out of state in a couple of days, he was willing to meet us at the Japanese Tea Garden. Maggie had explained that he's shooting photos for his site. I may not understand how he can help me, but I don't need an excuse to visit this place.

Through texts we find him by the arched drum bridge. He's bent over the creek, his butt in the air, photographing a lilypad. Black dreadlocks fall down his back and over his shoulders. When Maggie says hello to him he holds out his hand without a word.

"He's in his zone," she says. I take it the hand means we have to wait until the zone releases him.

Greenery flourishes here. The sun barely finds us through the trees above. The rays only touch parts of our bodies, points of light on a shoulder, a forehead, a knee. Flowers are in full bloom. The creek trickles. This place radiates tranquility. It's the kind of place a person like Edward could come for inspiration. I remind myself that people like Edward created this place, Makota Hagiwara one of them, I read. He lived here with his family before they were forced into an internment camp during the war. Afterward, they were not permitted to return. They could no longer call this place home. And here, after paying my admission fee, I stand amid their old dwelling place in the Japanese Tea Garden, in Golden Gate Park, meeting someone who might help navigate my future. The way the past and future merge to become the present is mind-boggling. I don't think it's something people like to burden their minds with—all the tragedy that had to happen just so they can stand right where they are in this moment. Like I do now, they must take a breath and let the thought float away. There it goes into the cherry trees. The thought joins the past.

"How's your yard looking? Still demolished?" Maggie speaks as if we're in a library.

I suppose I should speak low, too, so I don't shake up Laurent's zone. "Not anymore. It's coming together fast. Wait until you see the smoke plant."

Before I left for Maggie's, I visited my new barbeque area paved in stamped concrete. Edward was planting a line of three lilac shrubs. The shrubs barely reached my knees, but if I let them, Edward said, they'll eventually grow tall enough to form a wall separating that area from the rest of the yard. A wall of lilac, I thought, and closed my eyes.

"It's going to be park-like out there," I say, "but with little rooms." The barbecue room, the seating room, the vegetable growing room. Instead of one big expanse of lawn, my yard is sectioned with purpose.

Laurent stretches his back, then turns to us with a smile behind his beard. Thick and black, his beard might be sporting a few gray hairs or might just be catching specks of light in a peculiar way. They disappear as he moves.

He fits the lens cap to his camera. "I didn't mean to be rude," he says. "Had to take advantage of the light. You blink too long and it vanishes." He leans in to kiss Maggie's cheek. "You're looking fabulous as ever, honey."

Maggie accepts his compliment gracefully and, hand on his elbow, turns him toward me. "This is Bella."

I extend my hand. His fingers are long and slender and as soft as they look. Inside hands. So different from Edward's callused fingers, dirt-darkened even right after he washes them.

"Nice to meet you," he says. "Thanks for coming out of your way."

"It's a pleasure."

"Tell me what you bring to the table."

"Um…" I rub the sides of my thighs. "I don't actually have a clue which table I'm coming to. But I'm a fast learner and I don't need my hand held. I get the job done and I can work with anybody."

Laurent nods. That's it. A bob of his head. It could be an approving nod, or a 'just what I expected' nod. My answer does sound very generic.

He scratches his fingers through his beard. "Maggie says you work for a title company. You were what, a business major?"

"Economics."

"Interesting."

"Sometimes. There's a lot of psychology, behavioral science stuff, that drives the market. That's always fascinating."

Laurent swings the heavy looking backpack he's carrying off his shoulder and squats down to unzip it. "So, what are you looking for?" He eases his camera into a padded compartment. "What matters to you?"

"Creativity" is the first thing that comes to mind.

He seals up his backpack, stands, and scrutinizes me as if he is taking another photograph, like he wants to capture my reaction before I can control it. "Who's creative in your family?"

"Pardon?"

Metal slides against metal as he collapses the legs of his tripod. This thing, almost as tall as I am, folds into something the length of his forearm. "Are you the first?"

I tug my shirt away from my chest a few times to let some air in. It wasn't hot out here a second ago. I have been too focused on finding a creative field of work that I haven't spent enough time thinking about whether or not I really am creative. "My mom," I say, fast. "What about you?" A question, it takes the spotlight off me for the time being and I take a few seconds to calm myself.

He gives me a deliberate chuckle. He likes the question. "My sister and I are the most recent in a big, obtuse triangle shape of artists. We've just started this publication. Our first issue went live on Monday. It's a lifestyle magazine, but we're completely digital." He maneuvers the tripod into a slim case and zips it up.

"That's—" I can't come up with a better word "—cool." Vocabulary, always elusive at the most critical moments.

"It is." Even the beard can't disguise his lifted chin, his pride. "Our target market is what Senna calls the thoughtful under-thirties. We go beyond the usual fashion spreads and gig reviews, dating advice and all that. We'll cover politics and social issues. Environmental consciousness." He secures the repackaged tripod in a cuff hanging from the base of his bag. "Senna hammered out this article about people who want to excuse their bigotry."

"There's an excuse?"

"You've heard it. 'I'm not racist but...' 'I'm not homophobic but...' Her article argues there are no buts. If I say, 'Not to be sexist but…' I am straight up being sexist. You know what I'm saying. Senna nails it to the wall. No space for argument. I wouldn't argue with her. I'll tell you that."

"Sounds like something I'd want to read."

"That's what we're banking on. But what could you contribute? Anything in the economics arena? Financial advice? Five reasons to 'just say no' to a credit card?"

I steel myself under his gaze, force myself not to glance at Maggie, not to hint that I need support. I drop my notions of creativity and go with what I know. "I know a lot about home buying and the housing market. It's my job to keep on top of these things. The pitfalls of home ownership. Buying versus renting. Hidden costs. You'd be surprised how many new buyers are a couple thousand dollars short due to closing costs they didn't understand. They scramble for the money, make a phone call to parents or pull from an investment."

Laurent reaches into his back pocket, slips out a business card and hands it to me. "Do you write?"

"I did in college." I tell myself those creative writing courses count.

"Take a look at what we're about. Senna's email address is on the card. Send her a writing sample. Something you think we could use."

I thank him for the opportunity and slip his card into the front pocket of my purse.

"How about some lunch?" Laurent says, and Maggie suggests we check out the tea house.

Laurent hoists his camera gear onto his back and tells us he'll drop off his equipment in his car and meet us there.

"Why didn't you give me more information? Writing, Mags?"

"I didn't want you to dismiss the idea before you even met him."

"But I was totally put on the spot. I felt so stupid."

"I was ready to jump in and help if you needed it, but you didn't."

"I'm not one of your kids." In this Eden where anger should not exist, I raise my voice. "If I want to dismiss something, that's my right. As an adult."

"You're right. But you were great. Poised, confident, quick on your toes. You're going to do just fine without me or anyone else."

"You needed proof?"

"I didn't. But you might have. And now you have it."

I halt my argument where it stands. Maggie breaks eye contact and adjusts the sleeve of her dress, even though it's cuffed with such perfect folds she had to have ironed them into place. Too soon, she and her family will be more than 300 miles away. I link my arm through hers and probably mess up her sleeve.

"Mags…" I could say things won't change, that distance means nothing, but they will and it does.

"I know." She rests her head on my shoulder. Her hair tickles my throat. "I know."

"You didn't apologize." I poke her side.

"You didn't thank me." She pokes me back.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

.

At home, I sit on my bed, laptop in my lap, and start typing out an article. I title it: Ten Things To Know Before You Make an Offer on Your Dream House. It's an easy write and after about thirty minutes of writing, I find I could expand the list to twenty. I don't have to do any research, but I do some anyway, gather a few sources. I close my laptop and push it away. I'll revise it in the morning and send it to Senna in the next couple of days. I'm eager to get it to her right away, but I can't rush it. I need to make sure it's just right. My creative writing classes taught me the importance of revisions.

I fall asleep with the laptop beside me. Folded inside it dwells my first tangible step toward a different future. I am thankful to Maggie for her help and my sleep is quilted with pride. The feeling stays with me until I wake, and I pull the laptop in close. I hug it.

I undertake my first revision at the counter after breakfast. So fixated on my work, I don't hear them until I've finished my read through. As my head quiets, I recognize that instead of the usual sounds of voiceless labor—smacks of a shovel or the purr and rumble of machinery—I'm hearing more than one person speak.

There's a kid in my vegetable garden. His back to my window, he kneels in the soil across from Edward. I walk out there and follow the stone path along what two days ago was dirt but is now lawn. I'm supposed to stay off of it as much as possible for a couple of weeks, Edward told me.

"Is this right, Coach?" The boy seems to be massaging the roots of a plant. He has shaggy, longish blond hair that falls to his eyes when he leans over like that. "Am I doing it?"

"Yeah, that's good. Go ahead and plant it." The holes have been dug, four in each row, a square of twelve. Edward fills them part way with new soil and the boy removes each plant from its old pot and plants them.

"Child labor?" I ask.

Edward looks up. "Whatever it takes to get the job done." He stands and brushes his hands on the back of his pants. He isn't wearing gloves.

"Stand up," he says to the boy. "It's polite."

The boy gets to his feet. He rubs the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. He looks about ten.

"This is Garrett. Garrett, Bella."

Garrett. I give Edward a look as if exchanging some secret, until I remember he isn't privy to the secret, doesn't know I've been wondering who Garrett is since Gianna first mentioned him.

The kid reaches out his hand. Edward pushes it back. "That's good," he says, "but she doesn't want you shaking her hand with your grubby ones."

"It's okay." I lean forward for his hand and shake it. "A little dirt never hurt anyone."

Edward looks at his own hands, stained with dirt. "Guess you're right." He squints and shakes his head. "He wanted to come. I'm teaching him a skill. And I pay him a little. Under the table."

I catch Garrett glance behind me toward my table.

"Edward's your gardening coach?"

"And baseball."

Edward settles an arm across the boy's shoulders. "He asked me to coach his team. I said I would."

"We're brothers." Garrett looks up at Edward.

"That's right. My brother from another mother." Edward holds his fist out and Garrett bumps it with his.

"You boys want something to drink? I've got... water."

"Lemonade." Garrett shakes his hair from his eyes.

"Your lemonade's in my cooler in the back of the truck. Go ahead and get it."

Garrett runs off and I eye Edward. "Your brother?"

"More like neighbor," he says.

"And you're his baseball coach? Because he asked you."

"Nothing better to do."

"But you're here, like, all the time."

"Not on Tuesdays and Thursdays after six."

"You go straight from here to the games?"

"Not straight. I go home to change, grab our gear. Practice is on Saturdays, so it doesn't really mess with work."

"I wasn't worried about that."

"No, I know. I was just saying." He turns his cap around backwards. "His dad isn't... around. Doesn't even come to the games, you know?"

"What about his mom?"

"Nope."

"So, if it weren't for you..."

"He'd never get to games. Or practice. And he's got talent. Great arm. Good swing." He swings an invisible bat. "When he connects, the ball flies. But I like it, too. Baseball's my sport."

"You were really good. I remember."

"You came to the games?"

I pull at the ends of my shorts. Always saying too much. "A couple." A couple. "But everyone knows you broke the record."

"What record?"

My eyes narrow. "The school record. For pitching the most no hitters in a season. Senior year. How can you not remember?"

He grins and his eyes shine. A look that's more cocky than humble. "Just testing you."

Garrett clunks back over the dirt, downing his lemonade. We can hear each swallow.

"Take it easy," Edward says.

"Hey, Garrett," I say. "Can I come to one of your games?"

He takes a break from his drink and gives me a breathless, "Yeah, I got one tonight."

Edward's eyes are on me when I glance at him. Then I bend down and pick up a plant.

"You're not on payroll," Edward says.

"I have to learn for next year."

"Looks like I got two apprentices today," he says to Garrett. "Hand me the one that says bell pepper."

"Here, Coach."

Edward takes the plant from Garrett. "Capsicum anum."

"Not again," Garrett says.

"Hey, man, if you're gonna learn, you're gonna learn. Bella? This one goes there."

I put the plant I'm holding down, take the one he offers me, and our eyes lock. With sunshine on his face, and the section of new lawn behind him serving as a backdrop, the green in his eyes is enhanced, more captivating than I'm used to. And what's behind them, I wonder, right now, as he gazes back at me?

Another secret kept, he lets his eyes fall away. I'm released. With a new plant in his hands, he demonstrates how to gently loosen the roots. His voice is quieter than before. I strain to hear him over the breeze.

"Why don't you use gloves?" I ask.

"I do sometimes. It depends. With this stuff, I like to feel what I'm doing. I touch the plant. It touches me. We're a team. I have extra gloves in my truck, if you need them."

I tell him I don't and follow his instructions. I massage mine the way he showed me, before fitting the bell pepper into the hole. My cells mix into the plant. A team. I fill in the soil. Dirt crowds under my fingernails.

"Hose," Edward says to Garrett after the last vegetable is planted. "Time for a drink." He takes the hose from Garrett and dictates to him when to turn the water on. "Medium flow."

We all rinse our hands under the cold stream as Edward gives the vegetables a long drink.

"Are you going skating with us, too?" Garrett asks, and I have no idea what he means or if he's addressing me. But he's looking my way.

"What do you mean?"

"After the games, we skate."

"They got a halfpipe at the sports park," Edward says. "Win or lose, we celebrate."

"Skateboards? I don't know about that. I'd probably hurt myself."

"No way," Garrett says. "We'll teach you."