“I’d love to see you knocked up.” My mother laughed. “White hair and a huge stomach.”

This started a conversation on getting pregnant at seventy and how a body would hold up.

They’re hilarious.

They are their mother’s daughters, and Lucy’s love for them burns brightly, still shining from every inch of her magnificent island garden.

* * *

Every year I fill a number of pots on my front porch with white geraniums right when summer is starting. I like white, and the white geraniums look sharp next to two white roses I have on either side of my porch.

I couldn’t find my trowel, so I headed over to the greenhouse. I knew I could find one in there. My aunts and mother were keeping lights on in the greenhouse because they were growing more seedlings, as usual. And orchids. They love orchids. They love exotic flowers, too, the ones you’d find in Africa or Hawaii or Thailand, so they needed warmth and lights.

I opened the door. Inside the greenhouse, right in the middle, there’s a circular table with a mosaic top. My mother and aunts made the mosaic together. It’s the three of them, three sisters, only they’ve turned themselves into fairies, wearing silver and gold wings and flowered hats, sitting at a table drinking tea and eating pink cake. They are quite artistic.

There are four black iron chairs with red pillows around the table. They also have a shelf filled with books, poetry, mugs, and art supplies.

There were seedlings, pink plumeria, birds-of-paradise, yellow hibiscus, and orchids. I stopped to admire the orchids, the lavender, pink, pure white, purple, coral, scarlet, and butter yellow colors that blended right in the middle to make flower miracles.

I headed toward the back where I knew they had a bucket of tools. Then I stopped. Right by the lights.

Whoa.

Oh, whoa.

I said some bad words. I could not believe this. I put my hands to my head.

It’s like dealing with rebellious teenagers sometimes, it really is.

* * *

“I want to give you this book.” I held out a heavy coffee table book on Italy to the couple in front of me. She looked to be about seventy, her husband about seventy-five.

“I beg your pardon?” the husband asked.

“I want to give this to you. I overheard you talking about wanting to see Italy one day, and I think you should have this book. It’s on me. I’m the owner here, and I want you to have it. No charge.”

They glanced at each other in confusion. Was she serious? Should we do it? Is it wrong to take it? Should we pay her?

Take the book, I thought. Take it. Book the trip you’ve always wanted to go on.

I turned the pages of the book and showed them Italy. Venice. Rome. Florence. I showed them photos of mountains and streams, charming villages and ancient cities, pizza and wine. “Please. Take it.”