“Thoughtful.”

“Oh, OK. I can manage that.”

There’s silence for a minute or so, and I assume he is making the necessary camera adjustments. I figure there’s no time like the present to practice some mindfulness, so I relax on to the earth and focus on my senses, trying not to think about creepy-crawlies in my hair or finding their way into my ears. The grass is tickly against my bare skin, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. I can smell the wildflowers around me, some I recognize as poppies and cornflowers, but most are varieties of which I have no idea. There is such a large assortment that I realize Ruth must have planted them here deliberately.

I can hear the water in the river babbling softly, and birds in the willow tree and surrounding native bush as they warble and call to each other. It’s magical; it’s perfection. But of course I can only enjoy it for so long before negative thoughts creep back in. There is a whole world of nature I have yet to discover. Scandinavian forests. The Alaskan wilderness. Mexican beaches. I’ve seen them all in movies and magazines. I yearn to touch, smell, and explore them firsthand.

“You OK?”

I open my eyes. James is silhouetted against the sun, looking down at me. He has his camera to his eye and I realize he has been taking photos while I was unaware.

“Yes.” I smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” He lowers the camera to cast a critical eye over me.

“There’s something missing.”

He reaches down to pluck a few flowers, which he clumsily arranges into a makeshift bouquet. “Here.” He thrusts them at me. “Hold those.”

I close my eyes and smell the flowers he passed me. Pollen goes straight up my nose and I start sneezing violently.

“Christ, you didn’t inhale a bee, did you?” he asks, concerned.

“If I did it’s now in my brain,” I laugh, managing to bring myself back under control. “Good luck explaining that to my mother.”

“OK, close your eyes again and hold the flowers on your chest,” he says when I have calmed down.

I give him a pointed look but do as he says, and then lie there and listen to the gentle whirr of the camera as he takes photos.

“Doesn’t this look a bit weird?” I ask after a while.

“Shush, don’t talk.”

“But I feel like Ophelia,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

I hear him sigh. “Who?”

“Ophelia, you know, in that painting.”

“What painting?”

I open my eyes, sit up, and give the flowers a little shake. “The really famous one, by John Everett Millais. Come on, you’re an artist of sorts; how can you not know what I’m talking about?”

He lowers the camera and I watch his eyes widen in horror. “Oh, God. You’re right. Probably not the best pose, given the circumstances. I’m so sorry. I should have realized.” He squeezes his eyes shut, angry with himself.