Muriel chuckled. “I don’t feel wise. I feel certain. It’s wonderful. It started gradually, I suppose. The more experiences I had, the more things fell into slightly more predictable patterns. It meant I had to do less work to understand people’s motivations and behaviors and my own responses to them. It meant I knew I had a limited amount of time on earth and could more easily choose how to allocate my resources. Maybe in my early forties? Don’t rush it, darling. You’ll get there, but you can’t shortcut it—it’s these experiences you’re having now that allow you to feel certain later.”

“I don’t feel certain about anything,” Greta admitted.

“I think that’s fairly normal.” Muriel sounded utterly unconcerned.

“But, like, not even about what I want to do for a job. I don’t want to end up mindlessly becoming…I don’t know, an accountant or something.”

“I doubt there’s much chance of that,” Muriel said with a wink.

Greta started to take it as a compliment, then remembered that earlier in their conversation, she’d mentioned how bad she was at math.

“Still,” she grumbled.

“What would you do all day if you could choose?” Muriel asked.

“Something with plants.”

“There you go,” said Muriel.

“I don’t know what I could do with plants that would actually make a living, though,” Greta said and sighed.

“Don’t mistake not knowing with there not being an answer. There’s some wisdom for you. Now, it’s noon. Shall we segue from coffee to champagne?”

Greta grinned. “You’re so fucking cool.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Do an old lady a favor and fetch it from the refrigerator?”

Installed back in the garden with flutes of champagne, Muriel regarded Greta fondly. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Plan.”

Hours later, leaving Muriel’s tipsy and delighted, Greta repeated it to herself as she made her way home.

Don’t worry; plan. Don’t worry; plan. Don’t worry; plan.

Chapter 10

Truman

“We should definitely get ones with you in them,” Truman insisted.

“What? No. Why?”

Ash stood in the cool morning light, hair in a messy bun, waxed-canvas apron over a baby-blue wool sweater fraying at the cuffs and collar. He held a bouquet of pink and yellow ranunculus in one hand and shears in the other.

Truman snapped his picture. “Because.”

He held up his camera to show Ash. Everything was soft and pastel except for the pop of sunshine yellow and the hard line of Ash’s stubbled jaw.

“That’s…that’s a hell of a picture, Truman.”

“Thanks. I just got this camera last year. I’d only ever taken pictures with my phone before that, but I love it. Okay, now show me some of the bouquets you’d have the stuff to make anytime, and we can photograph them.”