Malcolm was reading the admission board when Annelise reached the botanical garden. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the smile that crossed his face made her glad she’d come before she had decided whether to smile back.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He wore a dark jacket over a blue shirt. She had spent ten minutes deciding whether her own green sweater looked like an attempt to match the surroundings and then become annoyed enough with herself to leave it on. Now she was looking at his mouth instead.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The kiss was brief. It still unsettled her, bringing back the warmth of his kitchen and the feel of his hand beneath the covers, things Wednesday had not managed to erase.
“Good,” he said softly when they parted.
“Yes.”
At the ticket window, they each paid admission. A volunteer offered them a map and pointed out the route through the glasshouse. Malcolm accepted it, unfolded it with excessive confidence, and immediately turned it upside down.
Annelise looked at him.
“Orientation,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I want to see where we’ve been.”
“The parking lot.”
“A strong beginning.”
They stepped inside the first glasshouse and into warm, damp air. Her glasses-free face felt suddenly fortunate when Malcolm’s sunglasses, pushed onto his head, began to mist. Water tapped somewhere out of sight. Broad leaves crowded the path, some glossy, some matte, some folded in shapes she would not have believed belonged to living things if she’d seen them drawn.
She stopped beside a plant with leaves larger than dinner plates.
“That seems excessive.”
“Ambitious,” Malcolm said.
She read the label. “I have no idea how to pronounce this.”
“Then we can call it whatever we like.”
“That feels disrespectful.”
“To the plant?”
“It has made an effort.”
He leaned closer to the label, and she watched a curl of amusement settle at the corner of his mouth. “I think it’s doing well without our approval.”
They walked slowly, stopping when something caught one of them. At first Annelise was aware of each pause, each small silence. She wanted the date to go well and disliked the effort of wanting it. Then Malcolm confidently identified a leaf as something she knew it wasn’t, and she forgot to be careful.
“That’s the sign for the plant behind it.”
He looked. “Ah.”
“You’ve credited the wrong party.”
“An understandable administrative error.”
“I’m reporting you.”
“To whom?”
She pointed to a small sign asking visitors not to touch the specimens.
“That doesn’t seem relevant,” he said.
“It establishes authority.”
He laughed, and the sound loosened something in her chest. She had missed being able to make him laugh without anything else waiting behind it.
In the next section, orchids were arranged along a raised bed. She had expected them all to look delicate. Some looked improbable instead, angular and stubborn, their petals turned in directions that seemed contrary to the whole idea of flowers.
Malcolm took out his phone, then glanced at her.
“Do you mind if I take a picture?”
“Of the flowers?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to ask me for every photograph.”
“I meant stopping.”
“I’m already stopped.”
He smiled and moved a little to one side. She watched him find the angle, waiting until the background changed from a sign to dark leaves. He took one photograph, looked at it, and took another.
“Show me.”
He held out the phone. The flower had become strange and vivid against the dark behind it.
“That one looks annoyed.”
“It does.”
“Like it was interrupted.”
“I’ll apologize.”
She leaned against his arm to look more closely. He did not move the screen, but she felt him notice the contact. She stayed there a moment longer than necessary.
Farther along, the path narrowed. He went ahead, then turned to offer a hand where a small damp patch made the floor slippery. She took it. Once past the water, she kept holding on.
Near the end of the room, a volunteer had set out a shallow tray of leaves beside a sign inviting visitors to notice their scent. Annelise slowed. There were no names on the small sample cups, only numbers.
“Do you want to try?” the woman asked.
Malcolm looked at Annelise. She nodded.
“It’s not a quiz,” the woman added, perhaps recognizing the expression that crossed his face. “Just different scents. Rub the leaf gently between your fingers.”
Annelise picked up the first. A sharp lemon smell rose as soon as she touched it, unexpectedly strong. She held it toward Malcolm.
He leaned down, close enough that she felt his breath against her fingers. His eyes lifted to hers before he looked at the leaf.
“That one I know.”
“You’ve been told it’s not a quiz.”
“I can know things recreationally.”
She smiled and tried the second. It smelled warm and familiar without attaching itself to a name. For a moment she was back in a kitchen she couldn’t quite place, somewhere sunlight had reached a wooden table. The memory had no story. She liked it anyway.
“What is it?” Malcolm asked.
“I don’t know.”
“May I?”
She gave him the leaf. He rubbed it between his fingers and frowned, concentrating.
“Something you cook with,” he said.
“A bold category.”
“I prefer to begin broadly.”
The volunteer let them speculate, then turned over the small card beside the tray. Malcolm had been wrong about the first one. Annelise enjoyed the brief outrage on his face.
“It does smell like lemon,” he said.
“It does,” the woman agreed, admirably unmoved by his objection.
The last sample had a strong, almost medicinal scent that Annelise disliked at once. Malcolm liked it. They tried it again, each apparently hoping the other would recognize the obvious truth.
“No,” she said finally. “You can have that one.”
“We’re not taking them home.”
“Emotionally, then.”
He laughed, and she set the leaf back in its cup. The volunteer offered them a paper with the plant names. Annelise took one because she wanted to remember the second scent, then folded it into her bag rather than making a plan to grow something she had no place for.
At a nearby sink, they washed their hands. The tap stayed on for only a few seconds at a time, making Malcolm wave beneath it twice before he could rinse the soap away. Annelise passed him a paper towel.
“Highly advanced technology,” he said.
“Probably senses competitive intent.”
He dried his hands and caught hers lightly as she turned to leave. She looked up.
There was no joke waiting now. He brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist, and she felt the touch all the way to her shoulders. The room was public, bright, full of plants and people. She still wanted to pull him somewhere less public.
“Later,” she said softly, without knowing exactly what she was promising.
He smiled. “All right.”
She let go first because somebody needed the sink.
They emerged into a cooler corridor with benches and a vending machine. Annelise took off her jacket, then put it back on when the outside air reached them through an open door.
“Decisive,” Malcolm observed.
“I’m adapting.”
He checked the map. “There’s an outdoor section before the other house. Or we can go straight through.”
“Outside.”
They followed a gravel path between beds with their late-season color still intact in patches. Some plants had gone to seed; others held flowers above leaves beginning to brown. She liked the mixed state of it, the visible work of a garden after its most photogenic moment.
A maintenance cart blocked one branch of the path. Malcolm started toward another, then stopped.
“Which way?” he asked.
She looked at the map in his hand. “That one. It goes toward the water.”
“Then that one.”
The pond was small, edged with reeds and low stones. A bench stood beneath a tree whose leaves had turned almost entirely yellow. They sat with enough space between them for the map, which Malcolm folded badly and put in his pocket instead.
Annelise looked at the water. She had known on the drive over that she wanted to ask him. She had also imagined postponing it until later in the day, then until they were leaving, then perhaps until a message would spare her from watching his face.
The deadline was tomorrow. That was a practical fact, but it wasn’t the reason to ask now.
“Malcolm.”
He turned toward her.
“Would you come to Cecily’s wedding with me?”
He was quiet. She kept her hands still in her lap.
“Because I want you beside me,” she said. “Not because I need anybody to stop asking questions. I want to spend the day with you.”
His eyes stayed on hers.
“Yes,” he said.
She let out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to come with you.”
There was a smile in his voice now, and she wanted to laugh with relief. She didn’t, not immediately. The first time she had asked, she’d tried to skip the part where wanting somebody made an answer matter. Now the answer mattered so much she could feel it in her knees.
“Good,” she said.
“Very persuasive invitation.”
“I practiced none of it.”
“Even better.”
He moved closer until his knee touched hers. The contact was small and entirely distracting.
“How would you like me introduced?” she asked.
He looked amused. “Malcolm usually works.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He took her hand. “Boyfriend?”
The word made her smile despite herself. “Yes. If you like.”
“I like.”
“Then my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend,” he agreed.
She looked down at their hands. The label did not make them younger. It did not require them to know everything. It was simply a name for the thing they had been making, one she could say aloud in a room full of people without pretending it was less than it was.
“I need to send Cecily your name by tomorrow,” she said. “Final list.”
“Send it.”
“Now?”
“Unless you’ve forgotten how to spell it.”
She gave him a look and took out her phone.
Malcolm Dade is coming with me on Saturday. I’ve asked him, and he said yes.
She read the message once before sending. No explanation, no plea for her sister to be pleased. Cecily’s reply arrived while she was putting the phone away.
Excellent. Added. Tell him Hugo says he still has to dance.
Annelise showed Malcolm the screen.
“Hugo has overestimated his authority,” he said.
“Do you dance?”
“You have evidence.”
“I have evidence from my kitchen. There were no witnesses.”
“A strong reason to protect it.”
“I’ll dance with you.”
His expression softened in a way that made her throat tighten.
“I was counting on that.”
She kissed him on the bench, one hand against his jaw. He turned toward her fully, his arm settling along the back of the seat. For a moment the garden receded into air and light and the warm pressure of his mouth.
When she drew back, she was smiling.
“We should probably look at some more plants.”
“Probably.”
Neither moved immediately.
Eventually hunger persuaded them. The garden cafe had a short queue and a menu that promised soup, sandwiches, and several cakes Annelise could not choose between. Malcolm stood beside her reading the board.
“Don’t say both,” she warned.
“I hadn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking we could choose different ones.”
“That is a much more sophisticated argument.”
They ordered lunch and two pieces of cake to share. The cafe was busy enough that the only free table stood near the door. Each time somebody entered, a cool draft reached her ankles. Malcolm noticed her tuck her feet beneath the chair and asked whether she wanted to move when a table farther inside cleared.
“Yes,” she said.
He gathered his plate while she took the drinks. They moved without debate, the map forgotten on the first table until she went back for it. He accepted it with a sheepish smile.
“Critical navigation equipment,” she said.
“I knew you’d rescue it.”
“Dangerous assumption.”
He looked up at her. “True.”
The word held a trace of Friday, but he did not turn lunch into another apology. She was grateful and a little wary, still. Trust had not returned as a single feeling. It came in brief ordinary intervals when she stopped checking for it.
Over soup they talked about the week ahead. She had choir Tuesday. He had a supplier delivery Thursday and the conversation with Tobin Monday. He mentioned it only briefly, as something he intended to do, not something already accomplished.
“Wednesday?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But let’s confirm the details after you know your week.”
“All right.”
She tore a piece of bread in half. “I want that evening. I don’t want us to pretend it doesn’t matter because the first one went badly.”
“I want it, too.”
They left it there. She liked that they could.
The cake was better than either had expected. Malcolm preferred the one she chose; she preferred his. They exchanged plates halfway through and accused each other of strategic ordering. By the time they finished, the light outside had shifted and the cafe had emptied.
“One more house?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The last glasshouse held plants adapted to dry places. The air was warmer but less damp. Annelise stopped in front of a cactus that appeared to have grown a smaller, angrier version of itself on one side.
“That looks like an argument,” she said.
“Family business.”
She laughed. He took her hand, and they walked through the rows slowly, reading labels they would not remember, choosing favorites with no need to agree.
Near the exit, she found a small plant with pale ridged leaves and decided it was the one she would take home if she could choose anything. Malcolm chose a tall, ungainly cactus whose shape made no decorative sense.
“Why that one?”
“It looks persistent.”
“It looks difficult to move.”
“Also that.”
They returned the map to the box marked for reuse and stepped into the cool afternoon. At the parking lot, he walked her to her car.
“I have a question,” he said.
“Go on.”
“Friday. Before everything starts. Will you help me choose a tie?”
She smiled. “You want my opinion?”
“I reserve the right to reject it.”
“Obviously.”
“I’ve got two. One probably works. The other may be a mistake I’ve kept too long.”
“Now I want to see both.”
“I thought you might.”
She put a hand against his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his jacket. “Friday, then.”
He bent to kiss her, and she rose onto her toes to meet him.