There Among the Blossoms

PART ONE

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

That was how the saying went, at any rate. It was allegedly meant to describe the plight of the
woman left behind; the eligible bachelorette who was forever cast in the role of the supportive
friend. The implied lamentation was that she – the perpetual bridesmaid – would never see a
happy ending of her own; would never be whisked away by Prince Charming to a life of
romantic bliss.

Of course, the entire perspective was flawed at its core: The idea that a woman needed a
wedding (or even a man) in order to be happy seemed like the sort of thing that had been
dreamed up by a fairytale author who had grossly overestimated his own importance. Perhaps
the bridesmaid was happier on her own, or maybe she simply had priorities beyond settling
down with the first fellow to offer an over-the-top proposal. In truth, the only wisdom in the adage
of “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride” came from the fact that the aforementioned bride
received far more attention than the people who had helped her to that place at the end of the
aisle. Yes, it was said to be her special day, but it was only ever possible because of the many
individuals who had come to her aid.

Besides, if attention was what a person craved, then it was arguably far better to be a
bridesmaid than anyone else. It was the bridesmaid’s privilege to stand without a partner in front
of the crowd, drawing eyes from the many men (and possibly even women) who wondered if
she was open to courtship. The bride, by her very presence, was visibly committed to someone
else… but her maid of honor and her cadre of friends could very well be unattached, and what
better way to be noticed than to stand in their finery, drawing gazes from everyone who had
been swept up in the amorous atmosphere. Really, the bridesmaids were the lucky ones.

Nobody ever noticed the caterer.

Rebecca sighed as the sardonic thoughts continued to swirl through her head. This latest
wedding had been a spectacle of splendor and affection, complete with personally written vows,
cherub-like flower girls, and a three-year-old ring-bearer clad in a pint-size tuxedo. A string
quartet had provided the music, making the entire scene appear as something out of an
impossibly idealized storybook. Rebecca had been to many idyllic weddings – that was her job,
after all – but this one had been as close to perfect as could possibly have been expected. The
bride had been gorgeous, the groom had been handsome, and the families had all been offering
their smiling support and approval. Beloved friends had been in attendance, too, each of them
having contributed to the enormous stack of gifts (all of which had apparently been coordinated
to include pastel wrapping paper).

The location had been expertly chosen, too. Someone – no doubt an experienced planner with
a veritable encyclopedia of potential venues – had discovered a breathtaking garden on the
grounds of a grand and ancient winery. A stone path led from iron-wrought gates through a
meadow of perfectly manicured green, then passed beneath a canopy of reaching trees before
coming to its end at a gazebo surrounded by flowers. Carefree birdsong had greeted each of
the attendees as they had arrived, and the winged singers who had been offering it had quieted
– almost as if on cue – after the procession had ended and the music had given way to the
minister’s warmhearted greetings. Rebecca had taken a brief moment to explore beyond the
area that had been designated for the wedding, and had discovered that the rest of the grounds
were just as well-kept, with dozens of expertly pruned rosebushes lining paths that stretched out
toward the nearby vineyard.

Then there had been the food. Rebecca had personally seen to it that each of the decadent
hors d'oeuvres had been perfectly arranged on their serving platters; that each of the appetizers
had been both identical in appearance and delectable in flavor; that the selection of main
courses – including choices of steak, chicken, fish, or vegetarian options – had paired
exquisitely with the wines; that the desserts had all been composed of flawless colors and
complementary flavors. She had heard both murmured commendations and exclaimed praises
for the fare, and had felt a swelling of pride from the accolades… but that elation had been just
as quickly crushed when either the bride or her mother had been given credit for her dedicated
work.

Never a bridesmaid or a bride, Rebecca thought, but always the caterer; always the one who
toiled behind the scenes, seeing to it that even the mundane, easily overlooked details – the
artistic folding of the napkins, the careful positioning of the silverware, the arrangement of each
table’s flowering centerpiece – had embodied nothing short of perfection. The wedding and its
following dinner had been over in only a precious few hours, but the work that had gone into
preparing it had occupied the last several weeks of Rebecca’s life. It wasn’t that she was
envious, necessarily – that wasn’t quite the correct word for how she felt – but she did feel a
pang of something akin to resentment for the fact that her efforts were so easily overlooked, or
even attributed to other people.

Now the wedding was done, though. The guests had all departed for a reception in the winery’s
expansive ballroom. If she listened for it, Rebecca could hear echoes of their revelry: Loud,
thumping music – no doubt being offered by a disc jockey who was being paid exorbitant
amounts to press a few buttons – was occasionally punctuated by choruses of intoxicated
cheering. It sounded more like a party at a college dormitory than it did a celebration of two
newlyweds’ love, and it came across as a decidedly odd juxtaposition to the refined and classy
ceremony which had preceded it. Although she couldn’t see them, Rebecca had no trouble
imagining the rhythmic gyrations of the people on the dance floor, their enthusiastic motions in
stark contrast to the tailored suits and custom-made dresses that so many of them were
wearing. The glasses of wine and champagne would have likely been replaced by bottles and
cans of beer, or perhaps even plastic cups of still-stronger liquor.

No, she wasn’t envious. Rebecca found such environments exhausting… but at the same time,
she was hardly enthusiastic about the task that lay ahead of her: Now that the guests had left
their tables behind, the dishes, discarded cutlery, and half-eaten remnants of meals all needed
cleaning. She had employees to help her, of course – none of whom were particularly dedicated
or enthusiastic, but who nonetheless got the job done eventually – but she had learned long ago
that it was wiser to lead by example than it was to simply delegate responsibilities. The sun was
already well into its descent, though, and if she had gauged the cleanup before her accurately,
Rebecca suspected that she would be there until long after night had fallen. After sighing and
squaring her shoulders, she readied herself to begin.

Before she could even step forward, though, she felt a hand seize her arm from behind.
PART TWO

Rebecca’s first instinct was to scream, but she clamped her lips down on the sound before it
could escape. As startled as she had been by the unexpected touch, experience had taught her
that there was almost certainly a benign reason for it. Intoxicated guests had a tendency to
forget their manners, for instance, and many of them regarded professionally dressed wait staff
– made evident by their white shirts, black vests, and bow ties – as being the first people they
should approach whenever they needed anything, whether it was directions for the restroom or
a spare cigarette.

Moving slowly but deliberately, Rebecca turned on her heel, extricating her arm from the grip
that had taken it. The maneuver was one that she had managed to refine after years of similar
encounters, and it always had the effect of both freeing her and yet keeping the affected person
from feeling immediately offended. As she pivoted to face the individual behind her, though,
Rebecca felt another wave of unexpected shock, this one of a decidedly different nature than
the last: Rather than a drunken wedding attendee, she found herself locking eyes with a
strikingly handsome man in dirt-stained coveralls. The faintest hint of stubble lined a tanned
face, and while his tranquil expression didn’t suggest any evident emotion, Rebecca
nonetheless felt certain that he laughed easily. Broad shoulders gave way to strong arms, both
of which were obvious, even beneath the rough cotton of the man’s worn clothes.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry, I tried to get your attention a couple of times, but I don’t think you heard
me.”

That was fair enough, Rebecca thought. She knew that her mind had a habit of silencing the
outside world whenever she was lost in thought, and her contemplations on both the wedding
and the party that had followed it were exactly the sorts of musings which could cause her to
miss hearing her name. At the same time, though, she didn’t recognize the fellow before her,
and she had no idea what he might want from her. There was no way that he was a guest – his
attire made that much evident, at least – and she was quite certain that she had met the
majority of the winery’s staff while setting up for the event.

“Oh, well, how can I help you?” Rebecca answered at last.

The man rubbed the back of his head, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “You know, uh, I’m
actually thinking better of it now. Sorry to bother you.” With that, he began to turn, ostensibly to
leave… and then it was Rebecca who called him back.

“Hang on, wait a second,” she said. Maybe it was just the unexpected nature of the man’s
appearance, or perhaps she was just looking for an excuse to delay seeing to her
responsibilities for a little while longer. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny that she was
suddenly intrigued… and growing more so as the man continued to hold an air of mystery about
him. “You’re here now, so you might as well tell me. Was there something that you wanted?”

Once more, the man seemed to hesitate. His eyes glanced between each of Rebecca’s, almost
as though he was searching her face for some unspoken sentiment. If he was waiting for a more
overt invitation, though, he wouldn’t receive it: Another thing that Rebecca had learned was to
wait for people to offer their thoughts without excessive prompting. For one thing, it made
communication easier… but it also kept her from having to address some of the more bizarre
requests that emboldened individuals were wont to put forward.
“It’s probably inappropriate of me to ask,” the man finally replied. Rebecca’s heart sped up just
slightly as she contemplated what the words might imply. Weddings always had their fair share
of lonely bachelors in attendance, and she would be lying if she claimed that she had never
considered their subtle advances. If nothing else, she appreciated being noticed… although
there was always the vaguely off-putting understanding that the men in question usually thought
of themselves as “clever” for having realized that they could flirt with someone who was
otherwise overlooked. That was assuming the would-be suitors were even desirable, too, which
many of them decidedly were not: On more occasions than she could count, Rebecca had been
approached by self-professed wooers of women who were either too old, too drunk, or too
arrogant (and presumptuous) for her tastes.

Still, this man before her – clad in his earth-covered clothes, and with that unkempt hair lining
his statuesque features – didn’t seem to fall into any of those categories. Even the way he
looked at her was different from what she had seen in the past: Rather than the carnal hunger or
self-assured pseudo-confidence that she was so accustomed to dismissing, he seemed to
project an air of apologetically humble serenity. Furthermore, his demeanor marked him as
something other than a person who assumed that he was speaking to a subordinate or a
servant. If anything, his respectful tone of voice made it clear that he thought of Rebecca as
either an equal or a superior.

“I was just wondering if you had any leftovers.”

Whatever Rebecca had expected to hear, that wasn’t it. She felt her face break into a smile
before she could catch herself, and then she had to maintain it when a tiny wave of
disappointment crossed through her mind. It wasn’t the first time that she had been asked the
question, of course, but some part of her had been hoping for… well, she wasn’t entirely sure,
but she could still feel its absence.

“Oh, gosh, well...” Rebecca answered, trying to affect an air of simultaneous professionalism
and warmth. “We usually only bring enough for the guests. The menus are planned in advance,
and we try to reserve a few plates for the staff.”

“Ah.” The man nodded slowly, his face remaining an unreadable (if pleasing to look at) mask.
“Well, I am on the staff, as it happens.”

Rebecca tried to discreetly look him over. Again, she thought she had been introduced to pretty
much everyone who worked at the winery, from the owner to the events-manager and even
down to a summer intern. It was possible that she had simply failed to recognize one of the
dozen or so employees that she had met, but she felt confident that she would have
remembered such a ruggedly attractive worker.

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca replied, letting just the faintest hint of skepticism creep into her voice, “I
thought I’d met everyone who worked here.”

“Not me,” the man replied. “I’m Soren. I’m the gardener.” He glanced down at his palms, and the
muted embarrassment returned to his face. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid that I still need
to wash up. I figured I’d ask about dinner first, though.”

The smile returned to Rebecca’s face, and a renewed sense of fascination began to glow in her
mind. She had met gardeners before, of course – her own father had cultivated vegetables in
their back yard – but never one who could claim the pastime as his profession. “It’s a pleasure
to meet you, Soren. I’m Rebecca… and yes, I think we can find some food for you.”

For the first time, Soren answered with a small smile of his own. “Thank you. I’ll be right back,
then. I’m going to go clean up a little bit.” Without saying another word, the man walked away…
and as Rebecca watched him go, she had the growing, intriguing sense that her evening was
about to get a lot more interesting.
PART THREE

As soon as Soren was out of sight, Rebecca felt an urgent desire to capitalize on the
opportunity that she had been presented. For once, she thought, she would have the chance to
not only prepare a culinary experience for someone, but to have that same person actually
appreciate her efforts. From an outside perspective, it might have seemed silly to assume that
her impromptu guest would offer the sort of recognition that she felt she had been lacking, but
something about the man’s disposition had left Rebecca feeling certain that he was the sort of
person who noticed things that other people ignored.

Still, she would have to work quickly if she wanted to make the best impression possible. The
layout of the winery wasn’t exactly familiar to her, so she had no way of knowing how quickly
Soren would be able to find a restroom (or any room with a sink and soap, really) and then
return. Her one walk through the castle-like labyrinth of stone corridors and high ceilings had
been more than enough to give her the whimsical impression that each of the walls hid a variety
of secret spaces, and a man who made his living near that maze would almost certainly be able
to navigate it without much effort at all.

Rebecca threw herself into action, instructing her handful of helpers to focus their cleaning
efforts on areas far away from the table that she had selected. Then she set about smoothing
out the tablecloth, removing used dishes, and rearranging the accouterments to make her
chosen spot appear as untouched as it had before the previous dinner had begun. Fresh
candles went into silver holders, clean napkins were quickly folded and placed beside hastily
(yet thoroughly) washed forks and knives, and a sprinkling of flower petals – slightly wilted, but
not obviously so – was spread out on the rest of the available space. Rebecca was almost
completely done with her task before she realized that she had absentmindedly set a place for
herself in addition to her guest, but she trusted that he wouldn’t mind the company. As a final
thought, she laid out two delicate wine glasses, their crystalline forms somehow managing to
capture and hold the last rays of light that were coming over the horizon.

“Oh. Wow. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

For the second time, the man’s unseen arrival almost caused Rebecca to jump, but she
managed to suppress that urge, instead molding it into an expression of enthusiasm as she
turned to face her guest. What she saw nearly took her breath away: That same striking visage
was still as evident as it had been, but the dirt-covered clothes beneath it had been traded for a
simple shirt and a pair of denim trousers. His hair seemed to have been taken in by the
transformation, too, appearing more like it had been intentionally tousled than simply allowed to
fall. While his ruggedness hadn’t diminished in the slightest, it had nonetheless come to be
tempered by an aura of gentle refinement, like that of a travel-hardened pioneer who still saw
the virtue in impeccable manners.

“It was my pleasure, really,” Rebecca replied. “I don’t usually get the chance to show off my
work in person, so I wanted to give it some flair. Besides, I like sitting down to a set table.” It
suddenly occurred to her that she might have been too eager to join the man in his meal, and
she hastened to put him at ease. “That’s if you don’t mind the company, I mean. I’m happy to let
you eat in peace.”

The quiet smile that she had seen before returned, and the man’s eyes sparkled in the dimming
twilight. “Actually, I was kind of hoping that you’d join me. You seem… nice.”
Nice. In a way that she could scarcely explain, that single word – that single syllable – left
Rebecca feeling simultaneously flattered and welcomed. It wasn’t the most descriptive of
compliments, to be sure, but something in the way that Soren had said it – his tone, maybe, or
the sincerity with which he’d spoken – gave the remark a depth and complexity that it had no
right to embody. “You seem nice, too,” she responded. It didn’t have quite the same duende
when she said it, but she hoped that Soren understood. She gestured to the table; to the chair
that had the sunset on its left. “Would you like to sit down? I’ll go get our plates.”

A single nod preceded Soren’s approach to the table, and Rebecca used the moment to dash
away. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that the man had quickly relaxed into his seat,
and that he seemed to be pondering something just over the horizon. It was like a scene from a
long-forgotten masterwork by a beloved painter, both simple and evocative, and she hoped the
meal would only add to that ambiance. Quick steps brought her back into the sight of her
employees, but she dismissed their sudden attention with murmured reassurances, focusing on
finding the plates that had been set aside for the winery’s attendants. She didn’t have to search
long, and with a practiced balancing act, she brought two sets of each course back to Soren.

“Wow,” the man said, taking in the miniature banquet. “This looks incredible. Did you make all of
this?”

Rebecca sat down opposite her guest as she arranged the plates. “I can’t take all of the credit,”
she answered. “I design everything, and I cook as much as I can, but there’s usually too much
for me to handle on my own.”

“So you’re a chef,” Soren replied. “You’re like a composer and a conductor: You write the piece
and arrange the instruments, then you guide each performer in creating the music.” The
metaphor was beautiful, and peculiarly appropriate. Rebecca had never thought of her work as
being akin to music, but the comparison certainly seemed to fit. “Will you talk me through all of
this?” Soren continued, gesturing to the food in front of him.

The invitation felt like all that Rebecca had ever wanted. “The appetizer is my own take on
stuffed mushrooms,” she began. “I pull out the stems and dice them up with shallots and garlic,
then simmer that mixture in olive oil until it’s all uniform in color. Meanwhile, the mushrooms
themselves are lightly marinated in red wine, then the whole thing is baked with a light dusting
of aged parmesan cheese on top.”

“After the stuffing,” Soren interjected.

“Yes,” Rebecca laughed, “after the stuffing. When everything is done baking, I dust it with dried
parsley and sesame seeds.”

Soren speared one of the mushrooms with his fork, slowly placing the morsel into his mouth. He
chewed thoughtfully, giving evident consideration to the flavors and textures. “They’re divine.
They start with a low, smooth bass note – the mushroom – that gets joined by the string section.
Then the brass comes in – the wine and the cheese – and they all crescendo before fading
away.”

Rebecca took a bite of her own, and tried to examine the flavor from the perspective of Soren’s
hauntingly evocative description. It was true: She could almost hear the deep thrum of a bass
violin, along with the cello and viola notes that rose to meet it. Trumpets and trombones joined
the ensemble next, and even what might have been an oboe. Soren hadn’t mentioned that, but
apparently his description had inspired something in Rebecca’s mind.

“I can hear it,” she whispered. “That’s amazing. You must have an incredible palate.”

Soren shook his head, apparently shrugging off the praise. “I just pay attention. The music is
always there… and so are many other things, if one cares to notice them.”

“Tell me more.”

The man’s smile reappeared yet again, bringing with it a warmth that Rebecca could feel in the
very core of her being. “Take me through the rest of your meal,” he said, “and I’ll have my turn
afterward.”

Rebecca needed no further prompting. She described each portion of the meal as they ate,
explaining both the preparation and the intentions behind each section. There was a comical
moment when she suggested that Soren try tasting the wine, only to realize that she had
neglected to bring it. A brisk retreat and return remedied that oversight, and they shared another
moment of laughter when Rebecca discovered that she had forgotten to bring a corkscrew. Still,
even those allegedly imperfect moments managed to make the entire experience all the more
enjoyable, and by the time that they had moved on to dessert, a glow of contentment had begun
to emanate from each of them.

“You have a gift,” Soren said. “No, really, I mean that,” he hastily added in response to
Rebecca’s demure turning of the head. “There’s a passion in your work; an artistry that speaks
to equal parts care and natural beauty.”

“You’re making me blush,” she said.

“Well, you’ve managed to delight me. Were you always so talented?”

Rebecca shrugged, unsure of what to say without bragging. “I’ve always loved cooking, if that’s
what you mean. I never thought I’d be a caterer, though. I always saw myself in some
restaurant’s kitchen, toiling over an enormous stove.”

A moment passed as Soren appeared to consider this. “You know, there are supposedly five
ways to show love; five ‘love languages,’ as they say. You can offer gifts, you can spend time
with someone, you can give them emotional support, you can show devotion, or you can touch
them. If you think about it, preparing a meal for a person encompasses all five.” He leaned
forward slightly, looking Rebecca in the eyes. The candlelight reflected in his pupils, almost as
though the tiny flames were coming from someplace deep within him. “I can only imagine that
you must be a very loving person. I hope the people for whom you care appreciate that.”

There was nothing else that Rebecca had wanted to hear more. She felt tears of happiness
welling up as she smiled, and though she gave a passing thought to letting them flow, she
forced herself to keep them contained. “You’re incredibly sweet, Soren. Were you always this
way?”

Soren took a deep breath. “I suppose it’s time that I told you a story,” he said. “I have to warn
you, though… you may not like everything that you hear.”
PART FOUR

A slight chill ran across Rebecca’s shoulders as she contemplated Soren’s words. She knew, all
too well, that people were complicated creatures, but the ominous nature of his warning seemed
to carry a fairly serious sort of weight. She wondered if she was simply afraid of having the
illusion shattered; of learning that the handsome, sensitive man before her was less than what
he seemed. At the same time, she doubted if such sincerity as the man had shown could be
faked, and she resolved to withhold judgement until she had heard what he had to say.

“I’m pretty open-minded,” Rebecca said, “but you don’t have to tell me everything if you aren’t
comfortable with sharing.”

When Soren smiled this time, it was with wry amusement. “It doesn’t really work that way. Sure,
I could leave out the bad stuff, but then you wouldn’t see the complete picture. A human life isn’t
like a movie wherein you can edit what you see. It’s more like a tapestry, with each thread
contributing to the greater whole. Leave enough of them aside, and all you have is a shadow.”

“Shadows still need light in order to exist,” Rebecca answered. “Go on. I’m listening.”

After taking another deep breath, Soren began speaking. “I had everything given to me as a kid.
I had great parents, a wonderful home… a perfect childhood, really. I was always just a little bit
different, though, like I never really had a place where I fit in. While my classmates were
discussing television shows that they’d watched, I wanted to talk about curious things that I’d
noticed in the world around me. It made me ‘weird,’ as they said, and also an outsider.” He
smiled, perhaps a bit sadly. “Of course, kids make fun of each other. It’s part of growing up. The
thing is, even those insults just made me realize how far removed from my friends I really was.
The criticisms didn’t fit me all, see, and they didn’t even apply to who I was. They might as well
have accused a rock of having an annoying sound.”

“I suppose it depends on where you drop it,” Rebecca said. She thought better of the quip
almost immediately, worrying that she had implied that Soren needed to be discarded.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to take offense, continuing in his tale with a serene expression.

“Well, that sense of alienation eventually gave way to frustration. I fell in with the wrong crowd,
stupidly thinking that they accepted me for who I was. In fact, they just didn’t care: They were
too preoccupied with themselves to give me any real notice, even when they invited me to
things.” He slumped slightly as though bearing the sudden burden of a memory. “It started as
harmless mischief, or so I thought. Somewhere along the line, though, we all took a darker turn.
A few of us took to shoplifting, then breaking and entering. By the time that we were legally
adults… well, I’d done enough to land me in prison, even though I hadn’t been caught yet. Then,
one day, I stole a car.”

It wasn’t the most shocking of crimes that Rebecca had heard about, but the deep depression
that had crept into Soren’s voice made it clear that there were more details to come.

“We went for a joyride, and we got into a wreck. Nobody was hurt, but the car was totaled. The
police took us in, and a public defender convinced me to take a plea deal. I’d be spending
sixteen months in state prison… which is where I got the letters. That single, stupid crime had
completely ruined a family’s livelihood. Without his car, the father had lost his job. A girl had
been forced to give up on her dreams of university in order to help make ends meet. My
selfishness – my desire to fit in, no matter the cost – had turned innocent lives upside down…
and mine, too, for that matter.”

He leaned back and looked skyward, where the first stars had begun to appear behind the
faintest wisps of clouds. “I decided to turn myself around, but nobody wants to hire an
ex-convict. Things were tough for a while, until I eventually found work with a landscaping
company. It got me back on track.”

“That’s how you became a gardener,” Rebecca said.

“Oh, no, not yet,” answered Soren. “I actually went to work in an office for a while after that.
They were the first employers who didn’t care about my record, and I saw it as my chance to
start climbing toward the top.” He laughed humorlessly, folding and unfolding his hands. “It was
all a façade, though. Ninety percent of people at the company didn’t need to be there, and all of
them were doing jobs that served no purpose beyond making extra work for each other. The
entire thing felt dishonest to me, especially once I saw the way that everyone treated
appearance as being more important than substance. I lasted a handful of years before I’d
finally had enough, and then it was back to landscaping.” The weight seemed to rise from his
shoulders then, and his story began to climb back into a hopeful recount instead of a cautionary
one. “More years passed, and the jobs got to be bigger. Eventually, we were contracted to redo
the garden here, at the winery, in order to make it more appealing to tourists.”

And to wedding parties, Rebecca thought to herself.

“When we were finished, the owner offered me a position as the groundskeeper. I was going to
decline at first – I didn’t want to leave my coworkers – but I changed my mind when she told me
why she wanted me. It wasn’t just that the winery needed someone to fill the spot; it was that
she had seen the way that I’d genuinely cared for every petal and blade of grass.”

“Really?” asked Rebecca. “Every one of them?”

Soren grinned at that. “That’s what she said. I’ve been here for quite a while now, and I’ve never
been happier. I still have regrets, but I’ve learned that they’re useless unless they can lead to a
better future. The best fertilizer might not smell very nice, but it brings about the most
resplendent flowers.”

There was really nothing that Rebecca could say… although if the story had been at all intended
to scare her off, then it had completely failed in its task. If anything, she felt more drawn to the
man than ever, and she could see how his unassuming yet intense sincerity had been fostered
by a life of difficult lessons learned. She reached out, touching the back of Soren’s hand, and
felt her heart skip a beat when he turned it over to embrace her fingers with his own.

“You shared something beautiful with me tonight,” he said. “I’d be honored if you’d let me do the
same.” He stood, gently pulling Rebecca to her feet, then glanced down at his watch. “If we
hurry, we’ll be just in time.”

In time for what? Rebecca wondered. The sounds of the wedding reception were still audible in
the night, but she doubted if Soren had any plan to bring her toward them. Rather than voicing
the question, she simply nodded, then allowed herself to be led away. They passed beneath the
canopy of trees, past the gazebo where the ceremony had been held, and came to a previously
hidden passage between two sets of tall shrubs. The stone walkway gave way to a gravel path,
where Soren finally stopped. Although there were still stars overhead, the two of them stood in
almost complete darkness.

“Just a few more seconds,” Soren murmured. He looked down at his watch again. “Three…
two… one… now.”

Suddenly, the area around them changed, and Rebecca’s eyes went wide at what she saw.
PART FIVE

Lights came to life all around them, illuminating a terraced nursery of flowers and small trees.
Borders of white marble were set around each section of the spacious enclosure, which was
lined by the dense leaves of sculpted hedges. Strings of fairy lights criss-crossed overhead,
their sparkling radiance being caught and reflected by the millions of quartz pebbles at
Rebecca’s feet.

“Everyone always says that gardens are best in the sunlight,” Soren said. He looked out across
the garden, a faraway expression on his face. “There’s something magical about seeing them at
night, though… and there are so many things that you can only experience in the darkness.”

Rebecca inhaled deeply. “I can smell something,” she said. “Like honey and vanilla. No, like
honey and almonds.”

Soren gestured to a collection of delicate white flowers. “They’re called ‘night phlox.’ Some
people know them as ‘midnight candy.’ They only bloom after the sun has set.” He pointed to
another area, and then another, indicating one group of flowers after another. “Evening stock.
Evening primrose. Nicotiana. Four o’clocks. They’re all mostly dormant during the day, but they
come alive beneath the stars.”

“Sorry, did you say ‘four o’clocks?’” Rebecca asked. She hated to interrupt the man’s
explanation, but the name had struck her as being a little bit silly.

“Mirabilis jalapa,” replied Soren. He brought Rebecca closer to the blooms in question, gently
caressing the petals as he spoke. “They’re actually one of my favorites. A single plant can
produce several colors at once, and a single flower can have many different hues. They can be
white, they can be yellow, they can be pink, or even a bright and vibrant violet. Even though
they share common roots, they can grow to be completely unique.” He gave her hand a light
squeeze – she had almost forgotten that he was holding it – then turned to face her. “It’s like
your cooking again, in a way. The simplest ingredients can add up to something that’s far more
than the sum of its parts, and even the most common dish can be made into something
extraordinary if one approaches it with care.”

“They’re beautiful.” Rebecca inhaled again. “And they smell wonderful, too.”

“There’s even more to them than that.” A gentle tug brought Rebecca to another part of the
garden; to a place in front of the gold-colored evening primrose, as she remembered the flowers
were called. “Touch them.” She glanced at Soren uncertainly. “It’s okay. Just brush your
fingertips against them.” She hesitated for a moment longer, but reached forward. The stems
had a curious texture to them, one which was somehow both rough and soft at the same time.
Rebecca might have even said that they tickled slightly, albeit in a way that made her shiver with
delight rather than squirm. “Now try this,” Soren continued. He reached forward, surprising
Rebecca when he gingerly snapped away a piece of the plant. After examining it, he held the
stalk forward. “Taste it.”

“Taste it?” Rebecca repeated, incredulous. “It’s edible?”

“Well, it won’t be as nice as what you served me,” replied Soren, “but yes, you can eat it. Give it
a try.”
It was a show of trust, Rebecca supposed, to follow the man’s suggestion… but she went along
with it all the same, taking a tiny piece of the plant between her teeth. A flavor not unlike that of
a fresh cucumber washed into her mouth, followed by a very subtly sweet sort of nuttiness. I’ll
have to include this in something, she thought to herself… and while hiding a grin, she took
another nibble.

“Now hold it up to your ear,” Soren said. “Pinch it between your fingers.”

This time, Rebecca needed no further encouragement. As she squeezed and listened, she
heard a quiet crackling noise. Had she not been aware of the sound’s source, she might have
thought that she was hearing raindrops on a distant skylight.

“When a discerning chef prepares a meal,” Soren said, “they know that its presentation is just as
important as its flavor... or so I’ve been told.” He offered one of his small smiles, perhaps
apologizing for describing Rebecca’s job to her.

“You’re absolutely right.”

The man smiled more broadly before continuing, bringing a sparkle to his eyes. “Flowers are the
same, really. You have to be careful which ones you eat, of course, but...” he trailed off, looking
out over the garden. “People always say that you should take the time to stop and smell the
roses, but very few of them think to appreciate the flowers with all of their other senses. You can
watch the way that they catch the light, you can hear them dancing in a breeze, and you can
feel them against your skin. It’s fine to focus on one thing at a time, but there’s so much more to
take in if one has the mind to do so.”

As she had been so many times that evening, Rebecca was enchanted by the beauty of the
man’s words. She looked up into his eyes, trying to bring his wisdom to bear in herself. He
smelled faintly of the earth, but in a way that was fresh and natural. Although he was silent, she
could still hear the deep timbre of his voice, along with the melodic lightness of his words. The
skin of his hand was firm in her own, but not rough or abrasive… and she could feel her own
heart pounding as she drew closer to him.

His lips still bore the faintest taste of wine.

He embraced her then, pulling her against his chest and running his fingers through her hair.
The beautiful garden around them remained, but it paled in comparison to the swell of gorgeous
colors that came awake in Rebecca’s mind. For a moment, she thought that she could hear
music – memories of the string quartet, perhaps – and she allowed herself to be swept entirely
into Soren’s kiss.

There among the blossoms, Rebecca fell in love.