It was late afternoon by the time Nate returned home from West Hollywood. He’d stopped by Mickey Hargitay Plants after all, needing to decompress after that unnerving meal and before jumping back onto the freeway. Nurseries were Nate’s happy place and it was the rare visit to one that didn’t lift his spirits. There was always something new and intriguing or exotic to behold, everything at various states of growth and bloom; every time a different visual and tactile experience. And the smells: so many fresh, heady scents that deepened and spread in the sun and the heat and the breeze.
He was usually in a rush on those early work mornings when he’d stop at a nursery or garden center to pick up his supplies for the day’s landscaping project. Yet even then, when it was more about satisfying a list than his soul, he’d still soak up the aromas and shapes and colors and be inspired to seize his day. But it was when he was off the clock that Nate most enjoyed perusing the flats of flowers and vegetables, pots of herbs, clusters of cactus and succulents, and jagged rows of sprouts and saplings and dwarf fruit trees. He’d take photos and notes and sketch out garden designs on drawing pads and in his mind. He’d get lost in the beauty of it all.
Jim used to feel the same way about bookstores: not the big chain stores, even when they were in vogue, but the cozier indie booksellers that dotted the map in and around L.A. and somehow managed to survive—and even thrive—despite their endangered species status. He used to drag young Nate with him on endless visits to bookstores that smelled musty and papery, intoxicating Jim and boring the heck out of Nate. But Nate, good soldier that he was (and, to be fair, he persuaded his dad to take him to his share of toy stores, arcades, and sporting goods shops), would pretend to be interested in books about animals or science or wizards while Jim would vanish into the alphabetized shelves of classic and contemporary fiction. He’d never leave a bookstore without buying something, even if it was some three-dollar potboiler from the remainder bin. “Browsing shouldn’t be free,” Jim would say. “They’ve got rent to pay, too.”
Maybe it was a holdover from his dad, but Nate always picked up at least a container of herbs or a tray of flowers whenever he’d drop by a nursery and today was no different. He set aside a pot of burgeoning red salvias and a small Boston fern to purchase on the way out. At least now, as a homeowner, he had somewhere to immediately plant things—front yard, back yard, in the clay urns on the porch—unlike when he lived in the apartment and most everything would end up either lining his terrace, struggling on the kitchen counter, or donated to his current design job.
As Nate continued through the twists and turns of Mickey Hargitay’s nursery, he ended up in the rear of the garden where the taller trees and fuller-grown plants were on display. He spotted a Cara Cara orange tree perched in a corner and remembered that was what he’d impulsively told Jennifer he was stopping in for. Maybe he should buy the tree after all, just because. The thought quickly passed when he saw the price tag—the tree’s unique pink-fleshed fruit made it expensive—and continued browsing until he had sufficiently chilled out from his ill-fated time with Jennifer.
Nate and Jennifer had shared a brief hug goodbye outside Marco’s—despite their strained lunch, it would have been more awkward not to—and made no mention of seeing each other again. That still left the specter of Amy’s story to haunt his thoughts, but Nate knew it would take a lot more than a nursery tour to purge that.
Nate had finally finished all the prep work on the outside of the Escarpa house and was now ready to start painting. Like all these kinds of projects, it had taken much more work than he’d expected. But it kept him busy during the odd times at night and on weekends when he would do all the sanding, scraping, and patching needed to get the place ready for its facelift. Danny lent a hand now and then, even brought his carpenter brother, Mateo, with him a few times to speed things along. Nate enjoyed the company—as well as the help—and paid them in beer and pizza because they wouldn’t take a nickel. (This time, Danny won that battle.)
“You’d do it for me,” Danny repeatedly told Nate.
“How do you know?” Nate would joke in return.
“I just know, that’s how I know,” Danny would answer, and he was right.
Next-door neighbors Max and Carter and other fellow Escarpans would stop by and chat with Nate while he worked, visibly happy he was getting the place up to speed. Their subtext: “Your father kind of let the place go, so while we’re so sorry he’s gone, it’s good that someone more … proactive is living here now.”
That Sunday, the morning after the crash-and-burn with Jennifer, as he started to apply paint primer to the house’s capably sanded trim, he heard a car pull up and park. Cody, who’d been lolling on the front porch, jumped up. Nate, on the top step of an eight-foot ladder, turned around and was startled to see the familiar white Toyota Camry sitting at the curb. He could feel his skin flush and his pulse pound as he spun back to face the house. The car door slammed and Nate tensed, though he resumed his work as if he were still alone.
“All work, no play, Nate?” Amy called up to him. She leaned down to pet Cody, who’d run over to greet her. Traitor, Nate thought darkly.
He stayed focused on his paintbrush. “Yep, I guess so.”
Amy stood in the shadow of the ladder waiting for Nate to turn and face her. But when she was only met with more silence she moved in closer. Amy shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up and gently asked, “How are you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better,” he snarled at a now-glossy section of the eave. Nate kept working, his rhythm increasing with his discomfort. He knew he couldn’t ignore her forever, but he could sure as hell try.
“Could we talk for a minute?” It was part plea, part request, but with enough steel in her voice to imply that she was not going anywhere.
Nate reluctantly climbed off the ladder. Amy looked pretty and relaxed in a pair of linen pants, a sleeveless cotton blouse, and strappy sandals.
“Hi,” she said with a note of caution as if starting her arrival over again. When Nate didn’t respond, she pointed at the house. “What color are you going to paint it?”
“Green,” he said tersely. “What are you doing here?”
She considered Nate’s stony, unrelenting face and dug her heels into a soft mound of grass. “I wanted to know if I’d see you and the guys at the house tomorrow. If you’d be finishing up.”
“You could have just texted,” he said so dismissively he barely recognized himself.
Amy studied her feet. “I wanted to see you.”
Nate was unmoved. “I’ll pay you back whatever I owe you, I won’t rip you off.” He made for the ladder again, though stopped at the base. His legs felt stiff, uncooperative.
“I don’t want my money back, I want you to finish. You’ve done such a wonderful job.”
Nate’s legs found their purpose again and, as he climbed back up the ladder: “You got what you needed—to get next to me. I think my job is done.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Let’s not get into ‘fair,’ okay?” He grabbed the paintbrush, plunged it in the can of primer, and smeared it on a new stretch of the trim. Nate could hear Amy expel a world-weary sigh behind him. Which didn’t mean she was leaving.
She crossed to the ladder. “Is this the house your father bought when he moved down from Fresno?”
Now it was Nate’s turn to sigh. “I really don’t want to talk about my father,” he said, eyes still facing front.
“Well, I do. I’d like to know more about him. And I’d like to know more about you.”
Amy’s arms crossed stubbornly across her chest. For a fleeting second, Nate thought he recognized himself in the set of her jaw, her brooding stare. He pushed the notion out of mind. “I’ll drop off a check for the unfinished work sometime this week.”
An unmistakable mix of anger and frustration washed across her face. “Don’t bother. I’ll text you my Venmo address,” she said, then pivoted away from the ladder and toward her car.
Nate was startled by her flat, snappish retort. It left him speechless, stock-still. He thought about responding in kind, getting off the ladder—and in her face—and having it out with her. But he simply gazed out from his perch as Amy got into the Toyota and sped off.