“Sure.”
He stands and starts clearing the table, and I hurry to help. “You don’t have to do this, you’re a guest in my home,” he says.
“You spoiled me with a lovely breakfast. I’m helping, it’s not up for debate.” I grab our plates and my teacup and follow him inside, and we work together to clean up after our meal, as though we’ve done it a million times before. When we’re finished, I excuse myself, grab my bag, and return to the porch, where I take out my sketchbook to show him my ideas.
His attention is immediately captured by my drawings. “I’ve been curious since last night, please tell me what you’ve got.”
I launch into an explanation of how I couldn’t make any of the actual gardening themes work, how they all felt wrong. “I promised you art,” I explain, “and that wasn’t it. It fe
