AFTER WINTER

It also had a name.

THE WINTER GARDEN.

Peter claimed Lena had spent eleven years in Chicago just to become the kind of person who named buildings.

Lena told him eleven years had also taught her how to fire contractors.

He remained employed.

They had dinner on December twenty-third.

Then again after Christmas.

Then, deliberately, not for nine days.

Lena wanted to know whether what drew them together was grief, nostalgia, or the temporary intimacy created by repairing a place both associated with June.

Peter seemed to understand.

He did not push.

They talked.

Actually talked.

Sometimes badly.

Sometimes too carefully.

They discovered that eleven years had altered them in ways neither could shortcut.

Peter no longer wanted children.

Lena had stopped wanting them years earlier.

That conversation alone would have terrified their younger selves.

Now it lasted forty minutes over soup in a diner, ended without injury, and was followed by pie.

Peter had sold his father's woodworking shop and built a smaller custom furniture studio outside town.

Lena confessed that she still sometimes considered leaving Vermont permanently once the greenhouse project stabilized.

Peter did not interpret that as rejection.

He asked what would make staying worthwhile.

Lena did not answer immediately.

That was new too.

In February, Peter kissed her outside the greenhouse after a snowstorm.

It was not their first kiss.

It was their first new one.

He touched her face before doing it, giving her enough time to turn away.

She didn't.

The kiss was gentle and unfamiliar.

Lena was grateful for both qualities.

Afterward, Peter rested his forehead briefly against hers.

“This is strange.”

“Very.”

“Bad strange?”

“Ask me tomorrow.”

He laughed.

She kissed him again.

By early March, June's Apricot produced six buds.

Lena found Peter inside the greenhouse on a Sunday morning with the hose in his hand.

The sight stopped her at the doorway.

Not because it surprised her anymore.

Because she suddenly remembered the first day.

His back turned.

Water running.

Eleven years held between them like a locked door neither knew how to open.

Peter noticed her.

“Morning.”

Lena leaned against the frame.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked at the hose.

“Seriously?”

“Answer the question.”

He played along.

“Watering your mother's roses.”

Lena shook her head.

“My roses now.”

Peter considered that.

“Your roses.”

“And why are you watering them?”

He turned off the hose.

This time the gesture made her smile.

Peter looked at her for a moment.

“Because you asked me to.”

The answer was simple.

Lena had not expected it to affect her.

She walked down the aisle toward him.

Outside the glass, snow still covered the shaded parts of the garden.

Inside, the temperature held at fifty-two degrees.

The roses were beginning to wake.

Lena stopped beside June's Apricot.

One bud had started opening.

Peter touched a leaf between two fingers.

“Your mother hated this one at first.”

“Why?”

“Color wasn't dramatic enough.”

“She had no taste.”

“She grew it.”

“Accidentally.”

“She eventually loved it.”

Lena smiled.

“What changed?”

“It survived the first winter.”

Peter looked at her after saying it.

Lena narrowed her eyes.

“If you turn my mother's rose into a metaphor about us, I will cancel lunch.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was thinking it.”

“Worse.”

Peter laughed.

Lena examined the opening flower.

The color was difficult to name.

Not peach exactly.

Not pink.

Something warm between them.

“Did she ever name it officially?”

“No.”

“Then June's Apricot stays.”

“She would complain.”

“She isn't here.”

The words no longer broke Lena apart every time she said them.

Grief had not become smaller.

Her life had begun growing around it.

Peter set down the hose.

“There is something I need to ask you.”

Lena looked at him suspiciously.

“No rings.”

“No rings.”

“No moving trucks.”

“No.”

“No emotional blackmail involving dead women or plants.”

“That was a surprisingly specific prohibition.”

“Peter.”

He smiled.

“Chicago.”

Her stomach tightened slightly.

“What about it?”

“Your six-month arrangement ends in May.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you're doing?”

Lena appreciated the wording.

Not:

Are you staying?

Not:

Are you leaving me again?

“What do you want?” she asked.

Peter thought before answering.

“I want you here.”

Her chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, “I don't want you here because you're scared leaving means repeating what happened before.”

Lena looked at him.

“I also don't want you leaving because you're scared staying means becoming the person you were before Boston.”

She swallowed.

Peter slipped his hands into his jacket pockets.

“I would like us to keep doing this.”

“This?”

“Dinner. Arguments. You insulting my signage.”

“It is terrible.”

“You stealing my side of the bed whenever you stay over.”

“You surrendered that territory in 2015.”

“Apparently.”

Lena smiled.

Peter's expression remained serious.

“But I don't want an answer today.”

Eleven years ago, uncertainty had frightened both of them into making decisions for each other.

Now he was standing in her greenhouse asking for no immediate certainty at all.

Lena stepped closer.

“I already talked to my firm.”

Peter waited.

“I proposed splitting my time.”

“How much?”

“Two weeks here. Two there, depending on projects.”

His face revealed nothing for a second.

Then he nodded.

“That sounds difficult.”

“It probably will be.”

“You hate the airport.”

“I do.”

“You'll complain constantly.”

“Yes.”

Peter's mouth curved.

Lena touched his jacket.

“But it's what I want to try.”

“Okay.”

“That's all?”

“What would you prefer?”

“I don't know. Some evidence of enthusiasm.”

Peter put both arms around her waist and lifted her six inches from the greenhouse floor.

Lena laughed in surprise.

“Put me down.”

“You requested enthusiasm.”

“Peter.”

He lowered her.

She kept her arms around his neck.

There had been a time when she believed love was proven by dramatic choices.

Leave the town.

Stay for the family.

Follow me.

Come home.

Fight for me.

Sacrifice something large enough that neither person could misunderstand its meaning.

Eleven years had made her less impressed by those gestures.

Peter showing up for dinner when he said he would mattered.

Lena answering when something hurt mattered.

He asked before fixing things that belonged to her.

She told him when she needed space instead of disappearing into it.

None of this looked impressive from outside.

That was precisely why she trusted it.

Peter glanced toward the rose.

“One opened.”

Lena turned.

June's Apricot had loosened another layer of petals.

She touched the edge carefully.

“My mother would be unbearable about this.”

“Absolutely.”

“She'd tell everyone she planned the whole thing.”

“The rose?”

Lena looked at him.

“All of it.”

Peter smiled.

“She did like credit.”

Lena leaned her head against his shoulder.

After a moment she said, “I'm glad you kept your promise.”

Peter's hand rested against her back.

“So am I.”

“But it ended.”

He looked down.

“What?”

“The promise to her.”

Lena nodded toward the hose.

“You don't take care of this place because my mother told you to anymore.”

Peter studied her face.

“All right.”

“If you're here, you're here because you choose to be.”

He understood.

“And if I stay,” Lena added, “same rule.”

Peter nodded.

“Same rule.”

Outside, winter had not finished with Vermont.

There would be more snow.

Probably another freeze.

The garden beyond the glass remained mostly bare.

Lena did not need spring to arrive early.

Inside the greenhouse, one rose was already open.

That was enough.