Page 42 of The Fate Factor

“Bishop.” A bearded man in a John Deer hat heads our way, hands in the pockets of a pair of brown coveralls. He greets Jamie with a genuine smile and shoulder-slapping handshake.

“Hey, Ronnie. Long time, man.”

Ronnie pats his round belly. “Had to lay off the ale for a while. Get my summer bod in shape. Good thing winter’s coming, because I’m thirsty.”

“I think I can help you out with that,” Jamie says, laughing. “This is Noel.”

“Well, hello.” Ronnie holds a meaty hand out. His eyes roam me curiously as we shake, and I wonder how many of Jamie’s friends know about our history.

“Nice to meet you, Ronnie.”

“I was going to take a last look before harvest if that’s okay,” Jamie says with a hand to my lower back.

Ronnie nods. “Of course. Go take a gander at your betrothed plants.”

I wave goodbye to Ronnie, and Jamie leads us around the barn, over a small hill, up to the edge of what looks like a tunnel of foliage, the walls twice as tall as him. The green is so vibrant, I immediately want to try to recreate it with paint. The urge catches me off guard, like a friend I hadn’t expected to run into, and I press a palm to my chest, trying to physically keep it from disappearing again.

“This is gorgeous.”

Jamie’s eyes light at my reaction, as if he’d been hoping for it. “Watch your step,” he says, as the ground dips, taking us straight into the mouth of this thing. The plants climb up a simple string grid, where they’re led overhead in a canopy. Vines trail from the sky like tendrils of Demeter’s hair, and they’re dotted with pine cone-like flowers in the same green, odd little things. I recognize them immediately.

“These are in the wreath on your logo and…” I reach for the sleeve of his T-shirt, pulling it up. The same wreath wraps around the thickest part of his bicep, drawn in black. “In your tattoo.”

“The tattoo came first,” he says, grinning as if he somehow manifested his own destiny by marking himself this way. I can’t bring myself to argue with any of these possibilities anymore.

I touch a fingertip to one of the ink strokes, tracing it. I can’t help myself. They’re lovely. It’s done in all black like the birds on his other arm, but with a lighter line. And the detail! Each petal seems to lift right off of his skin. “I didn’t know hops plants flowered,” I say, looking up to see him watching me, lips slightly parted.

“It’s not a typical looking flower,” he says, swallowing, “but yeah. They do.” Sunlight filters in through the greenery, dappling his face as he reaches for one of the plants above us. Under the leaves and backlit like this, he’s almost painfully gorgeous.

“Flowers are kind of my thing,” I say, stretching to touch one myself. “Botanicals.”

“Yeah?” He drops the backpack and pulls a fleece blanket from inside, watching me for more.

“My Nana used to have these beautiful gardens behind the cottage, mostly native flowers. It’s the first thing I learned to sketch. Now they’re pretty much all I paint.”

She also kept fresh cut flowers in Mason jars all over the house. It was my job to change the water every few days and pluck the spent petals of white peonies and orange lilies. At night I’d sit at the kitchen table with my sketchbook and draw her bouquets by lamp light, teaching myself how to shade and show dimension.

Nana would putter around me, fixing dinner, poking her head over my shoulder. She was an artist too, and she had the ability to spot the most interesting details—a speck of pollen ready to fall, the deep pink vein in a white peony petal—and she’d point at it silently, draw my eye to it.

“Is that what you were working on,” Jamie asks, tagging my attention back to the moment. “This weekend?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t had much time to paint lately.” Six months, to be exact. That was the last time I took out my watercolors.

“I’d like to see them. Your flowers.” I drop the pinecone and turn to see him looking down at me earnestly, like it’s the honest to God’s truth, not just the polite thing to say.

I imagine flipping through my watercolor book with him or showing him my abandoned Etsy shop where I’ve uploaded some of my designs for stationary and digital downloads. It had a brief spark of success in the early days, but then Nana had her stroke, and I set it aside to take on more work with Vi. It’s been my little secret since then. A labor of love that I’ve been reluctant to take any further in case I get attached. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”

Jamie sits gingerly on the blanket, and I drop down beside him a little closer than I did on his couch. There’s something inherently romantic about this place. I tip my head back and slide my eyes to his profile. “Why’d you want to come here?”

“I had to look at my plants.” He says this with feigned innocence, and I nudge him with my knee.

“Tell me.”

“The brewery is my second favorite place. The taproom is my third. This is my first.” He nudges me back. “And I thought you might like it.”

I smile down at my shoes, relieved he didn’t say something like:I wanted you to wander around in this field and see if you get struck by a vision.

Not that he couldn’t. That’s what I signed up for, but… I’m glad he didn’t.

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