Page 20 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Let’s go on an adventure, Birdie dear,” she says when I return.

“Where to?” I ask.

She looks around her small house, thoughtful. “A nursery. I think I’d like to get a plant. Jungle the place up a little.” She wiggles her ring-covered fingers.

I do a quick search that leads us to a nursery on the outskirts of Asheville. The website says it has the best selection of exotic plants. Once Mabel heard the wordexotic, there was no talking her out of it. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t sayingerotic.

Armed with her walker she doesn’t need but uses sometimes in case “the spirit moves her,” a small notebook and pen she always keeps tucked in the waist of her leggings to “take notes,” and a fresh coat of lipstick, Mabel takes off toward the succulent section—emphasizingsuckwhen she says the word. I leave her to it, stopping under a sign that says carnivorous plants, instantly thinking of Huck.

A little girl stands next to me staring at the same plants with about forty glittery butterfly clips in her hair.

She looks at me, eyes big and blue. “Do you know anything about a penis flytrap?”

I laugh, looking down at her. “I think you meanVenusflytrap. And a little.” I kneel next to her so I’m at her eye level, looking at the bug-eating plant she’s holding. “My friend Huck told me that they have little hairs on them to let them know when a bug is walking around so they can eat it.” I snap my fingers together like a clam.

Her eyes widen.

“Will it bite my finger?” she asks, breath smelling like peanut butter.

“You know, I just don’t know, maybe we should find out.” I put my finger on the tiny hairs of the plant. When it pinches down, I wiggle my finger around gently, pulling it out to reveal it’s intact.

“Phew!” she says.

“Right?” I pause dramatically. “I was worried there for a minute.”

“Which one are you buying?” she asks.

“I think this one.” I hold up a bushy plant with little pitchers all over it. “It’s called a pitcher plant and there’s sweet, sticky stuff that traps the bugs before they die at the bottom of these pitchers. I’m giving it to my friend Huck.” I tell her with a smile.

A man’s voice calls, “Lucy?” and she spins around, plant in hand, and takes off running.

“Daddy!” she squeals “Look what I found! And this lady showed me it won’t even bite my finger!”

Laughing, I turn around.

And there, with the same stunned eyes as mine, stands Bo.

“Bo,” I whisper, hoarse.

“Birdie,” he says, cool.

I look down at Lucy. “You have a daughter.”

I’m 99 percent sure I say that out loud because he says, “I have a daughter.”

“Do you know her, Daddy?”Lucy asks.

“I do, she’s a friend of Gran’s,” he says, giving her a genuine smile and rubbing the only spot on her head not covered in clips.

Pulling my boneless body back together, I reach my hand out to her. “I’m Birdie.”

“I’m Lucy!” She shakes my hand with too much enthusiasm.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.” She smiles, showcasing her tiny-toothed smile and missing front teeth.

Seven. Looking at Lucy is like looking at a dream stolen, and it has me blinking.

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