Page 114 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

We sat shoulder to shoulder, sketching out a new plan—less sleek, more soulful. We added a community kitchen, a rotating therapy garden, a gazebo built from reclaimed wood. A mural wall for the kids. A quiet nook with wind chimes for those who just needed stillness.

I watched him draw with focus, lines sure and strong. And I knew this version of him wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just being himself—brilliant, grumpy, generous Damien.

When he finally set the pencil down, he turned to me. “Let’s plant something people will still be talking about in fifty years.”

I leaned in and kissed him. Deeply. Joyfully. The kind of kiss that said: We made it. We’re still here.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “You always knew how to steady me.”

“No,” I murmured, “you just finally stopped running.”

We spent the rest of the night fine-tuning details and laughing more than we had in weeks. Our joy was raw and real, stitched together with compromise and care.

The next morning, the sun barely peeked over the horizon when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered, still tangled in the afterglow of hope and coffee.

“Is this Ruby Shea?” a voice asked, formal but warm.

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m calling on behalf of the Magnolia Arts Foundation. One of our donors saw your competition piece and read about your center’s mission. They want to fund the entire project.”

I blinked, stunned. “All of it?”

“Every cent,” the woman replied. “They believe in healing—especially the kind that blooms where it’s most needed.”

I looked over at Damien, who was pouring coffee in the kitchen, shirt rumpled, smile crooked. My heart nearly burst.

“Tell them,” I said, voice trembling with disbelief and joy, “that they just changed everything.”

Chapter thirty

Damien

The morning sun bathed the construction site in gold as I stepped out of the cottage, coffee in one hand and Ruby’s latest to-do list in the other. The scent of tilled soil and fresh lumber filled the air. It wasn’t sterile or controlled, like the hospital halls I used to walk—it was chaotic, honest, alive.

The foundation had been poured. Beams stretched toward the sky. And in front of it all, staked proudly into the earth, stood a wooden sign we’d painted the night before in Eleanor’s garage: The Hearts in Bloom Center: Where Medicine and Magic Meet

Ruby insisted on the tagline. I hadn’t argued.

“Think it’ll hold up to wind?” Hazel asked, appearing beside me with a tray of lavender muffins. Her cheeks were already smudged with flour.

I nodded. “If not, we’ll plant another.”

She grinned and passed me a muffin. “We’re expecting about fifty people today.”

By the time the first families arrived, the makeshift garden path buzzed with voices and laughter. Ruby greeted volunteerswith hugs and a paintbrush tucked behind one ear. Kids swarmed the art tables to paint planter boxes shaped like animals. Seniors strolled through the herb section, kneeling to plant thyme and basil, their fingers steady despite the years.

In one corner, Eleanor—draped in a shawl that looked like it belonged on a Renaissance stage—held court beneath a flowering trellis.

“Today,” she announced, “we write verses to honor the noble petunia! Who here knows what rhymes with ‘bloom’?”

“Doom!” one of the kids yelled.

Ruby laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Let’s keep it cheerful, Mason.”

I wandered toward the shade tent where a few curious onlookers hovered near a first-aid booth Hazel had propped up with a garden hose, a tub of aloe, and a roll of duct tape. Improvised, but familiar.

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