The Smell of Old Age
Do you know what you smell of? A care home. Camphor and old age. I can’t do this anymore.
Jane stood at the window, watching as the neighbours cat edged around a puddle in the garden in small, mincing steps. Her husbands words seemed to reach her as if muffled, and she didnt turn straight away. Then, eventually, she did.
Peter stood in the middle of the kitchen, wearing the new pale blue shirt shed bought for him at the spring market near the high street, because hed said he wanted something light, and non-creasing. Shed spent ages choosing, feeling the fabric, asking the stallholder about the weave. And all the while, hed sat waiting in the car listening to TalkSport.
Are you listening to me? he said.
Yes, said Jane.
Her voice came out steady, which faintly surprised her.
Peter placed his sports holdall on a chaira large navy one with some athletic brands logo. Jane knew that bag: it had been in the hall cupboard for years, under a pile of skis that hadnt made it out for at least eight winters.
Im going, he said. We both know this should have happened a long time ago.
Jane looked at the bag, then at his handscalm, not fidgeting with his shirt, not avoiding her gaze. Hed already made his decision. Hed made it long ago. Speaking it out loud was just a formality, acknowledging what had already happened.
A long time ago, she repeated.
Yes. He shrugged. Look, Jane, I dont want a row. Were different people now. Youre always here, with Mum, the routine, that smell. I cant live like that.
The smell. She thought about it. Five years. For five years shed got up at six, because Mrs Taylor woke at six, because thats how a strangers unwell body workedliving by its own rules. Five years of camphor oil, pads retitled incontinence liners, years of coughs through the wall and late-night calls to NHS 111. Five years with her own work piled in folders on her studio desk, untouched more and more, because there was never time, no one else to do it, and it had been Peter whod said, Jane, theres no one else, you see?
She understood.
Youre going right now? she asked.
Yes.
All right, Jane said.
He watched her, as if expecting something more. Tears, perhaps. Or shouting. Or Who is she? She didnt ask. Not because she didnt know, but because, in that moment, the question seemed pointless.
Peter picked up his holdall, lingering a moment by the door.
Ill leave my keys on the hall stand.
Fine, she nodded.
She heard the lock click. Then the front door closed. Four flights downshe knew that sound by heart. And then, silence. Not just quiet, but a peculiar stillness, like when you switch off a telly thats been background noise for so long youd stopped noticing, and only its absence reveals how loud it had always been.
Jane looked at the keys on the stand. The chair where the bag had sat. The bag was gone.
She went back into the kitchen and topped up the kettle.
Five years ago, Mrs Taylor had a stroke, right at the dining table during Peters birthday lunch. Jane had baked a cherry pie. Mrs Taylor said, Lovely, then dropped her fork and gave Jane a look that said everything. It was Jane who dialled 999, who rode with her in the ambulance, held her hand that could no longer squeeze back.
Peter was at a work do that evening. He hadnt taken her calls till the third attempt.
Afterwards, doctors said her left side was partly paralysed, the recovery would be long, shed need care, which would be possible at home only if someone could always be there. Peter had said, Youre not working full time now, Jane. Your projects well, its not our main income. She hadnt argued. Collected her architectural folders, packed them away, put the box in the studio.
The kettle boiled. She made a tea, stood gazing at the garden. The cat had moved on. The puddle remained.
Jane barely stepped out for the first three days. Not because she couldnt, but because she no longer knew where shed go. Her body clung to the old scheduleup at six, routines throughout the day. Now there was no schedule, the days themselves felt formless.
She went from room to room, and found herself staring at things: the wheelchair by the wall, bags of incontinence pads under the bed, a box of medicinesall labelled in her own handwriting, morning, evening, for blood pressure. Mrs Taylor had died quietly in her sleep three months earlier, but the household, the stuff of care, stayedit was untouched because Peter never moved it, and Jane couldn’t bring herself to.
On the fourth day, she took out three black bin bags and started.
She worked methodically, without hurry. All the pads, catheters, gloves, absorbent sheets went first. Then the medicines, pack after pack. The wheelchair was hardestmemories of trundling it down the street, Mrs Taylor looking at the trees like people do when they know its for the last time. Jane dismantled as much of it as she could, took it out to the bin room in three trips.
Then she stood under the hot shower for ages.
When she looked in the mirror afterwards, she saw someone she hadn’t seen in a long time: herself. Not a carer, not a wife, not a surrogate daughter. Just a woman of fifty-two, wet hair showing strands of grey, the sort she hadn’t bothered dyeing in yearsno time, nobody to notice.
The next morning, she rang the local salon.
The stylist was called Daisy; in her early thirties, hands quick and confident. When Jane explained she wanted the length gone and needed something for the colour, Daisy didnt ask questions, just examined her in the mirror with the attentive gaze of a good doctor.
Youve got a lovely natural colour, she said eventually. We can do highlights, blend the grey in. Itll look very modern. And a cutnot too short, but tidy around the neck. You have a beautiful neck.
Do what you like, Jane said.
She sat in the chair two hours, watching a different woman form in the mirror. Not newjust washed clean of old residue.
Outside, Octobers wind ruffled her cropped hair. Jane realised she hadnt felt the wind in her hair for years. Shed always been rushingchemist to home, to doctors surgery and back.
Now, she wandered nowhere in particular.
She bought a takeaway coffee from the corner shop and strolled for the sake of strolling.
The divorce took four months.
Peter turned up at court with a slick young solicitor in an expensive suit, quick-talking, eyes scanning the room. Jane came alonenot to prove anything, but because she had no interest in a scrap.
At the second hearing, she saw her. The other woman. Mid-thirties maybe, ponytail, check coat, nice heelsstood to one side scrolling her mobile, glanced at Jane briefly, like strangers waiting for a bus.
Jane noted, almost with curiosity, there was no superiority in that lookjust the glance of someone who didnt know her.
Jane, Peter said quietly. Id like to talk about the house.
No need, she replied.
But
Peter. She looked at him calmly. I want my studiothe one that was mine before we married. Just that. The flat, the car, the cottageyou keep them.
He was silent a while.
Are you sure?
Yes.
The solicitor scribbled. Peter stared at her, as if waiting for her to start haggling, to get bitter, to call out the long years and care. To mention Mrs Taylor and her five years. But Jane didnt. Not because she had no right, but because she didnt want to fight. She didnt want guilt or his defencesnone of it, nor the tears which still hung somewhere at the back of her throat.
The studio was on Maple Street, second floor of an old terrace, small but with high ceilings and a huge north window. Jane had bought it at thirty-four, straight after qualifying, out of three years savings. There was her drawing deskold, battered but comfortableshelves stacked with portfolios, pots of plants that outlasted everything and grew on, unchanged.
She spent her first night back there after the solicitors paperwork was signed off.
Lay on the folding sofa, stared into the darkness, and thought: what comes next?
No answer arrived. But the uncertainty didnt scare her, not the way she thought it might.
Her first call was to Green Arc, a landscape practice shed worked with before. They remembered herthe receptionist was cheerful, said shed pass her on. The director spoke politely. He remembered her designs, especially the childrens hospital park. He praised her, but added, Jane, you know five years is a long time in this field. The markets changed. The softwares changed, so have the clients. We need people who can
I understand, she said.
If something comes up, well call.
She knew they wouldnt.
The second call was to a private design studio run by an old classmate, Olivia. Olivia sounded thrilledbut soon slipped into talk about different expectations and the youngsters and their digital stuff, and, you know, competitions fierce these days.
The third call, she made without much hope, to the citys parks department. After a long silence, they said the roster was full.
Jane placed her phone down and looked out into the November streetbare trees, passers-by with collars up. She realised that five years was forever, not inside herself, but out there. The world had moved on, the spaces shed vacatedleaving them carefullywere now filled by others.
She opened her laptop and researched new landscape softwareprograms shed never used. She read till two in the morning, drank endless tea, scribbled notes. Some things were new, others familiar, just renamed.
In December, she found a job. Not the one she wanted, but a job: as an assistant at a small nursery on the outskirts of town. The owner, Auntie Veraa businesslike woman of few wordsjudged everything with one simple question: useful, or not?
Can you work with plants? she asked at the interview.
Yes.
Then youre in. Pays nothing special, but its real work.
It was. Jane started at eight, dealt with seedlings, repotting, helping customers. Not what shed planned, but it was honest. Hands caked in soil, the scent of mulch and peat, neat rows of pots with living things inside.
It was at the nursery she heard about the greenhouse.
Auntie Vera mentioned, almost in passing, that an abandoned greenhouse stood at the back of the old botanical gardens on River Road. The director was trying to do something with it, but was short on people.
Jane didnt go straight away. She just thought about it for a bit. Then, one Sundaywhen the nursery was shutshe put on her coat and went.
The greenhouse was sunk in the depths of the old park, behind tangled trees. The first thing Jane saw was its glasspanes dirty, but with life lurking inside. The metal frame was rusted in places, some sections patched with plywood. The path was thick with leaves.
But inside
She opened the heavy door, and warm, damp air hit her. She froze.
Inside was a living chaos. Plants growing every way: reaching for the light, collapsing over neighbours, a vine climbing an ancient support to the ceiling. Tangerine trees laden with little fruits, big pots of palms grown wild, unexpected orchids on wooden shelves, planted with love long ago, since left to fend for themselves.
She stood, and something in herlong compressedunfurled.
Are you expected?
She spun. An elderly man stood in the side passage, glasses pushed onto his forehead, small and wiry, hands that showed a life of manual work.
No. Sorry. I just saw it from outside and came in. If it’s not allowed, Ill leave.
No reason you cant. He peered at her, then at the greenhouse. Jack Simmons. The director, as much as that word means here.
Jane Taylor. Im a landscape architect.
He considered her.
With a gap. Five years.
He paused a beatshe could tell he didnt judge, he was just thinking.
Come, Ill show you whats here.
They walked nearly two hours. Jack laid things out: what used to be, what was, what had failed. The greenhouse had been temporarily closed for renovations seven years ago, forgotten under new management. Left in limbo. Not dismantled, not revived.
Jack had won permission to tinker here, but was alone. Every day, he came to water, feed, monitor the temperature. Hed done it all himself.
Id like to help, Jane said.
Cant pay you yet.
I understand.
He looked at her a long moment.
Thursday, then.
She came Thursday. Then again. Soon, she was coming daily. She left the nurseryAuntie Vera didnt mind. Good for you, Jane; your minds wasted on pots.
The greenhouse became her projecther first real project in five years.
She took things in stages: began with an inventoryevery plant, its state, its place, its needs. It took three weeks, notes as meticulous as site documents, but for the living. Then, she started thinking about space. The greenhouse spanned nearly four hundred metres; inside, it was just tubs dotted at random, with no paths, no logic. Jane drafted schemes. Evenings, in her studio, shed spread paper on her desk and sketch by hand, like in design schoolit helped her think.
Jack looked at her drawings and nodded.
Here, Im thinking citrus. Mandarin, lemon, kumquatthey all like it dry. Group them here. Itll look and smell gorgeous.
The smells something special, he agreed. Come in from the cold, hit by that citrus scentit changes everything.
In the centre, the tall palms stay. They give heightscale. Lower down, tropical shrubs, and a little meandering path.
A path. Good idea. People like to walk.
Theyll come, youll see. People find their way to spaces made for them to thrive.
Winter was spent in work. She bought plants, found suppliers, paid with what little was left from the divorcea bit, but it sufficed. She hired people to fix the glass. Jack was there always, doing what he knewwatering, tending, talking to the plants like those who know its not mad, just honest.
In January, she rang her old friend Ruth.
Ruth was from university days; at first, shed invited Jane out, then stopped, when Jane always declinedPeters mum, cant leave. Ruth picked up on the third ring, was quiet a long time, then said:
Youre alive?
I am.
Thank God. Whereve you been?
Long story. Are you home?
Yeah. Eating a pork pie. Get over here.
Jane went. They sat at Ruths kitchen table, drinking tea, later gin, as Jane explained. Ruth didnt offer advice or exclaim, just gave the occasional Right, or Hmm. It was exactly what Jane needed.
And your Peter, Ruth said at the end, does he know you work in a greenhouse now?
No reason he should.
Fair one. Just wondering. Ruth poured another cuppa. How are you, really?
Jane thought.
Im all right. For the first time in agesall right.
Ruth nodded, and they left it there.
February brought a surprise.
Jane brought new plants into the greenhouse: a couple of pots of geraniums, and a big rosemary bush shed found at the nursery dirt cheap. Jack was busy at the far end, so Jane worked alone, spacing out the pots, measuring out distances. Suddenly the door opened, and she looked up.
A man stood in the doorway.
Late fifties, in a thick jacket, carrying a tablet under one arm. Broad-shouldered, eyes sharp, calm movements like someone used to working in awkward spaces.
Sorry, he said. Is Jack around?
Hes at the far side. Turn right after the palms.
Thanks. He lingered, eyes scanning the place. It looks lovely. I saw it half a year backwas a different story then.
It was, Jane agreed.
Is this your doing?
Mine and Jacks.
But the plans yours, he said, not as a question.
Jane looked at him. He wasnt watching her, but the space, with that same professional attitude she recognisedsomeone who saw structure, not just prettiness.
And you are?
Alec Brown. Engineer. Were repairing the roof, two sections were leaking.
Third and seventh. Jane said.
He turned, surprised.
Howd you know?
Im here every day.
He went to find Jackbut stopped by Jane on the way out.
Can I ask you something?
Go on.
These mandarins, he nodded at the end tub, will they flower come spring?
They should. As long as the temperature holds.
And how do you tell when theyre getting ready?
Jane hadnt expected that. She paused.
Theyll form tight, dark-green buds. Once you see those, give it three weekstherell be blossom.
Thanks. He nodded, Much appreciated.
He left.
Jack emerged from the palms, pleased.
Good man, Alec. Hes looked after us two seasons now. Never strings us along.
Engineer?
Structural. Specialises in restoring old buildings. He likes the greenhouse as a puzzle.
Jane nodded, returning to her rosemary.
Alec was back a week later, again with blueprints, again on business, but this time he lingered. He paced the greenhouse, peered at beams, scribbled notes. Jane carried on planting, barely noticing. They bumped into each other by the lemon pots, both stepped aside.
Sorry.
Not at all.
Pause.
What did you do before, then? he askednot nosy, just like hed been pondering it.
Landscape design. Urban spaces.
It shows.
In here?
In how you arranged the plants. You understand flows. Its not just pretty, it has movement.
Jane looked at him.
And you?
A bit. By association. I work with building layouts, start seeing space differently.
Jack called him, and Alec went. Jane stood wondering: when was the last time anyone had spoken to her work like that? Not flowerslooks nice, but something detailed, substantial.
March brought the first visitors. Jane and Jack put up a sign on the park gates and posted in the neighbourhood group online: soft opening. Seven people came the first day. The next week, thirty. People wandered the new paths, sniffed the citruses, took photos of the palms. An elderly lady lingered over the rosemary, swearing her nans garden had a bush just like it.
It works, Jack said, quietly delighted.
It does, Jane replied.
He turned to her.
Jane Taylor, Ive managed to talk to management. Theyll budget for a proper position. Nothing glamorous, but official.
What title?
Chief Plant Officer. Its box-ticking, but it means you can keep doing whatever you do.
All right, Jane said.
All right. Those words held new weight these days. Not, Oh, fine, but genuinely all right.
In April, Alec invited her for a coffee.
Not a date, just, Theres a good café next dooryouve not stopped for an hour. Which was true. They went. He told her he had a daughter in Bath, was divorced eight years, liked his work because every job was a new riddle.
Why old buildings? Jane asked.
Theres history in them. You see storiesone person designed, another built, a third rebuilt, another rescued. Not a single author. Its a conversation across years.
Jane looked out the window.
And greenhouses?
Special. The conversation isnt over. Theres life.
Life, Jane echoed.
He watched her, calm and attentivenothing but honest regard.
They chatted for an hour. Then Alec walked her back, said hed be round to check the third section tomorrowThere’s another joint playing up.
All right, Jane said.
He left. Jane watched him go, thinking when did it startthis feeling that breaths came easier with him about? Not because he did anything particular; just by being there.
In May, Jane told Ruth about Alec.
Is it serious? Ruth demanded.
Ruth
Im asking!
I dont know yet.
And him?
Never asked.
Jane Taylor! Ruth wagged a finger, Youre fifty-two!
Fifty-three, actually.
All the more. Ask!
Jane laugheda proper belly laugh. It felt wonderful, laughing for no reason and without permission.
News of Peter drifted back through shared friends, always delivered in careful, testing tones, unsure if Jane would want to know.
Nina from her old block called first.
JaneI shouldnt interfere, but have you heard?
Heard what?
His Anastasiahis girlfriendshes left. Packed up in May, gone. Some say he wanted kids, she didnt, or the other way round, cant say.
Right, Jane said.
How do you feel?
I dont. But thank you for letting me know.
Then Anton, an old friend of Peters, calledawkward.
Jane, sorry to say, but Peters had to leave the company. Few months back. I didnt know if I should say.
And now?
Hesitation.
Hes phoned me lately. Sounds adrift.
Anton, Jane replied calmly, Im glad hes got you. Its important to have friends when things are tough. But whats it to me?
Nothing, probably. Im sorry.
Jane ended the call and stepped into the greenhouse. Outside, Junes lilacs bloomed in the park; inside, the new air coolers worked at last. The mandarins set fruit. The palms stood tall, impassive.
She took the watering can and walked the path.
Did she think of Peter? Occasionally. Not often, but she did. She remembered the good thingsthe early years, before things slid, slowly, as such things always do. Not a moment, not a worda chain of small choices: a bit less attention, a little more impatience, fewer how are yous. She was hardly blameless, she knewfaded into caregiving, became invisible in her own house.
But those words. Smelling of old age.
She set the can beside the lemons and looked at the glossy, vibrant leaves.
It was cruel. Words said, not to leave, but to make someone else feel guilty for it.
She picked up the can and carried on.
Alec dropped by a few times a month. Sometimes for work, sometimes just to chat with Jack, sometimes with Jane. They talked about everything: work, the city, novels read (though their tastes didnt overlap). Once he brought figs from the marketfor the greenhouse, maybe you could plant them? Jack was delighted; Jane explained the effort involved, and Alec genuinely listenednot just politely waiting for her to finish, but utterly engaged.
In July, they visited an architecture show in town. Alec seemed to know a third of the exhibitors, and Jane listened as he related the story of every project, whod built, what had failed, why. It was substantial, interesting, alive.
How long have you worked on old sites? she asked.
Since forty. Before that, new builds. Old ones are more interesting.
Why?
They have mistakesreal ones, human errors. When you find them, you understand the character behind theman architect, an engineer, someone from a century back. Its odd, but good.
Jane pondered afterwards. Perhaps, she thought, its the right way to see your pastnot a failure, but as someone else’s mistake, one you can understand, not just judge.
August was a scorcher. The greenhouse was becoming a place people now came to on purpose. School parties, weekend visitors, biology teachers arranging regular field trips. Jack was radiant.
Its you, he told Jane. All you.
Its us, shed reply.
No, no. Your plan, your vision, I just hauled the hoses.
Jane laughed. Then shed head to her corner table, laptop and sketches spread outnow drawing up expansion plans for next spring, converting an outbuilding for classes and workshops. Itd cost, but Jane found two grants they might try for, and Jackdraping his glasses across his noseread the small print as seriously as a barrister reviewing a will.
September. The call came Friday evening.
She hadnt deleted his number, just hadnt thought about it. The phone buzzedPeter.
She waited a few seconds.
Yes.
Jane. Pause. Are you busy?
Yes. What do you want?
Nothings wrong. I I need to see you.
What for?
To talk. I just I need to talk.
Jane stood, went to the studio window. Outside was a September eveningpeople walking home, some with bags, some hurrying.
Peter, she said. What do we have to talk about?
A lot. Jane, I things are difficult. Id like you to listen.
Im listening now.
No, in person. His voice sounded unsure, so different from that Sunday morningthen, full of confidence. Now, more like a plea. Can I come round? Where do you work?
She paused.
The greenhouse on River Road. Working hours only.
She hung up.
He came in October. An ordinary Tuesday, half past twelve. Jane was placing new orchid stands in the central section. The door opened; she heard an unfamiliar tread, and glanced up.
Peter walked up the path, holding a modest bunch of chrysanthemumswrapped in cellophane, the kind you get at the supermarket for a fiver.
Jane looked at the bouquet, his hands, the way he awkwardly held the stems.
Hello, he said.
Hello.
He glanced around.
Its beautiful in here.
I know.
He held out the bouquet.
These for you.
Jane took them.
Thank you. Theres a table over here.
They sat by the little visitors area Jane had set uptwo woven armchairs, a low table, gardening magazines in a rack. Jack discreetly vanished into the depths of the house.
You look well, said Peter.
Thank you.
No, really. You look so much better. I havent seen you like this in years.
Like what?
Alive. He seemed startled by his own word. I mean, before, you were always buried in caring for Mum, running routines. Now youre different.
Im the same.
Noyoure not.
Jane was silent. She watched the mandarin trees in the light, waiting for whatever hed next say.
Jane,he startedI know what I did. And what I said, too. It was He paused, It was unfair.
Yes, she said simply.
I was I didnt know what I was doing. Thought I needed something else, that I was suffocating. But really, I just
Got scared, Jane offered.
He looked at her.
Scared of what?
Of getting old. Of living with sickness, a life thats nothing like adverts show. Thats all right, Peter. Thats perfectly human.
I didnt know thats how you saw it.
I didnt always, Jane admitted. But eventually, I learned it.
He was quiet for a while. Wind rattled the leaves outside.
Jane. He hadnt called her Jane in years, always Janet. I want to come back. I know how it soundsbut Im asking you to consider it.
Jane looked at him. She shaped her reply, realising the answer had long lived inside her.
Peter, she said. Im not angry with younot now. The angers long gone. Whats left is understanding. That youre not a villain. You did the only thing you could.
So is there a chance?
No.
He didnt answer immediately.
Why not?
Because Ive chosen otherwise.
What have you chosen?
All this. She gestured at the greenhouse. This work. This space. These plants. Myself.
He looked, and she could see he knew she didnt say it to hurt, only because it was true.
And the other blokeJack said theres an engineer about?
Jack talks to all sorts, Jane replied calmly.
Are you with him?
Peter. She met his gaze. Thats not for you to ask.
He was silent, then nodded.
Got it.
Im glad you camenot because I needed this chat, but because its done now. For good.
You were the best wife I could have imagined, he said quietly. I just didnt know how to value that.
I know. Jane stood. Ive got work to do. If you want, I can show you roundtheres lots to see.
He rose, looked at the woman hed known twenty years, standing in the strip of winter sunlight between the mandarins, utterly composed.
No, he said. Thank you. Ill be off.
All right.
He walked to the door, then turned.
Jane. You He broke off. Take care.
You too, she said.
The door shut.
Jane stood for a moment, then gathered the chrysanthemums, found a tall vase, filled it with water, and set the flowers out. Chrysanthemums last in water. Good flowers.
Jack reappearedpretending he hadnt been listening, though the house carried sound well enough.
Cup of tea? he asked.
Yes, please.
They sipped at the little table as Jack related his latest plan for citrus butterflies over the summerif only they got the right saplings in. Jane listened, liking the idea, picturing the children who would love it.
October slipped into November. Jane filed her expansion proposal, and got tentative approval for the grant. Jack was so pleased he bought a cake, and they ate it right there, leaving crumbs on Janes drawings, both roaring with laughter.
Alec began to visit more, not just for work.
One day, he brought in mulled wine in a flask.
November needs it, he said.
How do you know I dont mind?
You dont, he grinned.
She laughed.
They sat in the wicker chairs at the entrance as the bare park appeared through the glass, and Alec poured two mugs. Spicy, citrus-scented steam rising.
Tell me about your expansion plan, he prompted.
She did, showing off sketches, talking for ages. He listened, sometimes interrupted, demonstrated things on his tablet from a builders angle. Conversation was lively, full of equals and that, Jane realised, was what shed been missinga sense of parity.
You can do a double-glazed section here, he remarked. Fixes the condensation problem between zones. I saw it in a Finnish greenhouse onceweathers similar.
And will the supports take new extensions?
Should do. Let me run some numbers?
Id like that, Jane said.
He looked at hernot at the drawings, but her.
Jane Taylor, he said.
Yes?
I enjoy talking with you.
Jane paused.
So do I.
Something shifted outside. She squinted.
Snow.
First flakes, tentative and slow, tumbling onto the benches, the tree limbs, the path through the park. The light turned pale, soft.
Snow, Alec said.
Yes.
They watched.
Jane cupped the mug, feeling warmth radiate into her hands, with snow outside and the inside sweet with citrus and pineJacks last weeks branches, a touch of Christmas early.
She thought: there, behind the glass, was November and the first snow, but inside, it was warm and alive. Perhaps that was itthe real achievement of the year: finding a place where things thrive, even as winter presses on.
Are you thinking about something? Alec asked quietly.
I am.
Something good?
Jane looked at the snow, at the tiny, fiery mandarins, the ragged line of orchids, the towering palms, now kissed with melting flakes overhead.
Yes, she said. Something good.
Alec said nothing more. He poured them each more wine, and they sat in the warmth together, gazing out at the snow.
