It wasn’t that hot outside—not yet—but the humidity inside the glass-walled space dampened her skin and made her hair curl almost immediately. Pulling her hair back and securing it with a tie, Grace breathed it all in—the aromas of soil and moisture and leaves and flowers. Beautiful, fragrant flowers. She mostly grew roses, but she was always experimenting with other types of blooms that might look good in arrangements, such as ranunculus and lilies. She loved the interplay between texture and color, size and shape. Grabbing a pair of gloves and her shears, she methodically went down each aisle, pinching the shoots, checking to make sure the irrigation system was working properly, moving smoothly through the space with an ease honed from lots of practice. Growing flowers wasn’t something she’d set out to do. It had been more like a hobby for a while, until a friend had asked her to do a couple of arrangements for a party she was throwing in Greenwich. Grace had happily agreed, and when other people had seen the striking blooms, they’d asked about her work.
