Page 6 of A Wolf in the Garden

Cam dismisses himself after one final worried look, and I watch as Ellie nods, wide-eyed as she thanks him for the offer to help the old women at the gate. Her eyes stay trained on Cam’s retreating form, as if she would rather follow him than be left standing here with me.

“Ellie.” I do my best to sound gentle. She turns those soulful eyes towards me, and I can practically see the pain leaching out of her.Baby.It makes me feel sick to know she’s hurting like this. But then she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin in a determined tilt as she takes a deep breath.

“Hi, Evander.”

“Hi, Ellie.”

“Did you want to look around?” She tucks her hands into the pockets of her dress, and I get the sense that she’s trying hard not to fidget, though she still shuffles one sandal-clad foot repetitively, kicking up bits of shell from the path.

“Yes, absolutely. Is it too much to ask for a personal tour?”

“It’s not too much,” she replies. Her eyes scan over our surroundings, landing on the different groups of visitors still walking through, and I can see her thinking. There’s still an hour to go before the festival officially ends, and although the crowds are a lot thinner now, the garden is by no means empty. “Shall we start up the back? I don’t think anyone’s up there at the moment.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

I follow her up towards her tiny home, which fits in perfectly amongst her cottage garden. The wheels that the house sits on are all artfully disguised by huge wine-barrel planters and vintage tubs, filled with an array of flowers and citrus trees, and the pale brown wood of the structure compliments the garden rather than dominating it. An incredible amount of work has gone into this place and it’s obvious that she’s very talented at what she does. She was always garden obsessed, even at eighteen, and to see what she’s done in the time since is surreal.

To the right of her house is the most elevated part of her yard. We climb a short stairway to a grassed area, where a park bench sits under a huge archway of grapevines.

“What’s the variety?” I ask, touching the new growth as she takes a seat. I can see she hasn’t pruned the vines over winter, unheard of in winemaking, but perfect for an aesthetically pleasing backyard crop.

“Albany surprise. They’re one of the very first things I put in here; I wanted to get fruit crops established quickly.”

I sit beside her, careful to leave a gap between us on the small seat. “Smart thinking.”

“Thanks.”

We sit in silence, and I can feel the tension emanating from her. She picks at the fabric of her dress, her gaze focused on the others wandering through, while I rack my brain for something to say.

“This is a good spot for people watching.” Inside I cringe at myself. It’s a fairly average way to start a conversation. What I really want to do is ask her a million questions, but I hold myself back, lest I overwhelm her.I’mstill feeling stunned, and that’s just from the fact that I’ve found her here. She’s got far more to process, her eyes darting to my teeth once more.

“It is. That wasn’t my intention, but it works for today…” She shrugs, smiling softly. “I just wanted a place to sit and enjoy it all at once, after the garden was done. Not that it’s ever reallydone, with seasonal changes, and the veggies, annuals, et cetera.”

“It looks amazing. There’s a lot of raised beds for crops — you must be pretty self-sufficient here?”

She nods. “Yeah, fruit and vegetable wise, I am. The excess I sell at the farmers market on Saturdays; I do the same with flowers too, especially dahlias in summer. It’s not a huge profit-generating thing, but I get a bit of pocket money to spend from it. Most of the time I just channel those funds back into the garden.”

“That’s really smart. I hadn’t even thought of the idea of monetising flowers.” I didn’t purchase Lost Moon with the expectation of turning a huge profit, at least not for the first few years, but it doesn’t hurt to think about alternative revenue streams.

“It’s the new trend over here. Small-scale flower farms are popping up across the country at a really fast rate, and there’s a handful of pick-your-own flower farms now.” I can see her growing more comfortable as we speak, her body relaxing into the seat behind her, her face lighting up as she speaks.

“Really?”

“Mmhm. You could definitely do that at your vineyard, if you wanted to, depending on how much land you’ve got set aside for gardens. Even just as a side attraction, something to entertain people — flowers look great on social media, and these days that alone motivates people to visit a place, because people want to look good on the ‘gram.”

“Offer it in a package deal; wine tasting, flower picking… I like it. I’ve got a hectare of paddock farmland that I want developed into designed garden spaces,” I say, already thinking ahead. I want her for the job.I want her.

“A hectare!”

At my nod, her mouth falls open. “Ahectare,” she repeats. “Holyshit!Sorry, ’scuse me.” She covers her mouth, her eyes wide.

I laugh.Thisis much better, the ice between us melting, already feeling more like old times. “It’s fine. Would you be interested in the job?”

“In designing a garden? For you?” she asks, and I nod again. “On over a hectare of land?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t use that land for grapevines?”

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