Page 13 of Love in Full Bloom

"I love how you've framed the view of the meadow beyond," Jasmine says, walking along the path. "It's like a living painting."

Her words please me more than I expected. "That's exactly what I was going for. Creating a series of vignettes that change as you move through the space."

She stops at the edge of the patio, turning in a slow circle to take everything in. "Your work is so different from what I imagined."

"What did you imagine?"

"Something more... formal, I guess. More controlled." She looks up at me with those changeable hazel eyes, now more green than brown in the morning light. "But this has soul. It feels alive."

Something warm unfurls in my chest at her words. Most clients appreciate my technical skill or the functionality of my designs. Few recognize the emotional intent behind them.

"That's the highest compliment you could give me," I admit. "I've been trying to move away from the more structured approach I use in my professional work. To create something that feels more... authentic."

"It shows." She reaches out to touch a native iris, its purple bloom nodding in the breeze. "There's heart in this garden."

We continue walking, and I find myself sharing more than just my design philosophy. I tell her about growing up with a mother who loved gardens but had no time to create one, working long hours as a nurse. How I started helping an elderly neighbor with his vegetable garden when I was ten, fascinated by the way plants responded to care and attention. How landscape architecture combined my love of nature with my need to create order from chaos.

"What about you?" I ask as we pause by the small pond I've excavated. "How did you find your way to painting?"

Jasmine kneels to examine a clump of marsh marigolds blooming at the water's edge. "I've always painted. Even as a kid, I was constantly drawing the plants and bugs I found in our backyard." She looks up at me with a small smile. "My parents thought I'd grow out of it. Get a 'real job' eventually."

"But you didn't."

"No." She stands, brushing dirt from her knees. "I tried other things—worked in an office for a while, took some graphic design classes. But I was miserable. It wasn't until I gave myself permission to paint what truly moved me that I felt... right."

"The wildflowers."

She nods. "Everyone told me to paint what sells—landscapes, pretty garden flowers, things people want over their couch. But those overlooked plants kept calling to me. Their resilience, their determination to bloom whether anyone notices or not."

I see it now—the connection between her and her subjects. The same quiet determination, the same authentic beauty that doesn't demand attention but captivates once you notice it.

"I'm glad you didn't listen," I tell her. "Your work is powerful precisely because it's so personal."

A shadow crosses her face. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just being stubborn. If I should try to be more... conventional."

The vulnerability in her voice touches something in me. I recognize that doubt—the question of whether following your own vision is worth the struggle when a more mainstream path would be easier.

"Conventional is forgettable," I say quietly. "What you create is memorable. It makes people see differently."

Her eyes meet mine, searching. "You really think so?"

"I know so." I step closer, drawn by the uncertainty in her expression. "Since seeing your paintings, I've noticed wildflowers everywhere. Plants I've walked past a thousand times without really seeing. Since I met you, I notice wildflowers everywhere. You’ve opened my eyes to a kind of beauty I didn’t even know I was missing."

The morning light catches the copper highlights in her hair, and I resist the urge to touch it. Instead, I gesture toward a rustic wooden bench nestled beneath a flowering dogwood.

"Hungry? I brought breakfast."

Her smile returns. "Starving, actually."

I retrieve the basket I prepared earlier—fresh bread, local cheese, strawberries from the farmers' market, and a thermos of hot coffee. We sit side by side on the bench, the dogwood petals occasionally drifting down around us like snow.

"This is perfect," she says, biting into a strawberry. "I usually just grab coffee and call it breakfast."

"That explains why you're always pouring coffee on strangers," I tease, remembering our first meeting.

She laughs, the sound bright in the morning quiet. "Only the ones who appreciate my paintings."

"A very select group, I'm sure."

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