Page 7 of Love in Full Bloom

His smile deepens, creating those crinkles around his eyes again. "This particular landscape architect thinks he might need to reconsider his definition of beauty." He gestures toward my meadow painting. "And maybe incorporate some of these resilient fighters into his next design."

"Really?" I can't keep the pleased surprise from my voice.

"Really." He looks down at me, and I notice the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, like shadows in clear water. "Actually, I'm working on a project right now that needs something special. Something unexpected. Would you..." He hesitates, then continues. "Would you be interested in showing me some of the places where you found these wildflowers? I could use some inspiration."

The invitation hangs between us, filled with possibility. This isn't just professional interest—I can feel it in the way he watches me, waiting for my answer. There's something more here, something neither of us expected to find at an art festival on a windy morning.

"I'd like that," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "I know all the best forgotten corners where beauty hides."

His smile widens. "I'm counting on it."

As festival-goers begin to fill the pathways between booths, I realize I should probably be focusing on potential customers. But I can't seem to look away from Ben, with his coffee-stained shirt and wire-calloused hands and eyes that actually see what I'm trying to show in my work.

For the first time in ages, it’s like someone is looking past the surface and actually seeing me. Not just my art, but me—the person behind the paintings. The woman who finds beauty in overlooked places, who believes in resilience and wild, untamed growth.

And as Ben moves to help another painting that's starting to tilt, I find myself hoping that this unexpected meeting might be the beginning of something just as wild and beautiful as the flowers I paint.

I watch Jasmine chat with a potential customer, her hands animated as she explains something about her dandelion painting. There's a transformation that happens when she talks about her art. Her entire being lights up, her movements become more fluid, more confident. It's captivating.

The coffee stain on my shirt is already forgotten. I've worked outdoors long enough to know that clothes are just tools, meant to get dirty. What matters is what we create with our hands, our minds, our vision.

And what Jasmine creates is extraordinary.

I move slightly away to give her space with her customer, taking the opportunity to study her other paintings more closely. Eachone reveals something new on closer inspection—the way she's captured light filtering through Queen Anne's lace, the defiant angle of a chicory bloom, the complex structure of clover that most people overlook entirely.

"Sorry about that," Jasmine says, appearing at my side after the customer leaves with one of her smaller paintings. "First sale of the day."

"Congratulations." I smile down at her, noticing how the sunlight brings out copper highlights in her hair. "They chose well. Though I'm partial to the meadow piece myself."

"That one's not for sale," she admits, then looks surprised at her own words. "I mean, it could be, but... it's special to me. I finished it just yesterday."

"I understand." And I do. Some creations feel too personal to part with, at least right away. "It captures something essential about how plants interact in natural settings. The community they form."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Most people don't notice that part."

"I spend my life observing how plants relate to each other and their environment. It's the foundation of good landscape design." I gesture toward her paintings. "But you've captured something I often miss—the emotional quality of these relationships. The... personality of each plant."

"Personality." She repeats the word softly, a smile playing at her lips. "That's exactly it. Each one has its own character, its own way of being in the world."

Another customer approaches, and Jasmine excuses herself again. I watch as she engages with them, her expression openand genuine. She seems both completely present with each person yet somehow vulnerable, as though each interaction requires a small leap of faith.

I notice Krissa watching from across the way, not even trying to hide her satisfied smile. She gives me a not-so-subtle thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. My sister will be insufferable when she finds out the matchmaker was right.

While Jasmine is occupied, I continue securing her display against the persistent breeze. Years of creating gardens in challenging environments have taught me to improvise with whatever materials are available. I find small rocks to weigh down her business card holder, reposition her easels to create less wind resistance, and use my wire to secure the larger pieces.

"You didn't have to do all this," Jasmine says when she returns, looking around at her now wind-proof display.

"I wanted to." I step back to survey my work. "Consider it an apology for distracting you from your customers."

"You're hardly a distraction." Her cheeks flush slightly. "I mean, you're helping. That's not distracting. That's... helpful."

Her flustered response is endearing. There's something refreshingly genuine about her, a quality I rarely encounter in my professional circles where everyone is carefully curated, including me.

"So," I say, "tell me about these forgotten corners where you find your subjects. I'm working on a project for clients who want something different—a garden that feels like living art rather than a conventional landscape. Your perspective could be exactly what I need."

"You're serious?" She studies me, as though checking for sincerity.

"Completely serious." I meet her gaze directly. "I've been stuck in a creative rut lately, recycling elements from previous designs. Your work shows a completely different way of seeing beauty in the natural world."

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