6. Virgo Season
VIRGO SEASON
Apparently, even task-oriented Virgos can’t build a greenhouse in a single day. I couldn’t even plan one in a day, though I made a valiant effort. If I’m being really honest with myself, it chafed my ego a bit that the undertaking hadn’t been as effortless as I expected.
The thing is… I’m kind of, sort of technically a genius, says the IQ test my parents put us kids through the same way other parents sign their children up for soccer camp. It’s not something I talk about a lot, or even think about often, but the reality is that most things come fairly easy to me.
Apparently household projects are out of my wheelhouse, because even though I spent the whole day online researching how to go build a greenhouse, I don’t feel like I made much progress.
It’s not until I’m getting ready for bed that evening that I realize I spent so much time focusing on the downstairs plants that I forgot about Lillian’s precious rooftop flowers.
Setting my Waterpik aside, I stick my feet into fuzzy slippers and pull on a sweater that’s so cozy and oversized it hangs below the hem of my pajama shorts. Then, after I fill the watering can, I make my way up the skinny, winding staircase to the roof.
While I’m still a little puzzled by my aunt’s insistence on this rooftop chore, I don’t actually mind it. In fact, it’s quickly become my favorite part of my routine. Not so much for the mundane plant-watering task itself, which takes just a few moments. It’s more that the task takes me to the roof, which takes me to the stars .
Even more painful to admit than the fact that I can’t build a greenhouse is the realization that despite having built an entire career around studying the cosmos, I can’t remember the last time I actually looked up. Or when I last appreciated the night sky for its beauty, and not its educational value.
It’s during these quiet late-night moments up on Lillian’s roof—even more so than when reading my horoscope every morning—that I sense another Miranda. A Miranda who allows herself to see stars as twinkling little diamonds meant for making wishes, and not the giant spheres of plasma that Dr. Miranda Reed knows them to be.
Technically speaking, it’s mediocre stargazing. Lillian’s house is too close to the light pollution from Manhattan to see things properly.
But the time feels sacred and special all the same.
I realize halfway up the stairs that I won’t be doing even mediocre stargazing tonight. I’ve already taken out my contacts and neglected to grab the glasses I wear in the evening and early morning.
Still, since it’s not like I need twenty-twenty vision to dribble some water onto flowers, I don’t bother to go back down to grab them.
“Hi, darlings,” I murmur to the plants, sticking my finger into the soil. Lillian’s extensive written instructions for her plants talk a lot about poking the dirt to test it. At first, this had made zero sense to me, but as I automatically stick my pointer finger into the cool, moist soil, I’m pleased to realize I think I’m finally getting a feel for being a plant mom. I could tell they hadn’t needed any water after a late summer thunderstorm yesterday, and I can tell now they only need a little sip.
Lillian refers to the pretty purple flowers as her “Buzzes,” which I thought had just been Lillian being Lillian, but have since learned is actually a thing. Buzzes are a variety of a flowering shrub called buddleia. They bloom right up to the first frost, and then I can ease back on the watering. I’d been annoyed by this at first, but now I’m sad I only have another month or so to enjoy them. They’re also known as the “butterfly bush,” and I make a mental note to come up during the day sometime in the next few weeks to catch sight of the butterflies their fragrance is supposed to attract.
“Good evening, Lillian’s niece.”
I squeak and drop the watering can, pivoting toward the unexpected slow rumble of a masculine voice.
Thanks to the lack of light and my currently uncorrected nearsightedness, I can’t make out much detail, but there is definitely a man on the neighboring roof not ten feet away from my own.
“Is that an easel?” I ask, blinking at the stand in front of him.
“Lillian did say you were a genius. A real marvel to see it in action,” he says in a sardonic, indifferent tone.
I blink, a little taken aback by the unfounded rudeness.
“I just mean… how can you even see—forget it.” If this strange man on the roof isn’t going to bother with small talk, then neither will I. “How did you know who I was?” I add with narrowed eyes.
“Lillian emailed all the neighbors. Let us know you’d be living here while she was gone.”
“Interesting. She didn’t mention you .”
He shrugs and picks up what looks like black chalk—charcoal? Is that a thing artists use?—and because it’s so quiet up here, I can hear the scratch of it over the canvas as he resumes his work.
I pick up the watering can, which thankfully still has just enough water to satisfy the Buzzes’ needs, but instead of finishing up with my plant duties, I continue to glare at Lillian’s neighbor.
“So. That was an opening for you to introduce yourself,” I say after a long silence.
There’s no pause in the scratching sound of the charcoal on canvas, and he doesn’t bother turning his head my way when he responds. “Archer.”
“Archer. Is that a first name? Last name?”
He glances over, and though I can’t make out much of anything about his features in the dark, I can see a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of white in the moonlight. “Why? You going to cross-reference my story with Lillian? Make sure I’m not some creepy squatter who lives on the roof?”
I scratch my nose, because that’s actually exactly what I’d been planning to do.
“Last name,” he says, smile gone, bored again. “And don’t worry, Lillian’s niece. Your aunt knows me. What are you doing up here?”
“Watering her favorite plants,” I say, gesturing with the watering can toward the Buzzes. “Lillian likes the rooftop ones watered at night.”
That seems to get his attention. He glances briefly to the plants in question. “I come up here almost every night it’s not raining, and I have never seen those plants in my life.” He points with his charcoal.
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“For that matter, I’ve never seen Lillian up here, either.”
Now I’m genuinely perplexed, because he doesn’t seem like he’s lying, but Lillian’s instructions had been very precise. “Are you sure?”
He shrugs.
I frown down at the plants. “I wonder why she moved them up here. A seasonal thing, maybe?”
He doesn’t reply, and I realize he’s gone back to his work once again, as though I’m not even here. It’s hardly an ego booster, but then I’m not the femme fatale type. This is hardly my first time being disregarded by a man, so I don’t take much offense.
Curious about Archer in spite of his overt rudeness, I walk to the edge of my rooftop toward his. It’s not a large space. In fact, there’s not even a foot-wide gap between our buildings. Enough to lose a set of keys forever, but not enough for anyone to risk falling between them.
The footprint of Archer’s rooftop is about the same as mine. Now that I think about it, I do vaguely remember noticing the rusted chair before.
But the easel is new, as is the stool beside it. The man is definitely new, and I’m not enjoying the development.
I hadn’t really realized it until I’d spotted the unexpected company, but I’ve come to think of the roof as my space. The rest of the home still very much feels like Lillian’s. But up here, with the view of the stars and the Manhattan skyline? This is Miranda’s.
And now I have to share it. I don’t like that in the least.
“How can you draw at night if you can’t see what you’re doing?” I say, finally giving in to my curiosity.
“It’s not like I’m out here in a thunderstorm with a waxing crescent.” He nods slightly upward. “It’s clear. Waxing gibbous.”
I cross my arms, peevishly annoyed that he knows this. “You know your moon phases.”
“You would, too, if you liked to draw by moonlight.”
“Are you a professional artist?”
His attention refocuses on his canvas. “Yes, I make money from my painting.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Isn’t it?”
I consider this. “Yes, I suppose it was.”
I sense rather than see his eyes flick briefly my way, perhaps surprised at the admission, before returning to his work. “Not this work,” he says, nodding at the canvas in front of him. “I sell the stuff I create in my studio. This is just for me.”
“Can I see?” I ask curiously.
“Was ‘just for me’ not clear?”
“You’re not very friendly.”
Instead of acknowledging this, he lifts a glass off the stool and takes a sip of whatever’s in it as he studies me. “What’s your name, Lillian’s niece? It was probably in the email, but I forget.”
“Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD.”
He lets out a quick laugh and sets the glass back down. “You always introduce yourself like that?”
I frown. “Usually. I don’t want people to think I’m a medical doctor. If there’s an emergency, I won’t be much use.”
He simply shakes his head and goes back to his work.
I narrow my eyes. “You said you come up here every night the moonlight is good, but that isn’t true. There was a full moon in Pisces on August 30, and you were not up here.”
“A full moon in Pisces? Randy, what is it with you and extraneous information?”
“Randy?” I repeat.
“Well, I’m not calling you Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD,” he says with a rather spot-on impression of my “teacher voice,” which sometimes finds its way out of the classroom.
“I was not up here on the full moon in Pisces,” he says, “because I’ve been out of town the better part of a month.”
“Oh. Do you travel often?”
“Is that hope I hear in your voice?”
“Well.” I cross my arms. “We aren’t exactly hitting it off, are we? And if I’m up here every night, and you’re up here most nights…” I trail off, because my implication is clear.
“I see. I, too, enjoy my solitude. How about a schedule?”
“Sure!” I say, pleased and surprised by his agreeability.
He nods. “Great. I’ll come up here every night the weather and moon permit, and you… never.”
I make an exasperated noise, but instead of relenting, he shrugs. “Let’s not forget, Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD, I’ve lived here the better part of four years, and you long enough to cite only one full moon. In Pisces.”
With a resigned sigh, I return to the Buzzes to give them the last few drops from the watering can. “I see I took on the wrong home project.”
“What are you muttering about, Randy?”
“I thought I was meant to build a greenhouse downstairs,” I explain. “But I don’t think that should be my first home-improvement endeavor.”
“No?” His indifferent tone and the fact that he’s gone back to his work don’t invite conversation, but I decide to tell him anyway.
“I’m thinking I should build a fence. Taller than a fence. A barrier,” I say when he doesn’t acknowledge me.
“On the roof ,” I say a little louder.
“Randy,” he says. Finally, something surpasses the boredom: exasperation. “Do you always talk this much?”
“No. Not at all, actually.” I pause. “Something we have in common. Only I’m much more likable about it.”
He lets out something that sounds like a laugh, and I’m pretty sure he tries to bite it back, but I hear it anyway. It pleases me.
At least it does until he goes back to drawing without another word.
“I’m going back downstairs,” I announce.
“So soon?”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it.
“Hey. Randy?” he says just as I’m about to retreat inside.
I glance across the roof and see one more flash of the smile in the moonlight. “Same time tomorrow?”
My only response is to let the door slam a little too loudly behind me.