Chapter 6
By Monday morning, the courtyard had begun to look less like a construction project and more like a place people might someday linger without realizing they were doing it.
The old fountain had survived, though Ben had spent most of the previous week muttering at its pump with the kind of patience Rachel suspected was only possible for people who genuinely liked solving problems. The path curved naturally now, the bench beneath the maple tree sat in shade by late afternoon, and clusters of herbs in their black nursery pots waited patiently beside the fence, their future apparently secure in Ben’s hands.
Rachel found herself wandering outside more often than necessary.
Not constantly. Not in any way she considered suspicious.
But sometime over the last ten days, she had developed questions.
Questions about rosemary. Questions about gravel.
Questions about benches and bees and whether lavender really attracted butterflies or if butterflies simply had good publicists.
Most of these questions could probably have survived unanswered. Somehow they rarely did.
Which was how she found herself stepping into the courtyard shortly before lunch with a mug of tea in her hand and absolutely no reason to be there.
Ben was crouched beside the fountain, one knee on the stone edge, studying something with the concentration he seemed to bring to everything.
Rachel had begun to suspect that if civilization collapsed, Ben would remain calm enough to organize the herbs and establish a reasonable irrigation system while everyone else panicked.
The thought made her smile.
Then he stood.
Or rather, he attempted to stand.
Halfway upright, he stopped and pressed one hand against his lower back with an expression of quiet betrayal.
Rachel laughed before she could stop herself.
Ben looked over.
“That bad?”
“You made a sound.”
“I deny everything.”
“You absolutely made a sound.”
“I have no witnesses.”
“I’m the witness.”
“Yeah, but you’re unreliable.”
He straightened more carefully this time and stretched slightly, as though hoping his body might decide to cooperate if approached diplomatically.
Rachel walked closer.
“What have you been doing?”
“Moving stones.”
“You know, your body occasionally likes variety.”
“My body is being dramatic.”
“Mhm.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“That was judgment.”
“It was experience.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I’m forty-two and my knees aren’t afraid to tell me from time to time.”
That earned a laugh.
“Fair.”
They stood beside the fountain while a breeze moved through the maple tree overhead, carrying the scent of rosemary and damp earth. Inside the studio, Allison’s noon class had just started, and music drifted faintly through the open windows.
Ben shifted his weight again.
Rachel watched him for a moment.
“You know, I do teach yoga.”
His head turned.
“I was afraid you might.”
She laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Your hips are tight.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“That sentence feels unnecessarily personal.”
“I’m making an observation.”
“I’m beginning to regret our friendship.”
The word settled between them so naturally that neither acknowledged it.
Rachel smiled into her tea.
“You say that now.”
“I say that while standing.”
“Exactly.”
Ben bent to move one of the nursery pots and then stopped midway through the motion, closing his eyes briefly.
Rachel laughed again.
“You’re impossible.”
“No, this is what happens when men reach forty-five and continue behaving like lumberjacks.”
“I’m a landscape architect.”
“That’s a very elegant way of saying lumberjack.”
“I have degrees.”
“And a sore back.”
He shook his head.
“I liked you better before you started diagnosing me.”
“You met me at a wellness studio.”
“Clearly, an oversight on my part.”
She smiled and looked down at the herbs waiting beside them.
Neither spoke for a moment.
The courtyard had become strangely peaceful these days.
Not finished. Still rough around the edges.
But the shape of it had emerged. Rachel could almost see women sitting beneath the maple tree with tea after class, conversations drifting into evening.
She could imagine Divorce Supper Club there someday, Elena arguing passionately about something ridiculous while the group quietly sipped wine, feigning agreement.
It was becoming beautiful.
Not all at once.
Quietly.
The way most worthwhile things seemed to.
“What time?” Ben asked.
Rachel blinked.
“What?”
“The yoga.”
She looked over.
“The yoga?”
“You recommended it.”
His expression remained entirely neutral.
“My back has submitted a formal complaint.”
Rachel stared.
“You’re serious.”
“Apparently.”
“What?”
He smiled.
“You seem surprised.”
“I am.”
“I thought that was the idea.”
“No, I know, I just…”
She laughed softly.
“I didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”
“Neither did I.”
They smiled.
And somehow that made her laugh again. Not because anything was particularly funny. Because she hadn’t expected the answer.
“Tuesday evenings?” he asked.
Rachel nodded.
“Six o’clock.”
“Beginner?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You’ve never done yoga before?”
“My college girlfriend once convinced me to take a class.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
“I spent forty minutes wondering when everyone else became rubber.”
She laughed.
“That’s encouraging.”
“I thought honesty mattered.”
“It does.”
“I suffered bravely.”
“You’ll survive.”
“People say that.”
They drifted back to discussing the herbs after that. Rosemary and basil. Sunlight. Soil. Ordinary things. And by the time Rachel headed inside again, she had almost forgotten the conversation entirely.
Almost.
Because sometime during the afternoon, while answering emails and reviewing invoices and helping one of the instructors reschedule a workshop, she caught herself thinking about tomorrow evening.
Not consciously.
The thought simply appeared.
Ben in yoga.
The image arrived unexpectedly and, to her considerable annoyance, brought a smile with it.
Good Lord.
It was one class.
She had taught thousands of students.
Thousands.
Teenagers dragged there by mothers. Men recovering from knee surgeries.
Women navigating divorce and grief and pregnancies and reinventions.
Athletes. Lawyers. Nurses. Entire bridal parties.
Once, memorably, a retired dentist who had spent six weeks referring to downward dog as “that nonsense with the carpet.”
People took yoga classes every day.
Nothing about this was remarkable.
And yet.
At some point while reviewing the schedule, she found herself wondering whether Ben would hate it.
Or secretly enjoy it.
Whether he’d complain.
Whether he’d approach Warrior Two with the same seriousness he brought to irrigation.
The thought made her smile again.
Which was deeply inconvenient.
Because Allison noticed.
Of course she noticed.
Rachel was making tea when Allison appeared in the doorway.
“Question.”
Rachel looked up.
“Mhm?”
“Why are you smiling at the kettle?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The kettle.”
Rachel frowned.
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I think you’re imagining things.”
“Entirely possible.”
Allison leaned against the doorframe.
“Although people don’t usually smile while waiting for water to boil.”
“Maybe I enjoy hydration.”
“Mhm.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Allison.”
Still smiling, Allison disappeared back toward reception, leaving Rachel alone with the tea and her own increasingly suspicious thoughts.
By the time the studio closed, the sky had turned the pale gold that always made September feel dreamy. Rachel locked the front door and wandered through the courtyard before heading home, pausing near the bench beneath the maple tree.
The air smelled faintly of rosemary.
The fountain murmured softly now, repaired and restored, and for a moment she simply stood there, looking at the shape the space had taken.
It occurred to her then that anticipation had become unfamiliar.
Not excitement exactly.
Something quieter.
The simple pleasure of having something ahead of you.
A dinner.
A phone call.
A Friday night with friends.
Tuesday.
Such an ordinary thing.
And perhaps that was why it felt so lovely.
Because there had been years — not terrible years, but busy ones — when she had moved from obligation to obligation without noticing much in between. Tuesdays had been filled with schedules and carpools and groceries and making sure everyone else arrived where they needed to be.
Now Tuesday held a yoga class.
And a forty-five-year-old landscape architect whose hips had apparently surrendered.
Rachel laughed softly to herself.
Then she shook her head, picked up her bag, and headed to her car.
Tomorrow, she thought.
Which, she realized as she unlocked the door and caught herself smiling one more time, was a surprisingly pleasant thing to say.
———
By six o’clock on Tuesday evening, Ben had already begun questioning several life choices.
Not all of them.
Just the specific sequence of events that had somehow led a forty-five-year-old former technology executive and current landscape architect to stand barefoot in Studio B holding a borrowed yoga mat and wondering whether he should have stretched beforehand, despite possessing absolutely no evidence that stretching before stretching was a real thing.
The room itself was quieter than he expected.
Not silent. There was music somewhere, soft enough to disappear beneath conversation, and women arriving with water bottles and rolled mats and the relaxed familiarity of people who had done this a hundred times before.
One woman was discussing her grandson’s soccer tournament.
Another was telling someone about a disastrous date involving paddle boarding and tequila.
A few people nodded to Rachel as they entered.
Nobody seemed particularly spiritual.
Or intimidating.