Chapter 38
Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Something Beautiful
The rain starts before breakfast, soft and spiteful, the kind that doesn’t soak so much as seep, like it’s trying to convince you to give up.
Gavin’s on a last-minute trip to Vancouver, which means I’ve been able to focus on wrangling Marisol’s party. And by “party,” I mean “potentially rained-out disaster with a grazing table.”
“It’s fine,” Kiki says, arms crossed, as we stare out at the half-assembled stage. “Maybe the rain is the vibe.”
“We don’t have a tent,” I remind her.
“Yet.”
Patricia materializes beside us in patterned rain boots, holding two steaming mugs like a woodland apothecary who moonlights as a floral stylist. She hands one to me with a serene smile.
I take a sip and immediately regret it. “What is this?”
“Rose hip and nettle,” she says. “Immunity in a cup. We can’t have anyone getting sick.”
“Tastes like boiled socks.”
“That’s the nettle.” She grins, then flips open her clipboard. “Slight update. Marisol texted. Jamila Robinson, editor of Bon Appétit, is coming, and Padma Lakshmi’s team has confirmed. Padma’s bringing a producer from HBO Max, possibly scouting.
“Scouting… what?”
“Something about a show featuring female chefs in remote locations. And—” she glances up— “Kris Tompkins might boat over.”
“The actual Kris Tompkins?” I ask. “Conservationist, founding CEO of Patagonia, saver of rain forests?”
Patricia nods. “Apparently, she loves it when chefs use native ingredients. Just don’t say ‘foraged’ too many times.”
Kiki groans. “Our dinner party just turned into a tasting menu for the planet’s coolest women.”
“And about seventy-five guests total,” Patricia adds. “Half of them booked a float plane.”
Kiki groans. “Which means we need more shuttles.”
I take a long breath. Okay.
The prep list is already a novel. I still have to finalize the new courses due to ingredient availability, harvest the last of the squash blossoms, preserve the rose petals for the dessert, and somehow transform the garden into an outdoor dining room with enough seating and shelter to look as if we planned it that way.
“Let’s add ‘sourcing tarps’ to the list,” I say. “And ask Veronica at Orcas Rentals if she’s got dance floor ideas that won’t become Slip ’N Slides if it rains.”
“Done,” Kiki replies, already texting.
I walk back to the garden with Patricia, who’s humming under her breath. The herbs are soaked, the greens drooping like they know something we don’t. We pick around the edges, gathering nasturtiums, mint, and baby arugula.
“What if I screw this up?” I ask her quietly.
“You won’t.”
“But what if I do?”
She stops beside the rain-slicked path. “It’ll still be beautiful. Because your heart is in it.”
I stare at her, momentarily undone.
Then I do what I always do when emotions creep up where they don’t belong: I get back to work.
I tug my hood over my head and start harvesting. At least the mint is still perky, even in the rain. The butter lettuce may be too tender. Thank God the Garden Club advised me to plant hearty Kale. There’s sorrel, calendula, and baby beets. If I can coax enough flavor out of this garden in 48 hours, we might just pull it off.
Inside the kitchen, other helpers—people I barely knew a month ago—are peeling carrots, chopping onions, and debating whether the vegan appetizer should be a mini tart or a canapé.
This is happening. It’s real.
I glance at my phone to check the time just as it pings and a text from Gavin arrives.
Gavin
You sure you don’t want me to fly back early to help?
I hover over the keyboard.
Then I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket.
I want him to see it when it’s done. When it’s glowing, and messy, and mine.
For now, I’m not the girl waiting for the guy.
I’m the one setting the table.