Chapter 17 #2
“She described these tiles,” Kiko said, tracing a pattern with her finger.
She moved past Shelly’s flats of seedlings and labeled rows of herbs and flowers to the far end, where an old potting bench sat against the rear wall. The bench was weathered and scarred, its surface marked by decades of use. The wood showed water stains and deep tool gouges.
“This must be where they sat,” Kiko said, her voice dropping with awe. “My grandmother mentioned a bench. After the other nurses turned in for the evening, she would check on the seedlings for the herbs and plants she grew to help heal their patients.”
“And he would be waiting,” she added.
Ivy stood still as a familiar sensation gathered at the base of her neck.
“They talked about their lives,” Kiko continued. “About what they wanted after the war. He told her he wanted to build a garden. She told him she wanted to plant jasmine wherever she lived. They were young and scared and falling in love.”
Kiko removed a glove and ran a hand along the bench’s surface, feeling the grain of the wood. She paused.
“Ivy.” Her voice changed. “Come look at this.”
Ivy crossed the greenhouse and knelt beside her. Kiko traced something with her fingertip. Grooves in the wood, faint and nearly eroded by time, but unmistakable once you saw them.
Letters.
Carved into the surface of the bench.
The first set was clear. H.K.
Hana Kato.
Below it, connected by a small mark that looked like a plus sign, was another set of initials. But these were harder to read. The wood had swollen and cracked with age, and the carving had softened to little more than shadows in the grain.
Ivy pulled out her phone and took a photo. “Let’s enlarge this so we can see it better. The first letter looks like a B, or it could be an R.”
“H.K.,” Kiko whispered. She traced the letters with trembling fingers. “That’s her. That’s my grandmother.” Her voice broke. “Hana carved this. She was right here, right where we are now.”
Ivy’s heart went out to the younger woman. “It seems real now, doesn’t it?”
Overcome with emotion, Kiko only nodded.
Finally, she sat back on her heels, pressing her palms against her thighs. “They must have carved their initials into this bench with such hope. Hana was in her early twenties and in love with a patient, across a divide they couldn’t cross.”
Ivy’s throat tightened. “But she never forgot.”
“All those years later, she remembered for me. But why?”
Kiko pressed her palm over the carved letters and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were shining with tears. She kept her hand there, as if she could still feel the warmth of the young woman who’d carved those initials so long ago.
Ivy rose to her feet. “Let’s see what else we can find.”
She crossed to the other end of the bench, where a stack of old clay pots sat, untouched for years. Cobwebs draped them like lace, with dust softening every edge.
Shelly must not have needed these.
Ivy stared at the nestled pots for a moment. They weren’t large, but they’d settled over time. “Help me lift this top one out.”
The two women grasped opposite sides with their gloved hands and lifted.
Sunlight fell on a small, flattened shape, half-hidden by grime.
“What’s this?” Kiko said, picking it up as if it were made of glass.
The item was wrapped in a protective oilcloth, so she carefully removed it. A small book, warped by time, lay in her hands. Barely larger than a postcard, with a mildewed leather cover and pages swollen from moisture and time. But it was intact.
Holding her breath, Kiko opened it.
The pages were filled with precise handwriting and delicate drawings of flowers. Orchid blooms, sketched in pencil by someone who’d studied each petal.
“This is my grandmother’s handwriting.”
They sat on the bench under the sunlight, while Kiko turned the pages, reading fragments aloud.
“Cross pollination test, specimen four. Pollen transferred by toothpick. Recipient bloom showing stronger petal structure after three weeks.”
“Shelly would know more about this, but it sounds like she was creating hybrids,” Ivy said, leaning in.
“Yes, she loved experimenting.”
The sketches were meticulous, each labeled with dates and notes on color, shape, and growing conditions.
Kiko turned to the last page with writing on it. A final sketch, more detailed than the others and drawn with colored pencils. It was an orchid, unlike the rest, with distinctive coloring and an unusual petal arrangement.
Beside it, in Hana’s hand, was written a single word.
Basil.
Kiko stared at the page, shocked with sudden recognition. “Oh, my gosh. This is it. This is the orchid she kept in her home. She grew them for as long as I can remember. She always said it was her favorite variety, something special she’d created when she was young.”
“She named it Basil?”
“I teased her about it once. I told her it didn’t look anything like basil, the herb. She just smiled and said it had the character of basil. She never explained what she meant.”
Kiko’s hands were shaking. She scrolled through her phone and found a photograph. “Look. Here’s the same orchid in her house. The one she raised for so many years. I still have some.”
Ivy looked at the phone, then at the sketch. It had the same distinctive shape and coloring.
But what an odd name. “Maybe it had a scent like basil?”
Kiko shook her head. “Not at all.” She brushed off the notebook and held it to her heart, oblivious to the dirt that would surely stain her white blouse.
“This must be what she wanted you to find,” Ivy said.
“But I don’t know why. I knew she had created that orchid. Maybe it was the initials. I wish we could read them.”
Ivy was disappointed, too. “Let’s clean up that notebook. Maybe there’s more to discover.”
They walked out of the greenhouse into the full sun. Fritz and Mac were still measuring the exterior, and the garden club was arriving for the day. The sounds of waves mixed with car doors, chatter, and the clang of tools.
Kiko clutched the notebook and turned back to look at the greenhouse one more time.
“She was right here,” Kiko said, awed. “And during such a scary time in her life. Getting up every day and doing what she had to do. No, what she loved doing. Surely I can figure that out, too.”
“Many people have found that here,” Ivy said. “Myself included.”
Kiko laughed through her tears. “I need to call my friend. She’s not going to believe this.”
Ivy watched her guest hurry back to her room. Plenty of work for the Spring Fling awaited her, but this moment was worth the delay.
Shelly rounded the corner. “Hey, Ivy. Did you find something in there?”
“Nothing of value to anyone but Kiko. She found her grandmother’s notebook.” Ivy filled her in.
“After all this time? Wow, I’d love to see that.”
Ivy fell into step with her. “Any idea why she’d call an orchid basil?”
“The scent?”
“That wasn’t it.”
Shelly shrugged. “Everyone has their reasons, but they’re not always obvious.”
“What were hers, I wonder?” She drew a hand across her face.