“Should I call Diane?”
He laughed.
“No contracts. No surprises. Just an idea.”
He pointed to the old greenhouse.
“What if we restored it properly?”
“We’ve been restoring it.”
“I mean the whole thing. New ventilation, accessible paths, worktables, a small classroom.”
I frowned.
“A classroom?”
He nodded.
“For young people who want to learn horticulture. Maybe retirees who miss having a garden. People who can’t afford land of their own.”
I studied the drawings.
A wide path curved between the rosebushes.
Small benches stood beneath flowering trees.
The greenhouse had been expanded carefully, preserving Michael’s original wooden frame.
Caleb watched me.
“I know it’s your property. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
I traced one finger along the sketched path.
My husband had always loved teaching people about plants.
He used to give cuttings to neighbors and spend whole afternoons explaining how to grow them.
I looked at Caleb.
“Your father would have loved this.”
His eyes softened.
“I hoped you’d say that.”
We spent the autumn planning.
Diane helped us establish a small charitable organization with clear ownership and safeguards so Rosebank would remain my home while its garden could support community programs.
Caleb contributed design work.
Erin, who had found new employment after leaving Victor’s company, volunteered to help organize applications and schedules.
She turned out to have an extraordinary talent for coordinating complicated projects.
On the first day she arrived, she stood outside the greenhouse looking uncertain.
