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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
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is Hothouse, Episode one, Germination. The thing no one tells
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you about inheriting a botanical garden is that it comes
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with a gardener. This would be fine, normal, even if
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the gardener in question didn't look like he'd been sculpted
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by someone who really really liked forearms. But here I
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am standing in the gravel driveway of Laurel Gardens, watching
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a man in dirt stained jeans walk toward me with
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the kind of easy confidence that suggests he's never had
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an anxiety attack in a supply closet. Must be nice.
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You must be Daphne. He offers his hand. Matt Cole,
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I was your aunt's caretaker. His hand is warm and calloused,
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and I'm shaking it for slightly too long before I
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realize I should probably stop. Bierra talked about you, he says,
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she was excited you were coming to visit this summer.
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Before he stops, clears his throat, I'm sorry for your loss.
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Thank you. I'm sorry too. I look past him at
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the garden, which sprawls across five acres of Connecticut countryside
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like something out of a fever dream greenhouses glinting in
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the may sunshine, flower beds erupting in colors. I don't
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have names for trees that look like they've been here
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since before the concept of property ownership existed. I didn't
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know her well. We only met a few times when
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I was a kid. But she left me all this
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she did. Something flickers across his face, amusement maybe, or
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knowing have you been inside yet? Just got here? Then
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let me give you the tour. He turns and walks
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toward the main greenhouse, and I follow, trying very hard
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not to notice the way his shoulders move under his
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T shirt. This is fine. I'm a professional. I spent
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eight years as a corporate accountant before I quit to
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have a nervous breakdown, and those skills don't just disappear.
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I can handle a handsome gardener. I can handle anything.
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The greenhouse door opens and every thought in my head evaporates.
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I don't know how to describe what hits me when
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I step inside. It's not a smell exactly, though there
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are smells earth and green and something sweeter underneath, like
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honey left in Then it's not a sound, though there's
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a kind of humming at the edge of my hearing,
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almost like the building itself is breathing. It's more like
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a feeling, a pressure, the sense of a thousand living
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things pressing against my awareness, all of them growing, reaching, wanting.
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I stumble, catch myself on a potting bench. You okay.
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Matt is beside me, not touching, but close enough that
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I can feel the heat of him. The greenhouse takes
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some people that way. The humidity probably right, the humidity.
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I straighten up and try to focus, but everything is
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so much. The orchids in the corner are practically screaming
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at me, not words, not anything I could articulate, but
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a kind of desperate beauty, a need to be seen
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and admired and touched. The ferns are calmer, ancient, and patient,
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but even when they're reaching toward me, like they know
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I'm here, and underneath it all this low throb of want,
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like the whole greenhouse is vibrating with spring, with the
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urgent need to grow and bloom and reproduce. I am
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definitely imagining this. This is stress, This is grief I
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haven't processed. This is what happens when you quit your
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job and drive to Connecticut to claim an inheritance from
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an aunt you barely knew. The main greenhouse is mostly tropicals,
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Matt is saying. He's moved deeper into the space, pointing
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out different sections. Vera had one of the best orchid
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collections in New England. The rose garden is outside, along
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with the perennials. The kitchen garden is behind the cottage.
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That's where you'll be staying. Where do you stay. There's
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an apartment above the equipment barn. He glances back at me.
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Don't worry. I won't be in your way. I know
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this is a lot to take on. If you decide
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to sell, I can help you find a buyer who'll
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take care of the place. Sell. That's what most people do.
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Botanical gardens aren't exactly low maintenance. I look around at
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the greenhouse, the orchids with their desperate beauty, the ferns
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with their patient reaching, all of it humming with a life.
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I can almost feel something in my chest Titans. I
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haven't decided anything yet, I hear myself say, I want
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to understand what I'm inheriting first. Matt nods slowly. There's
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that flicker again, the one I can't read, then let's
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keep going. There's a lot to see. The tour takes
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two hours. By the end of it, I'm overwhelmed in
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ways I don't have vocabulary for Every section of the
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garden hit me differently. The rose garden was intoxicating, all
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that scent and color pressing against my senses. The woodland
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area was cool and quiet, a relief after the intensity
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of the flowers. The vegetable garden was practical, grounding, the
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kind of place where I could imagine actually thinking straight.
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Matt is patient throughout, answering questions I didn't know I had,
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explaining the maintenance schedules and the seasonal rhythms, and the
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upcoming May Day festival that's apparently a big deal for
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the local community. Fara never missed one, he says. People
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come from three counties. It's the biggest event of the year.
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When is it three weeks and you can run it
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without her? I've been running it with her for three years.
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I know what needs to happen. He pauses. But it
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would be good to have a Laurel here for continuity.
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If you're planning to stay that long. I should say no,
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I should say I'm just here to assess the property,
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figure out what to do with it, move on with
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my life. I have no life to move on to,
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but that's beside the point. Instead, I say, I'll think
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about it. We're standing at the entrance to the cottage now,
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a perfect little stone building covered in climbing roses, the
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kind of place that belongs in a storybook. Matt hands
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me a key, old fashioned and heavy. The fridge is stocked.
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Fia left instructions for everything in the desk drawer. She
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knew she was sick toward the end. Wanted to make
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sure whoever came next would know what they were getting into.
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Did she know it would be me, she hoped. He
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holds my gaze for a moment, and I feel that
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pressure again. Not the garden this time, something else, something
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that has nothing to do with plants, and everything to
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do with the way his eyes crinkle when he's thinking.
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I'll let you get settled, says if you need anything,
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I'm in the barn. He walks away, and I watch
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him go, and I absolutely do not think about the
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way his genes fit The cottage is exactly what you'd
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expect from a woman who talked to plants, herbs, drying
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in bundles from the ceiling, books on botany and folklore,
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crammed into every shelf, a kitchen that smells like lavender
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and something earthy I can't identify. And everywhere, everywhere, plants
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on every window sill, hanging from every hook, climbing up
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the walls like they're trying to escape. I set my
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suitcase down and stand in the middle of the living room, breathing.
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It's quieter here than in the greenhouse. The plants are
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still present. I can feel them, that strange awareness that
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started when I walked through the greenhouse door. But they're calmer, settled,
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like they've been here a long time and have nothing
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to prove. I find the desk draw Matt mentioned and
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pull out a thick folder, Vera's handwriting on the cover
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for Daphne. When she's ready, I open it. The first
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page is a letter, my dear girl. If you're reading this,
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then I'm gone and you've come to claim what I've
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left you. I'm sorry we didn't have more time together.
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Your mother and I had our differences, and I let
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them keep me from knowing you the way I should have.
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But I knew enough. I knew that you have the gift,
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even if you don't know it yet. The women in
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our family have always had a connection to growing things,
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a sensitivity, an empathy. It skipped your mother, much to
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her relief. But I saw it in you when you
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were seven years old, and the roses bloomed out of
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season when you walked past them. The garden knows you're coming.
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It's been waiting. Be patient with yourself. The gift takes
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time to understand. Matt will help. He knows what I was,
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even if he doesn't have the empathy himself. Trust him
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and trust the garden. It wants what's best for you,
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even when its methods are unsubtle. All my love, aunt
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Vera p s. The greenhouse can be overwhelming in spring.
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Try to eat something before you go in there. Low blood,
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sugar and botanical empathy don't mix well. I read the
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letter three times, then I set it down and stare
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at the wall for a while. Botanical empathy the gift.
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The garden knows I'm coming. This is insane. This is
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the kind of thing that happens in fairy tales, not
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in real life. Not to former accountants who quit their
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jobs because they couldn't stop crying in the bathroom. But
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I think about the greenhouse, the way everything pressed against
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my senses, the wanting I felt coming from everywhere at once.
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If I'm being honest with myself, if I'm being really
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truly honest, I've been feeling something like that since I arrived,
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a hum underneath everything, an awareness of green and growing things,
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just at the edge of my perception. I thought it
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was stress. I thought it was grief. What if it's
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something else. Entirely that night I dream about the garden,
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not the way you normally dream about places, vague impressions,
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symbolic imagery, the usual subconscious nonsense. This is vivid, immersive,
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more real than waking. I'm standing in the greenhouse. But
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the greenhouse is enormous, stretching out in every direction, farther
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than I can see, And everything is growing, not slowly,
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the way plants actually grow fast, urgent, pushing up through
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the soil and climbing toward an unseen light. I can
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feel them, not just see them, feel them, the pull
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of water through roots, the unfurling of leaves, the desperate
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stretch towards sun, and underneath it, all that throb of want,
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the same want I've felt during the tour, but stronger, now,
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more insistent. Spring is here. The garden is telling me.
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Everything is ready, everything is reaching for connection. Find him,
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the garden says, not in words, not in anything I
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could describe as language, just a knowing a direction. Find
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him and let us bloom. I wake up tangled in sheets, sweating,
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my heart racing like I've been running. The clock says
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three a m. Through the window, I can see the
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Gris house glowing faintly in the moonlight. I do not
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go back to sleep. Morning finds me in the kitchen garden,
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aggressively weeding. I don't know anything about weeding. I've never
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gardened in my life, but I woke up with too
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much energy, too much of that strange awareness humming through me,
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and I needed to do something physical. The weeds seemed
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like a safe choice. You're up early. I don't jump.
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I definitely don't jump. I just move suddenly in a
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startled fashion. Matt is standing at the edge of the garden,
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coffee cup in hand, looking like the kind of person
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who's been awake for hours and is completely at peace
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with it. Couldn't sleep, I say, brushing dirt off my knees.
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The garden does that to people. Takes a while to
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adjust to the energy. The energy, I say it flatly,
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daring him to elaborate. VERA didn't tell you. He walks closer,
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hands me the second coffee cup. I didn't notice he
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was holding. The garden is particular. It takes time to
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get used to particular, how it has opinions, preferences. It
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knows what it wants. He SIPs his coffee, watching me
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over the rim, and it usually gets it. I think
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about the dream, the pull toward connection, the very unsubtle
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directive to find him. My aunt left me a letter,
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I say, carefully. She mentioned something about a family gift,
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an empathy with plants. Ah Matt nods like this confirms
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something he suspected. So you're feeling it already, feeling what
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everything he gestures at the garden around us. It's may
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the whole property is in reproductive overdrive. For someone with
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the empathy, that can be intense. Intense. How he opens
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his mouth to answer, and that's when the vine wraps
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around my ankle. I don't see it coming one second.
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I'm standing there, coffee in hand, having a civilized conversation.
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The next second, I'm pitching forward, tripped by a vine
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that I swear was not there. A moment ago, Matt
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catches me. His arms come around my waist, pulling me
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against his chest. Before I can face plant into the
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raised bed, the coffee goes flying. I grab his shoulders
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for balance, and suddenly I'm pressed against him, our faces
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inches apart, his hands warm through my shirt. Every flower
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in the kitchen garden blooms. I'm not exaggerating. I watch
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it happen over his shoulder, the tomato blossoms, opening, the verbs,
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sending up sudden flowers, even the vegetables throwing out blooms
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they shouldn't have for weeks. It's like a wave rolling
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outward from where we're standing, a chain reaction of flowering
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that sweeps across the entire garden. Matt looks at the flowers,
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looks at me. His expression is very carefully neutral. That's new,
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he says. I put away from him, face burning. What
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the hell was that? The empathy when you feel something strong,
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the garden responds, I didn't feel anything. He raises an eyebrow.
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I didn't. I stop, regroup, try to remember how words work.
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That was the garden's fault. The vine tripped me. The
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vine tripped you, he repeats, Yes, the vine that wasn't
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there before and has now mysteriously retreated back into the soil.
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I look down. He's right, there's no vine anywhere near
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my feet, just ordinary dirt, looking completely innocent. The garden
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did that on purpose, I say, probably why Matt's neutral
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expression cracks slightly. There's something underneath amusement or something warmer,
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something I don't want to examine too closely. The garden
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likes you, he says. And it's spring, and he trails off,
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shaking his head. I should get back to work. The
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roses need pruning. He walks away, and I'm left standing
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in a garden full of newly bloomed flowers, trying to
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pretend my pulse isn't racing. I spend the rest of
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the day avoiding the greenhouse. This is harder than it sounds.