“Damn,” he muttered.

He reached for a thick stalk of vines and tugged them away from the brush circling the greenhouse. Untangling the honeysuckle vines had been slow going. Not only were the vines intrusive, but also snakes and mice had set up shop in the lush foliage and were not excited about his destruction of their homes. There was also poison ivy and the inevitable itchiness. Nature was doing its damnedest to wrestle the greenhouse from him.

“You’re making progress,” Elaine said.

He turned. She looked thinner, tired. Whatever had happened with Libby was taking its toll on her as well. “Slow and steady.”

“This has been one tough project,” Elaine said. “Was I foolish? Should I have just torn the place down?”

It was a little late to be asking a question like that. “Why do you say that?” Colton thought about the construction dumpster he had filled with vines and rotted plants.

“If we ever do rent this property for events, a greenhouse won’t make us much money. And there are other projects on the property that need your attention.”

“That’s always the case with old properties like this, Elaine. It’s always going to want more.”

“But I’m asking you what you think.”

“Why do you care so much about the greenhouse?” he asked.

“It’s a legacy.”

“For Lofton?”

“Lofton has no interest in Woodmont. She never has and never will.”

“Then why sink so much energy into the place?” he asked. Colton had never known Elaine to be so indecisive.

“It’s complicated.”

“Only if you want it to be.”

She stared at him, her brow narrowing. “I’m sounding foolish, aren’t I? I should know what I want.”

“I think you do.”

“But wanting and getting are two different things.”

Colton wanted to tug off his gloves, walk up to her, and ask what the hell had gone on in her kitchen on Monday. But that was crossing the line. As much as he respected Elaine, he could not forget that she was his boss. And he needed this job.

“I asked Libby to come back and take more pictures next week as we seal the panes of glass. The place is shaping up.” He cast the statement out like he would a baited hook into a pond rich with trout. If he was patient, the answers would come to him.

“When did you see Libby?” she asked.

“Today in town, looking over the property she and her business partner bought.”

“Normally, I’d say a new restaurant would be a long shot. But in this area, they might do well enough.”

He gripped a thick vine and pulled hard, listening with a bit of satisfaction as the leaves and stems tore.

“I feel like I should apologize for Lofton at Sunday dinner,” Elaine said.

“You don’t owe me an apology.” Lofton was great with his boys, and she had a wicked sense of humor. But he also recognized that she was used to getting exactly what she wanted.

“Lofton is going through a few things, and she took it out on Libby,” Elaine offered.

“Libby doesn’t strike me as soft. She’s taken a lot of blows in the last year or two and is still standing. Libby can handle herself.” It wasn’t like him to meddle in Grant family business, but he needed to champion Libby. “In Libby’s world, Lofton’s remarks were child’s play.”

A faint light flickered in her gaze. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m a good judge of character.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Always free and available,” he said with a grin.

LIBBY

“Don’t Stop Believing” blasted in Libby’s earbuds as she uploaded the wedding albums. She was a huge fan of Journey, even though her idol Steve Perry left the band when she was only seven.

As Perry’s final note reverberated, she emailed the link to this bride’s look book and switched off the computer.

The sound of a delivery truck stopping in front of her house coaxed her onto the front porch. Sitting in the afternoon sun was a neatly wrapped box. Picking it up, she tipped her face upward to absorb the sun’s warmth after hours of working on the digital files.

She pulled off her reading glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. Without the distraction of work, her mind turned to Elaine.

More hard conversations to be had, but until she soldiered through this latest patch of work, she did not need the distraction.

Drawing her shoulders back, Libby straightened her spine, trying to bend it out of the perpetual slump that came with leaning into a shot or toward a computer screen. She sat on the rocker and carefully unwrapped the package. Inside was a neatly written note in handwriting very similar to hers. It was from Elaine.

There’s plenty of family history to share, but I thought you might like to start with Olivia’s first gardening journal. She was just a decade younger than you are now, and it might help you understand her decisions later in life. When we’ve both had time to process our meeting, I would love to talk. Best, Elaine.

Libby ran her hands over smooth leather binding now worn and faded by a half century. Wrapped around it was a faded blue ribbon that held the edges closed. She carefully undid the ribbon. As she opened the notebook, the spine crackled and groaned. On the front page, written in precise handwriting, was Gardening Journal 1942. Olivia Wellington Carter.

Olivia’s handwriting was meticulous and measured. Libby took comfort that both Elaine’s and Olivia’s penmanship were very similar to her own.

When she turned the first page, a few black-and-white pictures stuck out from the crease. The first square image featured two women standing in front of a huge Pontiac parked in front of the mercantile store.

The older of the two appeared to be in her early twenties, and she wore a lovely tailored suit and had painted on bright lipstick that even the black-and-white photography could not dull. The second woman was in her midteens. She wore overalls and was not grinning. In fact, she looked a little impatient as she stared at the lens. The car was parked in front of the very mercantile store Libby had just partnered with Sierra to renovate.

She turned the image over and read, Olivia Carter (with Sadie Thompson).

Sadie. She was the girl who had scratched her name in the greenhouse glass. Libby studied the girl’s face closely, knowing that by now she would be in her nineties if still alive.

The next few pictures featured Olivia standing by her greenhouse, but there were no more images of Sadie.

Olivia was always smartly dressed, her outfits including hats and gloves and stockings that would not have been easy to come by during the war.

The last image in the stack featured Olivia holding an infant. Her smile was slightly stiff and her eyes sad. It struck Libby as odd. A woman who had suffered miscarriages had finally had her baby. But she did not appear happy. She flipped the image over. It was simply dated Spring, 1943.

She carefully tucked the pictures back into the journal’s fold, then turned the page to the first entry. There was a hand-painted bundle of peonies. Their pink, delicate petals were so detailed they looked almost lifelike. Rich thick green stems wound down the side of the page and were bound at their base by a wide strand of blue ribbon tied into a bow. Beside the picture was a quote from Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers.