Butterfly Ginger Page 3

  Nate’s smile shifted, and he raised a questioning brow as though he were in on a joke she didn’t get.

  “May I… come in?”

  “Blythe! Let the boy in!” Her mother called from the piano.

  I’m such an idiot.

  “Sorry!” She swung the door wide, and as Nate stepped inside, her perception seemed to teeter. For an instant the strangeness of his presence in her home — of seeing him outside of the tiny space, the tiny moments they’d shared — made her question herself.

  Does he want to be here? Do I want him to be here? This is torture. Why should I put myself through this? He’s a total stranger; why do I even care? Run away! Run away!

  Blythe was about to raise her hand to stop him and explain how she was better off living her life as a hermit or tell him she was just walking out the door to join a traveling circus when he stepped up to her, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and pressed a gentle — almost reverent — kiss to her cheek.

  I choose you, it seemed to whisper.

  It was over in a wing beat, but it broke through her manic thoughts like a hammer on glass.

  “Hi,” she said again, welcoming him and meaning it this time. “Nate, this is my mother, Alexandra Barnes. Mom, this is Nate Bradley.”

  Nate extended his hand, and Blythe could see her mom’s eyeglasses flash in the light as she looked up and beamed at him.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Ba — “

  “And wonderful to meet you, Nate!” Blythe’s mother practically cheered and pumped the life out of his hand. “Welcome! Welcome! Call me Alexandra. Can you stay for a minute? I’ve made some iced tea.”

  “Mom!”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but we—”

  “A picnic, I know! How lovely.” Alexandra Barnes’s words seemed to dip and soar in exaggerated rhythms. Blythe watched as Nate’s eyes widened just a fraction. “Where are you going?”

  “Actually, it’s a—”

  “I remember Arthur taking me on a picnic in Girard Park when we first started dating,” she nearly cooed. “Oh, that must have been twenty-five years ago now. We had chicken salad and sliced apples and — Oh, goodness, Blythe, did you tell him you’re a vegetarian?” Her concerned gaze bounced between them three times in two seconds. It settled on Nate, and she kept going.

  “Blythe’s a vegetarian. Let me see if I have some eggs. I’ll boil some eggs and make an egg salad. It’ll just take—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Alexandra,” Nate cut in, looking highly amused and not at all rattled. He kept on, not giving Blythe’s mother the chance to tread over him. “I’ve packed only foods that Blythe can eat, but thank you for your kind offer. Blythe, we should get going. Nice meeting you, Alexandra.”

  For a moment — a rare moment — Alexandra Barnes was struck dumb. Blythe couldn’t help but smile as Nate reached for her hand.

  “Bye, Mom!” She went for the front door, hoping to close it behind her before her mother recovered, but she didn’t stand a chance.

  “Have fun, you two! Oh! Do you need any bug spray? The mosquitoes are terrible. We have some on the back porch. I’ll just—”

  “No, Mom. Bye!” Blythe pushed Nate out the door and leapt through behind him, shutting the thing before they could be sucked back inside. For all she knew, her mother was still at it, talking to the walls.

  She took the porch steps at a jog and didn’t slow to a walk until she reached Nate’s truck. He came up beside her and stopped. Nate had a good six inches on her, so to avoid staring at his chest, she looked up, even though she wasn’t ready to face him.

  Her parents were eccentric, and her brothers were annoying. The Barnes household was sensory overload for many of her friends, but Nate didn’t wear the look of restrained scorn or suppressed laughter that she feared she’d see. Instead, the smile he gave her was kind and relaxed.

  “I tried to warn you,” she said, not ready to take him at face value. “And that was a breeze because it was just my mom.”

  Nate’s brows drew up in the middle.

  “That? That was nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Your mom’s really nice.”

  Blythe blinked at him. Before she could respond, he opened the door to his truck.

  “Let’s go. Hop in.”

  The evening was warm and humid, typical for July, and Nate turned up the A/C when he started the truck. “Mansard Roof” blared through the speakers, and Nate adjusted the volume. Blythe just smiled.

  “Vampire Weekend. Nice.”

  Nate pulled away from the curb, and Blythe realized she had no idea where they were heading.

  “So, are we going to the park?”

  Nate’s mouth quirked in a smile.

  “Nope.”

  “But we’re having a picnic?”

  “Yep.”

  Her curiosity piqued, but if she were honest with herself, the mystery made her a little nervous. Where could they have a picnic in Lafayette if not at Girard Park? There were little spots downtown by fountains and under gazebos, but Blythe hoped he didn’t plan to bring her to one of those. People would walk by and ogle them, and Blythe could think of nothing worse.

  “You don’t look thrilled,” Nate observed, glancing over at her with concern.

  She bit her lip.

  “Is it weird if I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like surprises?” she asked, wincing a little.

  His eyes softened.

  “No… not at all.” Nate’s voice was gentle. “We’re going to watch moonflowers open. One of our clients has a really awesome garden, and I asked if I could take you to see it. He’s in Amsterdam for the rest of the month, and I take care of his yard and his houseplants. It’ll be really nice.”

  Blythe relaxed immediately.

  “Oh… cool.”

  He brushed the brown curls out of his eyes and looked relieved.

  “So, you don’t like surprises,” he said, turning off St. Mary Boulevard onto Congress.

  “No, not really.” She hoped she wouldn’t have to explain the quirk and seem even weirder than Nate probably thought she was.

  Nate nodded.

  “I love surprises,” he said. “Good ones, I mean. No one likes a pop quiz or being pushed in a pool, but I love it when someone says, ‘I have a surprise for you.’”

  Knowing this made Blythe smile. She wanted more.

  “Why? Why do you love that?”

  Nate shrugged, looking embarrassed — and extremely cute.

  “I don’t know… I guess because it means I matter to them. It’s a sign that they were thinking about me — just because.”

  He had a point. The fact that he’d planned a picnic for her meant that he’d been thinking of her, right? And that felt pretty wonderful. Blythe liked the idea of planning a surprise for him.

  I hope I get the chance.

  They turned down West Bayou Parkway, passed Rotary Point, and Nate took a left onto Kings Road.

  “Where is this place?” Blythe asked, sitting up taller in her seat.

  “Right here,” Nate said, pulling onto a long driveway that led to a brick house overlooking the Vermilion. It was modest compared to its monstrous riverfront neighbors, but the house was still beautiful — obviously the home of someone very wealthy.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?” Blythe asked, beginning to worry. Being arrested for trespassing was something she would rather avoid.

  Nate gave her an easy smile.

  “Yes, it’s definitely okay.” He parked the truck and killed the engine. His eyes glinted with triumph. “I texted Mr. Donallee yesterday, and he called me back immediately to say how glad he was that his garden would be put to such use.”

  “Wh-what use is that?” she stammered, freezing on the spot.

  Nate rolled his eyes.

  “To impress a girl, of course!”

  She let her laughter mask the fact that she’d obviously thought he meant something else.

  “C’mon.”
Nate slid out of the truck and then reached into the backseat for the picnic basket and blanket. Blythe hopped down and followed him toward the backyard. When they reached the cypress gate, Nate turned back and handed her the blanket before fishing a key out of his pocket.

  “No surprises. This is an awesome garden,” he said, smiling, and then he opened the gate.

  Blythe gasped.

  Flowers.

  Hundreds of flowers blanketed the lawn in carefully arranged beds. Flowers curved around walking paths and tucked into corners. The roses, daisies, and sunflowers Blythe recognized, but there were dozens more that she didn’t know. Two dark pink crepe myrtles grew on either side of a screened porch that jutted off the back of the house.

  Nate led her along the path to the porch, climbed the steps, and held the door for her.

  “Let’s spread the blanket and set down the basket in here, and then we can take a look around.”

  Blythe blinked.

  “Why not outside?” she asked, but she walked in and began unfolding the blanket anyway. Nate put down the picnic basket and helped her. The porch space was large, and the view to the amazing garden was unobstructed. They settled the blanket between white wicker furnishings and the screened porch walls.

  “Bees and mosquitoes,” he explained, stooping to straighten the blanket. “Mr. Donallee keeps two hives in the back to help pollinate his flowers, and as soon as we open the fruit in the picnic basket, they’d come our way, and this close to the river the mosquitoes can be pretty bad, especially as it gets dark.”

  Blythe couldn’t help but smile. He looked so serious. It was clear he knew a lot about gardening, and that he liked it. Nate also didn’t seem to care that most 18-year-old guys didn’t know jack about plants and insects and didn’t want to. It was a fact that made him singular, another thing about him that Blythe recognized as special.

  Nate stood and extended his hand.

  “Ready?”

  He’d grabbed hers in their mad dash to get out of her house, but now when Blythe’s palm fit against his, she could take in the electricity that traveled up her arm and hummed between them. She tried to keep her smile under control as they stepped off the porch.

  “This is what I really wanted to show you,” Nate said. His voice had gone soft, and it made Blythe wonder if she wasn’t the only one thinking about their joined hands. He pointed to a lush vine that grew on either side of the porch steps. It was dotted with long, white blossoms, each drawn up tight like a frilly pouch. Blythe counted dozens of them.

  “Are those the ones you told me about? The ones that open?”

  Nate nodded and pulled her closer to them.

  “Moonflowers. They’re a type of morning glory,” he explained. He squatted down and pointed to one that was already in shadow. Blythe lowered beside him. “This one’s already opening. It happens fast…”

  And as if Nate’s words set the thing in motion, Blythe watched the points of the white petals separate. She gasped; before her eyes the flower became a star that fluttered open into a white bloom almost the size of her palm.

  “That’s amazing!” she said, completely awestruck. A breath of sweet fragrance rose from the flower. “It smells wonderful!”

  She looked at Nate to see him smiling widely. His hand squeezed hers.

  “Yeah, it is pretty amazing. And the color and the scent attract night pollinators — like moths,” he told her. “The big white blossoms are easy to see in the moonlight, and the perfume draws the insects in… Oh, look, there’s another one.”

  Nate pointed to Blythe’s right, and she watched again as the flower seemed to come alive in front of her. She’d never seen anything like it. Not in real life.

  “Wow. Just wow,” she said.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Nate stood and pulled her up with him. He pointed to a wrought iron bench just off the porch. “We can watch from over here for a little while.”

  Blythe sat down with him on the narrow bench, feeling the left side of his body press against her right. Nate settled their joined hands on his knee.

  “There,” Nate said, pointing to a spot low on the vine. Again, a moonflower opened in its slow, sensual dance.

  Blythe could feel the tickle of hair on his thigh against her wrist. She caught herself before she could run her pinky over the skin of his knee, but she was tempted. They had never been this close at the daycare, although they had let themselves touch in quick gestures, playful and stolen.

  She was supposed to be watching the flowers, the stunning show that Nate had been so thoughtful to share with her, but she wanted to watch him, too. He sat beside her, so composed and self-contained, easy with the silence between them.

  His hair was a tumble of dark curls that her fingers ached to dive into. His eyes — the color of hot tea — were long lashed, and though he was clean-shaven, Blythe could see that he was the type of guy who couldn’t skip a shave without it showing. The discovery made her want to run her fingers along his strong chin to feel any hint of stubble.

  Nate’s skin was a golden brown, testifying to the time he spent out in the sun. And his shorts and t-shirt did nothing to hide the fact that he worked with his body and that it was strong. She felt soft-muscled and wimpy beside him.

  Nate squeezed her hand again and met her look.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, sweetly.

  “I’m glad you asked me.”

  He looked back at the moonflower vine and pointed.

  “Look. Two.”

  As though his words commanded, two flowers stretched and unfurled in unison. It was better than any magic show she’d ever seen.

  “That is just the coolest thing ever,” she said.

  “I know, right?” And she would have said something else, but just then, Nate began to draw tiny circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. It amazed her that such a small touch sent shock waves throughout her body.

  Blythe wanted to touch him back, but she was nervous. Touching his knee might be too forward, and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about her. Instead, she followed his lead and ran her own thumb along the palm of his, which was a discovery all its own. Their hands were so different. Hers, small and soft, his long-fingered and calloused.

  Nate seemed to relax beside her at her returned touch, as though he’d passed some kind of test, and Blythe realized that she wasn’t the only one who was nervous and trying to tread carefully. It made her smile again.

  “So, is your yard at home as gorgeous as this?” she asked, certain that it had to be if he helped to create the garden that surrounded them.

  Nate gave a rueful laugh.

  “No, not by a long way,” he said, shifting on the bench next to her. Whatever ease he’d just had was lost with her question.

  Why? She wondered.

  “I mean, it’s nice, but it’s not prize-winning like this. This takes time,” he said, gesturing to the flowerbeds and pathways. “Richland’s usually exhausted by the end of the day, and after working outside all week, on Sundays we’d rather kick back.”

  Blythe nodded.

  “I can tell you work hard,” she said, hoping he heard the respect in her voice, but she squeezed his hand to make sure, and it earned her a smile. “Who’s Richland?”

  Nate made a face, looking chagrined. What had she said?

  “Richland is my father,” he said, but something in his voice hedged his words. Blythe didn’t understand why, but it was clear Nate didn’t like talking about it. Maybe he and his dad didn’t get along. Why else would he call his father by his first name? She was only too happy to change the subject.

  “What are those called?” she said, pointing to a patch of lavender flowers that looked like daisies.

  Nate seemed to actually sigh in relief as he followed her finger.

  “Those are melody asters,” he said, smiling.

  “And those?” Blythe asked, pointing to a bush of bold red and orange blooms and reminding herself not to ask Nate about h
is family.

  “Those are dahlias,” he said without hesitation.

  “And those.” She pointed to a spiky plant with green stems that became almost red at the end and then exploded with light pink blossoms.

  “That’s a Whirling Butterfly Gaura.”

  “Did you just make that up?” she asked, giggling.

  This made Nate throw back his head and laugh.

  “No, I swear to God. That’s what it’s called,” he promised, squeezing her hand. “You can Google it if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” she said, squeezing back. “If this is what it means to be a landscape architect, you’re going to rock.”

  He laughed again, but Blythe could tell that he was pleased.

  “A landscape architect designs stuff like this,” he said, gesturing to the beauty around them. “Gardens, parks, the grounds that surround businesses. Whatever. It’s about creating an outdoor space that looks good and works well. One that drains right and is sustainable.”

  His description and obvious passion intrigued her.

  “You’re definitely going to rock,” she said again.

  “What about you? What are you going to study at Tulane?”

  As always, the word sent a flutter through her stomach. It was real. It was going to happen. She had done it. Blythe couldn’t contain her smile.

  “I’m going to study studio art with an emphasis in graphic design,” she said proudly.

  “So explain it to me,” Nate prompted. “What does a graphic designer do?”

  “Um… pretty much anything,” she said, knowing it wasn’t helpful. “They use art to communicate visually. So a graphic designer might create a billboard or a website or a book cover or a logo.”

  “So an artist who makes money,” Nate teased.

  Blythe gave him a half-hearted punch in the arm.

  “I’m not a sell-out,” she swore. “Even Michelangelo worked for a paycheck.”

  Nate rubbed his arm and chuckled.

  “And here I was thinking I was doing so well because you hadn’t hit me yet.”

  Blythe shrugged in apology.

  “Force of habit. I don’t think I go through a day without socking one of my brothers. Usually Seth,” she explained. “I guess your teasing triggers the impulse.”