The View From Alameda Island. Robyn Carr

plans, creating her list and checking things off. The lawyer had said, “He’s had you running scared for years. We have laws in this state. He can’t cut you off and freeze you out. I’m not saying it will be easy or painless, but you will not starve and your share of the marital assets will be delivered.”

      It was time. She was finally ready to go.

      Lauren inhaled the smell of spring flowers. This was one of the best times of year in Northern California, the Bay Area and inland, when everything was coming to life. The vineyards were greening up and the fruit trees were blossoming. She loved flowers; her grandmother had been a ferocious gardener, turning her entire yard into a garden. Flowers soothed her. She needed a garden right now.

      Lauren heard the squeaking of wheels and looked up to see a man pushing a wheelbarrow along the path. He stopped not too far from her. He had a trowel, shovel and six plants in the wheelbarrow. He gave her a nod, and went about the business of replacing a couple of plants. Then he sat back on his heels, looked at her and smiled. “Better?” he asked.

      “Beautiful,” she said with a smile.

      “Is this your first time in this garden?” he asked.

      “No, I’ve been here a number of times,” Lauren said. “Are you the gardener?”

      “No,” he said with a laugh. “Well, yes, I guess I am if I garden. But I’m just helping out today. I noticed a few things needed to be done...”

      “Oh, is this your church?”

      “Not this one, a smaller church south of here. I’m afraid I’ve fallen away...”

      “And yet you still help out the parish? You’re dedicated.”

      “I admire this garden,” he said. He rotated and sat, drawing up his knees. “Why do you come here?”

      “I love gardens,” she said. “Flowers in general make me happy.”

      “You live in the right part of the country, then. Do you keep a garden?”

      “No,” she said, laughing uncomfortably. “My husband has very specific ideas about how the landscaping should look.”

      “So he does it?”

      Get dirt under his nails? Hah! “Not at all. He hires the people who do it and gives them very firm orders. I don’t find our garden nearly as beautiful as this.”

      “I guess you have nothing to say about it, then,” he said.

      “Not if it’s going to create conflict,” Lauren said. “But it’s kind of a secret hobby of mine to find and visit gardens. Beautiful gardens. My grandmother was a master gardener—both her front and backyard were filled with flowers, fruits and vegetables. She even grew artichokes and asparagus. It was incredible. There was no real design—it was like a glorious jungle.”

      “When you were young?”

      “And when I was older, too. My children loved it.”

      “Did your mother garden?” he asked.

      “Very little—she was a hardworking woman. But after my grandparents passed away, she lived in their house and inherited the garden. I’m afraid she let it go.”

      “It’s a hereditary thing, don’t you think?” he asked. “Growing up, our whole family worked in the garden. Big garden, too. Necessary garden. My mother canned and we had vegetables all winter. Now she freezes more than cans and her kids rob her blind. I think she does it as much for all of us as herself.”

      “I would love that so much,” Lauren said. Then she wondered how the residents of Mill Valley would react to seeing her out in the yard in her overalls, hoeing and spreading fresh, stinky fertilizer. It made her laugh to herself.

      “Funny?” he asked.

      “I work for a food processor. Merriweather. And they don’t let me near the gardens, which are primarily research gardens.”

      “So, what do you do?” he asked.

      “I cook,” she said. “Product development. Testing and recipes. We test the products regularly and have excellent consumer outreach. We want to show people how to use our products.”

      “Are you a nutritionist?” he asked.

      “No, but I think I’m becoming one. I studied chemistry. But what I do is not chemistry. In fact, it’s been so long...”

      He frowned. “Processed foods. A lot of additives,” he said. “Preservatives.”

      “We stand by their safety and it’s a demanding, fast-paced world. People don’t have time to grow their food, store it, make it, serve it.” His cell phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “See what I mean?” she said, his phone evidence of the pace of modern life.

      But he didn’t even look at it. He switched it off. “What, besides flowers, makes you happy?” he asked.

      “I like my job. Most of the time. Really, ninety percent of the time. I work with good people. I love to cook.”

      “All these domestic pursuits. You must have a very happy husband.”

      She almost said nothing makes Brad happy, but instead she said, “He cooks, too—and thinks he’s better at it than I am. He’s not, by the way.”

      “So if you weren’t a chemist cooking for a food company, what would you be? A caterer?”

      “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I think trying to please a client who can afford catering seems too challenging to me. I once thought I wanted to teach home economics but there is no more home ec.”

      “Sure there is,” he said, frowning. “Really?”

      She shook her head. “A nine or twelve-week course, and it’s not what it once was. We used to learn to sew and bake. Now there’s clothing design as an elective. Some schools offer cooking for students who’d like to be chefs. It’s not the same thing.”

      “I guess if you want homemaking tips, there’s the internet,” he said.

      “That’s some of what I do,” she said. “Video cooking demonstrations.”

      “Is it fun?”

      She nodded after thinking about it for a moment.

      “Maybe I should do video gardening demos.”

      “What makes you happy?” she surprised herself by asking.

      “Just about anything,” he said with a laugh. “Digging in the ground. Shooting hoops with my boys when they’re around. Fishing. I love to fish. Quiet. I love quiet. I love art and design. There’s this book—it’s been a long time since I read it—it’s about the psychology of happiness. It’s the results of a study. The premise that initiated the study was what makes one person able to be happy while another person just can’t be happy no matter what. Take two men—one is a survivor of the Holocaust and goes on to live a happy, productive life while the other goes through a divorce and he can hardly get off the couch or drag himself to work for over a decade. What’s the difference between them? How can one person generate happiness for himself while the other can’t?”

      “Depression?” she asked.

      “Not always,” he said. “The study pointed out a lot of factors, some we have no control over and some are learned behaviors. Interesting. It’s not just a choice but I’m a happy guy.” He grinned at her.

      She noticed, suddenly, how good-looking this man was. He looked like he was in his forties, a tiny amount of gray threading his dark brown hair at his temples. His eyes were dark blue. His hands were large and clean for a gardener. “Now what makes a volunteer gardener decide to read psychology?” she asked.

      He chuckled. “Well, I read a lot. I like to read. I think I got that from my father. I can zone