“How did it go? Did you give it to him?” Kyla asks, striding into our tiny little office and dropping her messenger bag on the floor beside her chair. She’s already pulling her headphones off and looking at me expectantly.

I almost spit out the mouthful of coffee I’d been about to swallow. I haven’t seen Kyla since I dropped the contract off at Wes’s office. Since I had ...

Well, I’m not going to think about that right now.

“I left the contract with him, yes,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “He’s going to sign it and get it back over to us this week.”

“Wow. So this is really happening.”

“Yup.”

Kyla frowns. “You look ... less than enthusiastic.”

I plaster a smile on my face. “Oh, I’m enthusiastic. Just cautious, I guess. I’ve known Wes a long time.”

Her frown deepens. “You think we need to worry about him?”

Now there’s a loaded question. Do we need to worry about him? I truly don’t know. I’m going into this project carefully, because I’m still not convinced his motives are completely altruistic.

Do I need to worry about him? That one’s a much more resounding yes. I already have ample evidence of that. I’m incapable of keeping my shit together around the man. Or of keeping my lips to myself.

I’d had the same problem back in high school. Wes Lake could turn me into a puddle of taffy with just a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I say to Kyla. “You know my concerns about GoldLake. But we’ve signed the contract now, so we just have to be smart about it.” I don’t mention that I’m trying to take that advice to heart on a personal level too. To be smart around Wes. So far it’s a lesson I’d give myself a failing grade in.

Kyla nods. “That’s fair. I guess you’re right. Hey, are you going to get in touch with the Elmwood Gables people and let them know we can take on their project now?”

Elmwood Gables. I hadn’t thought of them since I’d signed the contract — I’d been too preoccupied with thoughts of Wes. Now I get excited again. Assuming Wes doesn’t keep me too busy, I should have time to work on their garden project now.

“No, but I’m going to. Thanks for the reminder. Hey, how did the meeting with Seeds of Change go yesterday?”

Kyla goes off on a long spiel about her meeting with our most recent charity client, and the business talk effectively puts Wes out of my mind. Our catch-up turns into an impromptu meeting and we go over all our outstanding projects, and by the time we wrap up, I’m smiling and humming under my breath.

As soon as I pull my chair back up to my computer, I fire off an email to the community center telling them that if they’re still looking for help, we’d be happy to do it. It feels good to send that email, to be able to help someone who really needs it.

To my surprise, my email pings almost right away with a response. The director, Barb, invites me out there this evening to see the space and get a quick orientation on what they do. I fire back my acceptance, and then jam in my earbuds, humming happily still.

* * *

I arrive at Elmwood Gables at just past six. I haven’t been out to the Lower East Side recently, and as I walk from the subway station to the community center, I look around in awe at everything that’s changed. Little sushi restaurants have replaced old bodegas, and an organic baby clothes store sits proudly on the corner. I can’t even remember what used to be there, but I’m sure it wasn’t that.

In the center of all the shiny new hubbub sits the huge multi-complex Elmwood Gables, and at the heart of that, the community center. The run-down cinderblock building sticks out like a sore thumb next to the glassworks gallery and the gourmet taco stand.

Yet despite the encroaching new businesses, Elmwood Gables still dominates. As long as the community center and the affordable housing units are here, the neighborhood will never completely gentrify. And luckily Elmwood Gables is entirely on city-owned land, so they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’m all for progress, but I hate the way that more and more of these kinds of places have been squeezed out of Manhattan. They make the city the vibrant place that it is.

The community center is a squat beige building, a seventies-style behemoth in painted cinderblock. The huge sign above the door, bearing the Elmwood Gables’ name, is hand-painted, with a scene of lions playing basketball. Something one of the more artistically inclined kids had painted, no doubt, although not recently because the paint is faded and dull.

I pull open the heavy blue and white door and step inside. There’s a small welcome desk at the front, and an East Indian teenager is sitting there, typing out a message on her phone.

“Hi, I’m looking for Barb Delaney?” I give her my name as she looks up from her phone.

“She should be out back,” the bored receptionist tells me. She points absently towards the hall that leads back into the labyrinth of the center, then turns right back to her screen.

I thank her and head down the hallway. The inside of the center is the same as the outside — cinderblock that’s been painted over in a creamy beige color. I get to the end of the corridor, then poke my head down the two hallways that branch off from it, looking for a back exit. The center reminds me of being back in high school again. Something about the smell of gym shoes and chlorine, the thud of basketballs coming from somewhere not too far away. A group of young boys runs past me, their sneakers thudding and squeaking on the worn blue laminate floor.

I spot a glowing red exit sign and follow it, turning around a couple of corners and then finally emerging from a set of double doors that lead out to the back.

I suck in a breath as soon as I step outside. It’s like walking into another world. In New York City, the only time you’re truly surrounded by green is if you walk through certain parts of Central Park. But stepping into the backyard of the community center feels like walking into a lush jungle.

There’s a chain link fence somewhere, marking the perimeter — I can see glimpses of it through the shrubs and trees — but the plant life has grown up so high and tall that everywhere I look, I see green. Climbing vines and weeping willows and blooming flowers everywhere. A white gazebo sits in the center, glowing like a jewel amidst the greenery. The sun-soaked roses give off a hazy perfume, making me feel delirious and filled with a kind of wonder I haven’t felt in a long time. It makes me feel like I’m a kid again, sneaking around my parents’ flower shop, playing hide and seek with my sisters and breathing in that rich loamy perfume while I crouched behind a shelf in the cold storage room.

It’s a special place. I know that within seconds of walking into the space.

On the far side of the yard, there’s a clearing, and here three women and a couple of men are tilling the soil, turning it over with hoes and talking and laughing while they work.

I stand there for a minute watching, marveling at this hidden gem in the middle of the city.

After a while, one of the women working notices me standing there.

“Can I help you?” she asks, putting her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I’m looking for Barb Delaney. I’m Rori Holloway — from Marigold Marketing?”

“Oh, Rori!” She breaks into a grin as she walks towards me. “I’m Barb. I’m so glad you could come out.”

She pulls off a pink polka-dotted gardening glove and shakes my hand.

“This is quite the spot you have,” I tell her. “It’s so ... magical.”

She beams. “We think so too. That’s why we want to show it off, get more people using it.”

Barb is probably in her fifties, with close-cropped grey hair and the ruddy complexion of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. She wears no make-up but her green eyes sparkle and her smile is warm and friendly.

We walk down the steps, towards the square of earth where the others are digging. It’s large — half the size of a gymnasium. I can smell the rich loaminess of the earth as they turn it over. The other women give me a quick smile, but then quickly go back to work.

“So you want to promote the garden?”

Barb nods. “That’s right. We’ve finally got permission to turn it into a community garden — a project we’ve been trying to get off the ground for almost five years now. We opened the sign-up for plots in March but so far the response has been ... well, not what we were hoping, let’s put it that way.”

“I can’t imagine that — why wouldn’t you want to have a little garden here? There must be a ton of people in the city who’d kill for a bit of space to grow things.”

“That’s what we were hoping but ...” she trails off, then shrugs. “We think it’s just a lack of awareness. At least that’s what we’re counting on. Which is where you come in.”

I nod. “So you need some help with promotions.”

“Desperately,” she smiles. “We have so many ideas of things we want to do with this place — mini-farmers markets, community dinners, concerts, special events — but we can’t do any of that until we actually have people in here using the space.”

“Well, you should have no trouble. It’s an amazing spot,” I say, looking around again. I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a green thumb — that’s my mom’s domain — but even I want to get on my knees and dig in the dirt out here.

“Come on, let me introduce you to some of our volunteers.”

I pick my way through the dirt with her, wishing like hell that I’d worn my flip-flops today instead of these stupid wedges. At least I didn’t go for the stilettos though.

“Everyone, this is Rori Holloway. She’s going to help us get the garden growing, so to speak.”

“I hope so,” I say, reaching out to shake hands with the men and women in front of me.

One woman, who has long dark hair and the kindest smile I’ve ever seen, introduces herself as Maria. When I ask how long she’s been here, she smiles warmly and says “Too long.”

Barb guffaws. “Don’t say that. This place wouldn’t be half as far along as it is without you. Maria’s been doing all our marketing up until now,” she explains to me.

“Oh! I hope I’m not stepping on any toes.”

Maria shakes her head. “Not at all. Marketing is not my expertise. I was a project manager back in Brazil, so I like to help organize. The creative stuff — that’s not so much ‘in my wheelhouse’, as you might say.”

I grin. “I get it. Project management isn’t in my wheelhouse. How long have you been in New York?”

“About three years now. We moved because my husband got a job here, but he died just one year after we came.”

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I glance anxiously at Barb, but she’s just smiling sadly. I can’t even imagine.

Maria only nods her head. “It was hard, yes. But then my son, he’s nine — I couldn’t imagine taking him back to Brazil, not when he has so many more opportunities here.”

“That’s so selfless of you. I’m sure you must have family in Brazil that you miss?”

“I do. But I like it here. So does Bruno — that’s my son.”

“And we’re glad she’s here,” Barb interjects. “She’s been a godsend in helping us get the garden up and running.”

Maria’s eyes sparkle. “Well, only until I can find a new job. Then I won’t have so much free time.”

“Don’t remind me,” Barb pretends to pout, her shoulders slumping.

“Don’t worry,” Maria says. “So far, no bites.”

“What kind of job are you looking for?” I know it’s not really any of my business, but the wheels in my mind are churning.

Maria shrugs. “One that pays money?” She grins. “I would like to work in project management, but it’s hard because my certification is from another country. So I take whatever kind of job I can find. I was working at a cleaning company but the business closed. Now I play in the dirt,” she says with a laugh, gesturing around her.

I tap my lips thoughtfully. “You know, this is going to sound weird, but I might actually know of something. Let me give you my card, and maybe you can forward me your resume?”

Maria and Barb share a glance, and then Maria looks back at me excitedly. “That’s wonderful! I will — of course I will.”

I fish one of my business cards out of my purse and hand it over to her while Barb pretends to look on disapprovingly.

“Rori,” she chides. “I brought you here to help us get the garden going — not take away one of my best volunteers.”

I shrug and grin. “What can I say, we’re a full-service marketing shop.”

“Mmhmm,” she grumps, as she leads me inside.

We spend the rest of our time together discussing some promotional ideas for the garden, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I’m thoroughly excited for the project to get started. It’s such a worthwhile cause — exactly the kind of place I wanted to help, the kind of work I wanted to do, when Kyla and I started Marigold. I’m also excited about the idea that maybe Maria could find a spot in GoldLake’s hiring initiative. It could be huge for her to get a job in her field again, and with a company like GoldLake on her resume, she’d be set, even long after the program is over.

Of course, it doesn’t escape my attention that I have Wes Lake to thank for both of these things. It’s because of Wes’s job offer that Marigold has the money to be able to take on the Elmwood Gables Community Center as a pro bono project. And it’s because of Wes that I might be able to help Maria get a job.

I sigh. It’s not fair that he has to be so good-looking and so kind. I mean, really. If he could stop doing that, then maybe I’d be able to stop kissing him.

Ugh. Kissing him. I touch my lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine, of his breath against my throat, of the taste of him on my skin again after all these years.

It’s wrong, I know. So why does it feel so right?

Who knows? Maybe I’ve been wrong about him all this time. Okay, yes, he broke my heart when we were younger. But that’s ancient history, right? Maybe he really is a different person now. And the way I feel when I’m kissing him …

No. I catch myself before I go too far down that line of thinking. After all, it’s bound to lead nowhere good.

Nowhere good at all.