Sweeping snow blew across the winding, mountain interstate; like a billowing white sheet, rippling into place on a freshly made bed. Even with drifting snow, the twenty-minute drive into the valley was pleasant.

It wouldn’t be snowing once Tori reached the Salt Lake valley. Park City was an enchanting little hinterland, but it was also home to eight months of winter. Tori was still shoveling her driveway when lilac trees, purple crocuses, and tulips scented the air of the nearby valley, three thousand feet below.

Scott, the master gardener who Tori had spoken to twice over the phone, thought it would be wise for Tori to see the gardens during the cool, spring season.

Tori’s tires crunched over the gardens’ gravel driveway.

It was your typical wet April. Tori grabbed her mini umbrella and walked through the tall grass at the entrance to the gardens in the drizzling rain. Tori looked up at the towering mountain above her. Mount Olympus, the high peak above the refugee gardens, was dusted white; like a plate of stacked scones, freshly sprinkled with powdered sugar. When it rained in the valley, it snowed on the mountain tops.

A distinctive buzz flew by her cheek and into a red azalea bush. Her eyes found the first live whistle of the spring wind, the mountain hummingbird. That wasn’t its proper name, but mountain hummingbird was what she affectionately called the earliest hummingbird to the area each year. They arrived between the second and third week of April, like clockwork.

As the rapid-winged bird devoured the flower’s nectar, Tori took in a deep breath to capture the scent of the azaleas, but the overpowering stench of fresh manure cut her inhale short.

The sloped garden was established on the edge of a relatively affluent neighborhood. From what Tori gathered, the gardens were a product of a wealthy beneficiary, the city not utilizing the property (thus allowing it to be zoned agriculturally), and several like-minded public figures. Scott deferred all credit to others. She liked him.

Tori stood at the gate of the garden while she adjusted the hood of her yellow slicker overcoat. The earthy scent of uninterrupted rain was overwhelming, in an unforgiving way. She loved the way the sky offered rain, and the dirt replied—by offering tender greens.

Green sprigs peppered the garden, and not just in the ninety or so raised, wooden beds that provided fresh produce for nearly fifty families. It was as if a few refugees scattered the seeds unknowingly as they walked the path to their boxes.

Not all boxes were created equal. Perhaps they were built to a certain specification by the boy scouts who were working on their Eagle Scout awards. But, where some beds were meticulously groomed, others appeared to have been completely ignored.

Tori wondered the gardens to find a graying man with a confident smile.

“Scott?”

His hand shook as he reached to greet her. “In the flesh.”

“Tori.”

“I guessed as much.” There was a slowness in his movements and speech. “Could you help me with my buttons, please? I have a difficult time fastening them.”

Tori’s heart softened as she took his shaky wrist in her cold hands, and proceeded to button the cuff of his plaid shirt. She felt like a simpleton. Scott had Parkinson’s disease. Through their few phone calls, she devised that he gave seminars, sat on civic boards, and worked tirelessly in the gardens. Suddenly, her life of decorating multi-million dollar homes painted her as hollow and useless as the empty watering can at her feet.

“Come meet my friend from Bhutan,” he said, leading her passed a long picnic bench, shaded by a wooden pergola, then up the sloped rows of gardening boxes.

Other than a lone, elderly man working his box, the gardens were empty. The man stood less than five feet tall, with a bright red wool cap. His complexion was as dark and spotted as a cocoa bean. His high cheekbones pushed out from his face, giving the appearance that his eyes receded back into their sockets. He didn’t have any wrinkles in his advanced age, only a few deep creases. He raised a three-foot, homemade wooden stake into the air, drove it into his plot, then continued by hammering it into the ground with a stone mallet. It was slow and methodical work, and he appeared to have several more stakes to go.

When Scott introduced them, the elderly man bowed slightly to Tori while holding the salutation gesture of his palms pressed together with his fingers pointing upward.

Scott smiled warmly. “I love the customary Hindu greeting. Did you know that the gesture means I bow to the divinity in you?”

“I’ve practiced that salutation many times in Yoga, but never knew what it meant.” Tori brought her hands together and bowed, repeating the gesture to the elderly man.

The elderly man nodded his appreciation as Tori picked up a wooden stake and drove it into the earth. With the three of them working together, it took less than half an hour to set all the stakes in the ground.

The Bhutanese man washed his hands with water from the spigot at the end of the row of boxes, then wiped his hands on his pants. He reached into his shoulder satchel and produced a card printed with a blue, sacred being on the front.

“This is for you,” he said in a soft, Indian accent. “Thank you for your help today.”

“Beautiful. Who is this?” Tori questioned.

“Krishna,” he responded with a smile.

The skin of the god, Krishna, was a creamy, aqua blue; almost the color of Zee’s eyes, unique and captivating. Tori shook her head, willing Zee’s face to fade. She concentrated on the long, forest-flowered garland around Krishna’s neck.

Tori removed her gloves and touched the card with her fingertip. “These are beautiful flowers.”

“Lotus flowers. They are sacred.”

“Must smell divine.” That was silly of her. Gussie wasn’t there to verbally duel with.

“It is purity. Rebirth. The lotus flower comes up from dirty pond water in the morning.” He held his fingers together, pointing upward. He then slowly spread his fingers, representing a flower opening its petals. “It opens, pure and fragrant.” Although he seemed to struggle with the English language, he communicated well.

Scott came to the man’s side, slowly resting his hand on his shoulder. “It’s also therapeutic. The blue lotus contains the psychoactive alkaloid, apomorphine, which is used to treat Parkinson’s. It can raise dopamine levels; something that people with Parkinson’s disease are low in.”

“Wow, that’s amazing!” Tori exclaimed.

Scott nodded his head. “I like to think of these refugees as lotus flowers. They’re amazing, resilient people, who have risen above the filth of their environments, thus adding beauty and fragrance to their surroundings. Maybe they’ll tell you their stories someday.”

“I’d like that,” Tori said, gathering her things from the picnic table.

“Thanks for your help today, Tori,” Scott said with a wave as she exited the gardens. “And remember, the key is to rise out of the muck.”

As Tori approached her car, her cell phone chimed in her pocket.

“Hello.”

“Tori. Glad I caught you. I’m in town in three weeks to interview your mom again, and came across a few tickets for the chalk run at Thanksgiving Point. Wanna come?”

“Annie?”

“Yes.” Annie giggled her infectious laugh. “Has someone else been interviewing your mom?”

“I didn’t think you were a runner?” Tori said with surprise.

“I’m not. It’s only a 5k, and I plan on chucking colorful chalk on my brisk walk. Should be a blast. I love throwing things at people’s heads. It’s better than a therapy session.”

“Thanks for the offer.” Tori acknowledged that she could use a therapy session. “Text me the date, and I’ll see if I can make it.”

“Great. I’ll send that right over. Hey, do you mind if I bring my bodyguard along?”

“Ah…” Tori couldn’t think of a reason for him not to come. That would be rude. It was an obvious running joke that Zee was Annie’s body guard. He had been in town last for the film festival. What was his reason for coming this time? Tori second guessed herself. Perhaps Zee really was Annie’s bodyguard, and Tori had misunderstood the conversation. “Of course. You guys are kinda fused at the hip.”

“He is as dedicated as the day is long. Whoever lassoes that man will be a lucky lady. Cheers!”

Cheers? Was Annie’s fiancé Irish?

Annie’s reference to Zee had caused Tori’s mind to cloud and the uncouth habit of biting her nails to resurface. With the salty snap of her fingernail, Tori found herself on the far end of the parking lot, across the street from the gardens, and twenty-five yards past her car.

Tori had thought of Zee on more than one occasion over the past three months. Almost every day, in fact, something reminded her of how he had made her feel—weak and dizzy, but somehow more alive. It didn’t help that she now found herself addicted to Facebook to see what he would post that day. Then the guilt would surface. She shouldn’t be thinking about anyone except Jim, especially not a mere stranger—no matter how attractive he was.