6
BRYN
I stall at the front door of Golden Lawn and Garden Store just until Mrs. Dunford’s car turns the corner to Main Street, and it’s only then I inhale a lungful of oxygen.
My plan for the morning was a casual long walk into town. I thought the nature and sunshine and solitude would allow the answer to my biggest problem—the lack of money—to take root in my brain.
Instead, my thoughts were cut short by my second biggest problem, Mitchell Dunford. Though I couldn’t resist Granny Dunford’s charm and offer of a ride, being in close proximity with her grandson was a painful reminder that while I had the upper hand after our last meeting, today it’s me who’s the underdog. It’s me who won’t have the money to pay him if I don’t find another source of income.
I’d committed a sin in business: I’d gotten attached to Dunford’s location even if everything tells me it’s wrong for my budget. And my cocky landlord, who has the gall to question everything I do, even my renaming of Lavenderhill, and can’t seem to look bad in any light? He intrigues me.
As much as I’d like to deny it, Mitchell’s got that quiet strength that draws me to him. He looks as if he’s got more to say but holds back, and while he gives off this cool vibe, his emotions run deep. It’s in the way he seems to listen, in the way he looks right into my eyes when we speak or pretend to ignore one another. That, and his relationship with his grandmother is tender, making me want to call my own parents.
I couldn’t wait to get out of Granny Dunford’s car. Mitchell makes my blood run hot, mussing that fine line between animosity and attraction.
I enter the garden store and am met with the scent of fertilizer and dirt. Hanging plants line the perimeter of the gymnasium-like room, and potted plants cover the ground. I see only one path from the door to the long counter, so I’ve got no choice but to approach it, though no one’s around. A bell sits on the counter and I ring it, then wait.
And wait. And wait.
Another path leads out through a side door, so I follow it and lean my body against the heavy door to open it. Outside are paver stones and bags of fertilizer stacked high. “Hello?” I call out.
“Hi, can I help you?” a voice answers from behind. A woman wearing a green vest and a warm smile approaches me. The name on her tag reads Darlene. Her hair is long, brown streaked with natural red highlights, and wavy, almost down to her waist. Her jeans have the faint hint of dirt, and her hiking boots are caked with mud. “You’re new in town, I take it.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Tourists don’t normally come to a lawn and garden shop.” She gestures for me to follow her back inside to the counter, where she takes her place behind a computer. “Plus I’ve lived in Golden all my life, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I moved into Paraiso . . . I mean, Dunford Vineyard. I’m opening up a culinary retreat on their property.”
“Ah, you’re the one. So glad to finally meet you. You’ll find out how close business owners are around here. We have to stick together.”
“That’s great. I was actually hoping you could help recommend a gardener and groundskeeper. I’m pretty useless when it comes to growing things.”
Darlene bites her lip, eyes rising to the ceiling as if the answer was written in the rafters. “I don’t get my usual summer hires until late next week, and I’ll have to train them before I can let them loose. Leave your number, and I can call you when I or one of my workers can get there.”
Disappointment courses through me. Every hour counts when it comes to getting the retreat ready for its opening. The flower beds need weeding, and most important, the garden must be started for the late summer and early fall harvest.
Despite this, I leave my name and phone number, but before I turn, I ask, “Can you hook me up with some flowers that are easy to plant in pots and I can’t kill? And a book on planting a garden. With pictures.”
I leave with an armful of books and a receipt for items that will be delivered to Paraiso in the next couple of days, and hike back home.
I kick off my shoes once inside our front door, and I’m greeted by a cool cross breeze through the open windows. Most of my boxes have been unpacked, and the sheer window coverings now flutter with freedom.
“Took you long enough.” Victoria’s voice filters from the kitchen.
“I think I’ve been suckered into being a gardener.” I follow the smell of sweet and savory, the sound of something popping in a pan. It’s a lure that has me weaving through the house. “But I met Mrs. Dunford, the grandmother. She and Mitchell gave me a ride into town.”
“And?” My sister is still in her pajamas, hair in a high ponytail, wearing her black-framed glasses. As she uses a fork to flip over tocino—cured pork slices—in the pan, the sight and smell make me practically drool.
“Her name is Joanie, and she’s super sweet. Unlike her grandson.” Ignoring the pull of my bottomless pit of a stomach, I drop the books onto the island and grab the dry-erase marker hanging from the side of the whiteboard. Next to Groundskeeping I write:
Follow up with lawn and garden next week.
Research garden prep, figure out how not to kill plants when they arrive.
“Aw, you don’t mean that.” Over a heavy helping of rice, Victoria plates the tocino straight from the pan. She slides the plate next to me as I gnaw on the marker cap.
I sigh, then write below the last line:
Worst-case scenario: ask help from landlord
My shoulders hunch in resignation. “I don’t, not totally. I can tell he’s trying, but it’s kind of hard to look at the guy when I’ll soon have to choose between renovating or losing months on the lease. If I was less stubborn, I’d kiss his ass so he won’t be so quick to throw us out if we’re late on rent.”
“You can always ask Dad for the money. He would totally finance you. It’s what he does for a living.”
I scoop a helping of food into my mouth, then breathe out the heat on my tongue, because like a kid, I can’t wait for it to cool down before I take a bite. “No. Dad has given me enough already. He paid for undergrad and grad school. I know the family thinks I’m being silly, but I don’t want to rely on my privilege any longer to make this happen. I want this to be on me, my own decisions, my own success.”
“You’re too proud.”
“Maybe I am.” Then, thinking of one more thing, I draw two columns on the whiteboard and label them:
must renovate vs. want to renovate
Victoria helps me categorize our priorities, from the gardening (must), chef (must), new floors (want), pergola (want), small dwelling renovation (want). As we continue down the rest of our list, I’m ready not only to smother my disappointment in tocino and rice, but to eat Victoria’s serving, too.
The phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t answer right away, thinking it’s a text, but the buzz is protracted and distracting. Another phone call. It can’t be good.
I slide my phone out and check the screen. A 323 area code this time: Southern California. I answer. “Hello?”
“Hi. May I please speak to Bryn Aquino?” The woman’s voice on the other end is cheerful and bright, with a telemarketer’s zeal, as if I’ve won a cruise.
So I’m hesitant. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Is this Bryn?”
“Yeah . . . who is this?”
“Laurel Han. I’m one of the online producers for the website Food Right Now. I’m sure you’ve never heard of me, but I’ve definitely heard of you and want to discuss covering your development of Paraiso Retreats. Did I say that right? I apologize.”
“You said it right.” My voice fades while my brain processes the sentences she just uttered. “Excuse me. Could you please repeat what you said?”
She giggles. “I know, I talk too quickly for my own good. My name is Laurel Han. Food Right Now is a website that—”
“I’m a fan of Food Right Now. You guys came out and did an article on True North during the holidays.”
“Yes, that’s right! And I’m one of their Web-content editors. We’re in the process of supplementing our usual online articles with video programming through live streaming. We saw in Food Business Magazine and on your Facebook page you’re in the process of opening up a culinary retreat and thought we could come out and film.”
“Wow.” My breath hitches. At my reaction, my sister mouths, Who is it?
“We want to live stream your build.”
I scribble her name and website on the whiteboard. Below it, I write live stream? Vic’s mouth rounds in shock. I put the phone on speaker to make sure I’m not imagining all of this.
Food Right Now brought the real foodies to Ocean Beach and did more for True North than any other marketing effort, blog post, commercial, or interview. Their combination of Web content and general social media campaigns turns every brand they work with into gold. While a slew of questions invade my brain—the first wondering what a live stream would entail—the fact Paraiso is on the radar of Food Right Now is quite literally 95 percent of the battle. “I’m sorry . . . I’m stunned. A live stream. Why me? Why Paraiso?”
“Because it’s all so romantic, isn’t it? Our readers love to be inspired, and what a great way to promote self-care. The idea of cooking as part of the retreat process combines back to basics and new age concepts—it’s ingenious. And honestly, you come with such high regard. I’d love to be a part of your success. I even have the perfect title for the show: Paradise in the Making.”
My sister cups her hands around her mouth. I swallow what feels like a chunk of rice. “I . . . I’m honored.”
“The live stream process is fairly straightforward—it’s live coverage on our website. There’s no editing. A few hours per day on big build days over the course of your renovation, through your grand opening. And maybe even your first days as a follow-up. You’re simply going to let the viewers in on your decisions. And oh, besides the exposure, there will be monetary compensation.”
It’s as if I’m swimming in warm words and infinite possibility, caught in the stream of her pitch. Vic’s nodding and giving me the thumbs-up. I shake my head, because my gut—which is screaming a wild yes to this offer—must be checked against my brains. I counter with a semiprofessional voice. “That sounds fantastic. Is there a way we can talk about this in person? And can I review the contract?”
“Absolutely. We’re headed up to Tahoe for an event. On the way back to LA, I can stop in. A contract should hit your in-box in the next hour or so, with all the details, permissions, et cetera.” As she talks about the compensation, my worries are being erased as if with an old-school chalkboard eraser, one line and image at a time, until the board shines and I’m left without any questions except:
Is this for real? Is it this easy? The offer is rock-candy sweet and sounds perfect to my ears. If it’s everything Laurel says, then nothing will have to be sacrificed in this start-up. Materials, labor, marketing—I can transform this empty house into something truly magical, a paradise out of my mother’s and my dreams.
“Actually . . .” I stall, because I don’t want this offer to slip through my fingers. What if they decide on another business to cover on their trip to Tahoe? This is no time for me to waffle. “I’d love to start as soon as possible. I’ll look over the documents right away.”
She sings, “Wonderful! I was hoping you’d jump on board right away.”
Laurel and I make plans for a meeting on June 16, the following Friday, and a tentative start date of the Monday after. I hang up and gingerly set the phone down on the kitchen counter.
Vic takes off her glasses and folds them, then places them next to my phone.
And we both scream.