Second Chance Rose

From then on, her week seemed geared to Sundays. Monday through Friday, she was at the office, where one day blended into another. Saturdays were for taking care of errands and household chores. But on Sundays, she was reborn. Filled with enthusiasm, she drove downtown, into the museum complex surrounding the roses. The Natural History Museum stood guard, along with the Museum of Science and Industry, but their pull wasn't strong enough, and Rose never ventured inside. As soon as her sneakered feet touched Exposition Boulevard, a sense of calm and peace enveloped her, demanding that she return to the rose garden. Not searching for love, she told herself. She believed, just as Mama had, that in this world there was one perfect mate for everyone. She'd had hers with Doug. Since he died, no man had come close to filling the void he'd left. Instead, she came to the garden to be with her mother again--in spirit, since the flesh had departed years before.

Rose wandered the grounds, jotted notes on varieties she thought she'd try to grow in her tiny yard. She settled onto her favorite bench. The sounds of the garden, now a familiar backdrop to her reading, thrummed into a neutral white noise, and she lost herself in her book.

"Excuse me?"

A deep male voice intruded upon her silence. Rose closed her book over a finger and shaded her eyes with her other hand. The man, backlit by the sun, looked vaguely familiar. "Yes?"

"I don't mean to intrude. I wonder ... I'd like ... would it be okay ... would you mind if I sketched you?"

Rose squinted, and the man stepped aside, blocking the glare. The artist. He held his straw hat in one hand, his sketchbook tucked under his other arm.

"Me?" Rose scanned the garden, seeing all the attractive coeds. "Surely one of the ... younger ... women would be more suitable."

He took a step back and lowered his head, but not before Rose saw the disappointment on his face.