CHAPTER 3 - GARDEN OF SURPRISES
Bella's POV
"I... what?" My brain stuttered like a broken engine. This couldn't be Uncle Alex. Uncle Alex wore Hawaiian shirts to barbecues. Uncle Alex had a belly that jiggled when he laughed at his own jokes.
He pulled out the chair across from me. "May I? My conference call got pushed back."
"Sure. Yes. Of course." Words tumbled out while I tried to reconcile this stranger with my memories.
"How long has it been? Three years? Four?"
"Five. Mom's memorial service at the church."
His face softened. "Right. You wore that blue dress she loved."
He remembered what I wore? I barely remembered that day at all. Just fog and faces and everyone saying how proud she would have been of me going to Boston.
"So." He settled into his chair like he belonged there. "PhD at Berkeley. Your father brags about you constantly."
"Not much to brag about lately."
"Oh?"
Maybe it was the way he asked. Not pushing. Not trying to fix. Just... interested. The whole story spilled out. The funding crisis. Dr. Hayes. Six weeks to find money I didn't have.
"That's rough." He sipped his coffee. No platitudes. No "everything happens for a reason" garbage.
"What about you? Papa mentioned you got divorced?"
A shadow flickered across his face. Quick. But I caught it.
"Five years ago. Victoria decided she preferred my business partner. And his yacht. And his house in Tahiti."
"Ouch."
"Ancient history." But his fingers tightened on his cup. "Actually, speaking of business, I'm in the middle of a project that's driving me insane."
"What kind of project?"
"The Gilded Rose. New boutique hotel in Nob Hill. Everything's on schedule except the art."
"What's wrong with the art?"
He laughed. Not the polite laugh people use at parties. Real frustration. "My curator quit last week. Said my vision was 'impossibly demanding.' The replacement they sent thinks hospitality art means mass-produced prints of flowers."
"Oh God, no. You need pieces that tell stories. That make guests feel something beyond 'this matches the curtains.'"
His eyes sharpened. "Exactly. See, my regular art consultant thinks I'm crazy. Says hotel guests don't care."
"They're wrong. The right art transforms a space. Makes it memorable. You want guests to Instagram your walls, not just your beds."
"Instagram the walls." He smiled. Really smiled. "I'm stealing that for my next board meeting."
We kept talking. About art. About authentication methods. About how to spot fake Pollocks from real ones. His questions were smart. Specific. Not the "oh how nice dear" responses I usually got.
"Sorry." The barista appeared at our table. "We're closing in five minutes."
I looked around. The café was empty. Chairs already stacked on most tables.
"We've been here three hours?" I checked my phone. Missed calls from Papa. Texts asking if I wanted dinner.
"I should apologize for monopolizing your afternoon." But Alex didn't look sorry.
"No, this was... nice." Nice? My brain apparently stopped working around him. "I mean, helpful. Talking to someone who gets it."
"I have a proposition." He pulled out his card. Not the cheap ones from Vista Print. Heavy stock. Embossed. "Think about the curator position. The pay is generous. Hours are flexible for your dissertation."
"Alex, I can't just..."
"No charity. I need someone with fresh eyes. Real expertise. That's you."
Saturday arrived too fast. The house smelled like Papa's famous empanadas and nervous energy. Caterers invaded our kitchen. Flowers appeared on every surface.
"Mija, you look beautiful." Papa beamed when I came downstairs.
The black dress was three years old. Simple. Safe. The only cocktail dress that survived my Boston purge.
"Just like your mother." His eyes got that misty look.
Guests poured in. Papa's restaurant family. Neighbors. Church friends. Everyone asking the same questions. How's Boston? Where's that nice boy Marcus? When are you giving your papa grandchildren?
I smiled until my face hurt. Sipped water that looked like champagne. Dodged Mrs. Chen's nephew who kept appearing with chips and meaningful looks.
"Isabella! Professor Isabella!" Mr. Delgado cornered me by the kitchen. "My granddaughter needs help with her college essays. You'll help, yes?"
"Of course, Mr. Delgado."
More smiling. More dodging. The walls closed in like they had all week.
I slipped out the back door. The garden waited, quiet except for the fountain Mom insisted on installing. White noise and memories.
Party sounds drifted through the windows. Laughter. Music. Papa's voice booming over everyone. I sat on the stone bench, grateful for the dark.
Mom would've understood. She knew about dreams that didn't fit in neat boxes. About wanting more than safe choices.
Footsteps on the path. Great. Probably Mrs. Chen with her nephew again.
But the shadow that emerged from between the fruit trees was taller. Broader.
Alex stepped into the light strings Papa had wound through the branches. The tuxedo fit him like water fits the ocean. Natural. Perfect.
"Hiding?" His voice carried warm amusement.
"Taking a break from the interrogation."
"Ah. The 'why aren't you married yet' symphony. I know it well."
He moved closer. Not sitting. Just... there. The fountain splashed between us.
"You clean up nice." The words escaped before I could stop them.
"So do you."
I looked up to say something. Anything. And our eyes met.
The world... stopped.
No. That's not right. It didn't stop. It shifted. Rearranged. Like someone had been playing my life in black and white and suddenly cranked up the color.
His pupils dilated. Wide. Dark. Swallowing the blue.
Heat rushed through me. Started in my chest and spread everywhere. My skin felt too tight. Too sensitive. Like even the air touching me was too much.
Neither of us moved. Couldn't move. The space between us crackled. Actually crackled. Like lightning looking for a place to strike.
Twenty six years. Twenty six years of Uncle Alex and suddenly he wasn't. Suddenly he was just... Alex. And I was drowning in the want to know what his jaw felt like under my fingers. What that perfectly fitted tuxedo would look like on my bedroom floor.
Wrong. So wrong. This was Papa's best friend. This was...
His breathing changed. Deeper. Rougher.
Mine matched.
The fountain kept splashing. The party kept going. But we stood frozen in something that felt bigger than both of us. Older. Inevitable.
Like we'd been walking toward this moment our whole lives without knowing it.