first-of-the-season

Service slowed, and she returned to dancing. She lifted a vine of striped nasturtiums from the big potting planter Matt dragged in from the greenhouse; held it before her face as if to smell them. It was too cold for flowers now, everything in the gardens had died. She picked one and showed it to Cam. “What’s this called, Cammy?” she said. Variegation, I said wordlessly. “Variegation!” Cam said. “Good boy,” she said, and split the flower into two perfect halves for the last agnolotti.