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paradise, a serene place for her and her alone, and since that time, her garden had been an elaborate work in progress. Always in progress—she was always adding things, changing things. Just last week she’d added snapdragons in a sunny spot, which she knew would grow taller and more robust than they ever had the chance to do in northern climes, and several pottery birdbaths she’d crafted hung from the branches of various trees. She sat surrounded by orange marmalade and white plumeria and giant elephant ear plants as a soft sea breeze riffled through a set of windchimes she’d made as well, and the sweet scent of the bougainvillea draping the west wall wafted past her.
    It had indeed become her secret haven, the place she went to just be with her own thoughts, find peace when she needed it, feel more peace when she already had it.
    Sometimes she napped in the hammock strung between two tall palm trees, but tonight she sat curled up in one of the white Adirondack chairs she’d placed in a semi-circle around the fire pit she’d installed. She used the fire pit often when the weather was cool enough, but not the other chairs.
    She looked at them now, wondering for the first time why she’d even bought more than one when she never invited anyone into her garden, never let it be enjoyed by anyone but herself.
    Of course, her friends had seen the garden—they’d either peered out at it through the French doors at therear of the cottage, or they’d helped her carry things in and out through the side gate. Fletcher, who lived right across Sea Shell Lane from her, was always quick to notice out the window if she was toting in new shrubbery or big bags of potting soil and coming over to help. And her friends always seemed complimentary and even in awe of the space she’d tucked away back here when they had occasion to view it—but they never invited themselves over. Even Christy, who was so perky and sociable and lived right next door. Tamra couldn’t help thinking that, while it had never been said, on some level they knew it was a place she’d created only for herself.
    Wouldn’t you like to have them over? Wouldn’t it be nice to have drinks around the fire with Christy and Cami? Wouldn’t it be pleasant to roast marshmallows and make s’mores with Fletcher? Or maybe invite John and Nancy Romo, the nice older couple a few streets away, over for a glass of wine?
    Yet something in her core tensed slightly at the idea. She didn’t know why. And yet it remained there, floating heavy inside her.
    Her discussion tonight with Christy and Cami had been oddly warming. She usually just found it annoying when her friends pushed romance on her, suggesting she should be out chasing men and making her feel almost abnormal not to be doing that. But tonight, even as uncomfortable as she’d been blurting out frank truths about herself, it had touched her when they’d openly wanted to be closer to her, know her better. And it had made her realize how many walls she’d put up—not just around this garden, but inside herself, too.
    Yet . . . when all was said and done, she was still happier here alone. Happier to just be completely at ease, completely comfortable, by herself.
    There’s nothing wrong with it. Enjoying your own company is healthy. You can’t love anyone else until you love yourself. And though it had taken a little time after her unconventional upbringing on a commune in Arizona, she really did love herself now. But she still didn’t trust easily. And she wasn’t sure there was an upside to changing that. It was better to take care of yourself, and easier to stay happy and productive if you didn’t put yourself at risk with people.
    How on earth would inviting Cami and Christy back here for a drink put you at risk, for heaven’s sake? It wouldn’t, that simple. So maybe this wasn’t even about risk. Maybe it was