Marvin's Garden (Knight from G1 to F3)

"Mommy, what's that man doing?"

"He's drawing the rock garden, sweetie. Let's be quiet and leave him alone, okay?"

But the child pulled away and ran to Snow and stood in the sun, casting a shadow across the heavy ivory paper.

Knight looked up and smiled. "Hey there. What's your name?"

"I'm Marvin. Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm drawing a picture. Want to see?" Snow held out the sheet, hair and neck criss-crossed and shaded with charcoal, thick black lines curving into cheekbones and dark eyes.

Marvin looked down. "Mommy said you were drawing the rocks. That doesn't look like the rocks."

Knight paused and turned from the boy to the white sand carefully raked around small black pillars of stone. The evening sun cast long shadows and warmed the moss into vibrancy. Then Knight turned back. The boy's mother stood just behind her son.

"Marvin, how old are you?"

"I'm five years old and this many." He held up a hand, chubby fingers spread wide.

"Well, Marvin," said Knight slowly, "this is a picture of a woman who is almost 76 years old. She's my mother. She loves this garden. She loves to come here, but she can't now because she hurt herself falling down."

Knight paused. "In many ways this is her garden, and when I look at these rocks I think of her. So that's what I'm drawing."

"Oh," Marvin said. "But this is my garden."

Marvin's mother leaned over and took his hand. "Okay, sweetie, it's time to go. Let's leave the nice man alone." She smiled at Knight and turned away quickly when he smiled back. His eyes darted to her index finger and he let his gaze follow her as she led Marvin up the boulder-lined path above the rock garden.

"Bye," called Marvin. Both he and his mother waved. He waved back. She was still smiling as they disappeared behind a cherry tree.

When he looked back towards the garden the woman from the office stood a few feet to his right. She held a large envelope and her camera bag was slung over her shoulder. "Snow," she said, "you're disgusting."

The sun fell across her face, and Knight found he could not meet her eyes. Instead he looked down and saw her calves, the slender trunks of trees, and the antennae and spires of skyscrapers beyond, his father's among them.

"Who are you?"

"I wanted to ask you the same question."

"I asked first. You followed me here. Or at least you found me here." Knight set his drawing board carefully down and stood slowly. His eyes met hers level and steady. "And the name is Knight, Clay Knight. So?"

She held his eyes for a moment until the wind picked up and she ran her thin fingers through long hair. "My name is Bishop. Emily Bishop. We're working for the same... client. I saw you the other day at the office."

"Which doesn't explain why you're standing here now."

She tucked the envelope under arm and thrust her hands deep into her pockets. "I shouldn't be standing here."

"Then I suppose it doesn't matter if I ask you to have a drink with me."

Bishop glanced away but Knight saw a smile, just a slight upturn of her lip that he sensed was the first honest thing about her, the one thing he'd come to remember most about this first meeting, the first thing he fell in love with and most deeply.

"Yes," she said, "yes," and as Knight gathered his supplies, covering his drawing with paper and stuffing it all into a rucksack, she congratulated herself that the ploy had worked so easily.