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.

She folded her hands in her lap. "If I agree, what will you do with my picture?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I have to draw it first. I don't usually do portraits."

Because who'd want a portrait of a forty-two year old woman with boring brown eyes and plain brown hair with strands of gray popping out like dandelions?