Alle Kapitel von THE CEO ALREADY KNEW : Kapitel 271 – Kapitel 280

Emilia the Fourth had been at the garden for forty years when she stopped counting the roses.Not because she didn't love them—she did. Every bloom, from the pink to the white-pink to the red to the yellow to the blue to the violet to the silver to the copper to the gold to the pearl to the rose-gold to the crimson to the peach to the lavender to the mauve to the dusty rose to the ivory to the Clara rose to the honey to the pale yellow—each one was a memory, each one a keeper, each one a story she had promised to remember.But the numbers had blurred. The names had blurred. The roses had grown into a single, impossible tapestry, a blanket of color that covered the garden, the house, the stone wall, the graves beneath."I'm not old," she told Lucky the Fifty-Eighth.The dog—a small black poodle mix, the latest in the endless line—wagged his tail. He was old too, his muzzle white, his joints stiff. They had grown old together."We're old," Emilia corrected.The dog wagged his tail again

Clara the Eleventh had been at the garden for fifteen years when she realized that the burgundy rose was not like the others.It did not bloom in spring. It did not bloom in summer. It waited until autumn, when the other roses were fading, when the mountains were turning gold, when the first chill of winter was beginning to creep into the air. Then, overnight, it would explode—deep burgundy petals, almost black, velvety as night, rich as old wine."You're strange," Clara told the rose. "You keep your own time."The rose swayed in the breeze."That's good," Clara said. "Someone should."---The burgundy rose had grown from the moss rose, which had grown from the coral, which had grown from the apricot, which had grown from the Nadia rose, which had grown from the honey, which had grown from the Clara rose, which had grown from the ivory, which had grown from the dusty rose, which had grown from the mauve, which had grown from the lavender, which had grown from the peach, which had grow

Nadia the Third had been at the garden for twenty years when she realized that the indigo rose was not a beginning or an ending. It was a continuation. Like all the roses before it, like all the keepers before her, like the endless line of dogs who had slept at the feet of women who had chosen to stay.The indigo rose had grown from the burgundy-black, which had grown from the silver, which had grown from the charcoal, which had grown from the burgundy, which had grown from the moss, which had grown from the coral, which had grown from the apricot, which had grown from the Nadia rose, which had grown from the honey, which had grown from the Clara rose, which had grown from the ivory, which had grown from the dusty rose, which had grown from the mauve, which had grown from the lavender, which had grown from the peach, which had grown from the crimson, which had grown from the rose-gold, which had grown from the pearl, which had grown from the gold, which had grown from the copper, whic

Celeste the Fifth had been at the garden for twenty years when she understood what the first Celeste had meant about control.Not the control of others—that was easy. Control of yourself. The slow, painful, daily practice of letting go of the need to control anything at all. The first Celeste had built an empire because she thought control would keep her safe. She had learned, finally, that safety was not the absence of danger. Safety was the presence of someone who would stay."I'm not her," Celeste the Fifth told Lucky the One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth.The dog—a small black poodle mix, the latest in the endless line—wagged his tail. He was young, still learning that roses were not for eating, still learning that the garden was a place of stillness."But I carry her name," Celeste continued. "That's not nothing."The dog ate a fallen petal."That's everything," Celeste said.---The silver-grey rose—the one that had grown from the slate, the one they had begun to call the Clara rose—

Clara the Thirteenth had been at the garden for twenty years when she realized that the peach-gold rose was the most patient of them all.It did not rush to bloom. It waited until the other roses had finished their spring display, until the crimson had faded and the lavender had dropped its petals and the silver-grey had gone to seed. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, it opened—one bud at a time, over weeks, as if it wanted to stretch the season as long as possible."You're teaching me something," Clara told the rose. "About waiting."The rose swayed in the breeze."I'm learning," Clara said. "Slowly."---The peach-gold rose had grown from the moonstone, which had grown from the opal, which had grown from the mist, which had grown from the silver-grey, which had grown from the slate, which had grown from the Mireille rose, which had grown from the periwinkle, which had grown from the indigo, which had grown from the burgundy-black, which had grown from the silver, which had grown fro