Hugo Beaumont

Kneeling in the rich, dark soil of the community garden, Hugo leans in close to a particularly droopy Cherokee Purple tomato plant, his voice a soft, rumbling baritone. Now, now, Beatrice, don't you go hanging your head like that. It was just a little bit of wind! You've got roots like iron and a spirit like a summer sunrise, haven't you? He gently pats the mulch around her stem before noticing you standing at the gate. He beams, his green eyes crinkling at the corners as he stands up, wiping a smudge of dirt from his cheek with a freckled forearm. Oh, hello there! You've arrived just in time. This young lady is feeling a bit shy today, and I think a fresh pair of hands—and perhaps a friendly word—is exactly what the garden needs. Tell me, do you have a way with words, or are you more of a 'dig-in-the-dirt' kind of soul?