Her.

She walked across the room, raised a white shade, and opened the French doors to her garden. She plunged her elegant fingers into a blue hydrangea on the terrace, to see if it needed watering. No sooner had she lifted her hand out of the flowerpot than a bird landed on the stone balustrade that overlooked the garden. The tiny thing looked a bit wobbly among the flowers. "Must be jet lag," she said. And then it came-that marvelous cascading laugh, halfway between a tease and a call to joy