Chapter 29
The gardener coaxes seeds from the earth, lavishing attention on their every fragile leaf, their magnificent blossoms. How fragile, how fleeting—this beauty, this love. Only the perfumer can capture, extend nature’s response. Oh, that we could grasp real love so. –DB
5 April, 1941 - Beverly Hills, California
Wearing gloves over the fresh scars on her hands for protection, Danielle stepped on the shovel with her espadrille slip-on, driving the blade into the soil. Pausing, she craned her head toward the sky, confirming that the rosebushes would have sufficient sunlight in the spot she’d chosen in the rear yard for the new garden.
“I wanted to see you before Lou and I left for San Francisco,” Abigail said. “I wish I could help you,” she added, glancing helplessly at the white
