Like any other morning, it began with intentions to move the winter herbs they had been growing in little pots and coffee on the back patio. The methodical process of preparing the soil, the joy of providing plants with permanent homes, and the way gardening had evolved into another language of love between them were all things Lila had been looking forward to.
When the music came over from the Benedettas' property next door, she was kneeling in the herb garden behind their house, her hands digging into the rich soil they had been improving for months. When the windows were thrown wide to let in the spring air on a Sunday morning, the sound was first merely background noise, the sort of informal soundtrack that neighbors give.
But then the melody found her.
It was an old song that her m
