Delighted to note that Riverdale Avenue Books has re-released my garden romance, Perennial. Set in Oak Park and intercut with the poems I wrote during my course of treatment, it follows the story of a woman who’s just received a cancer diagnosis, and the handsome Indian-Scottish flower shop owner whose flowers bring her hope, friendship, and more, over the course of a year of treatment.
Available in hardcover, paperback, and ebook, wherever books are sold. Tornado, my breast cancer memoir, they have currently scheduled for release in March.
https://smile.amazon.com/…/B0BL…/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0…
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Chapter One
“Can I help you?” The woman in the front section of Devan McLeod’s garden shop had been wandering aimlessly about the store for a full twenty minutes. Usually he tried not to pester the customers; after eleven years in America, he still hadn’t dropped all of his more reserved habits. His Scottish father had been the strong, silent type, but his Indian mother came from shopkeeper roots, and he could just hear her scolding him now. Take care of your customers, son, and they’ll take care of you. He really ought to Skype them; it’d been too long.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blinking up at him. January in Oak Park meant that she had entered his shop swathed in what his wife had called sleeping bag coats – the kind of puffy coat that covered you from head to ankles. But Devan kept the shop warm and humid, for the customers as well as the plants, and the woman had already unbuttoned her coat, stuffed gloves in her pocket, and unwrapped her scarf, revealing brown curls, bright blue eyes, and a mouth that looked like it wanted to smile. “I don’t really know what I want – your window just looked so lovely.”
“I try,” Devan said, smiling. January meant paperwhites and amaryllises, and his shop window featured a splendid array of white blooms on tall green stalks, supported by graceful copper stakes. It had come out nicely, if he did say so himself. Manju had done all the displays, back in the day, but after five years without her, he’d developed his own style – a little more restrained, less exuberant than what she would have done. So far, the customers seemed to like it; the store was still paying its bills, at a time when many others had gone under. Most small businesses survived on the tiniest of profit margins.
His mother would have said it was the tea and hospitality that kept people coming. Which reminded him, “Do you want some tea? And there’s some shortbread on the tray.”
“Oh, that would be so good – “ the woman walked across the store to the little table where an array of teas waited, and an electric kettle. She poured herself a mug, not bothering with sweetener or milk, and cupped it in hands that trembled a little.
She drank the tea straight off, though it must have been scaldingly hot, and Devan winced for her. Then she stood there, staring at a table displaying succulents, for an unconscionably long time. Long enough that Devan had to ask, “Are you all right, miss?” She wasn’t a miss, exactly, but not a ma’am either – about his own age, he’d guess, early thirties.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to face him. The mug was still in her hand, and she looked at it, startled. “Where should I – “
Devan came forward to take it from her, and their hands touched, brown to white, and despite the humidifiers he had running, the air was still dry enough to make a spark. Invisible, but felt. She smiled up at him, apologetically. “I’m sorry. I got some strange news today.”
“Bad news?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”
“Here, hold on a sec.” Devan wasn’t sure why he was doing this – just because she looked lost, and he wanted to see what her face would look like if it were smiling, as it was meant to. He ducked into the back room, where the last of the Christmas décor lingered, and clipped off a sprig of holly. A few twists of floral tape, a pin, and now he had a little holly pin. He brought it back into the main room, and handed it to the woman, who looked bemused.
“Holly – it’s still green in the darkest part of the year; it’s a traditional symbol of hope, protection, and victory.”
She smiled then, and carefully pinned it to her scarf. “That’s exactly what I need – thank you. What do I owe you, for this and the tea?” Her smile was exactly what he’d thought it would be – brightening a sweet face to startling beauty. Devan couldn’t help smiling in response.
“Please, the holly is on the house. And the tea is always complimentary. Come back when you want a plant to brighten your home.”
The woman nodded. “I’ll do that, though I’m afraid I tend to kill plants, and if you could see the disaster that is my home right now…well.”
“Some of our plants are remarkably hardy,” Devan said solemnly. “They resist the most determined plant murderers.”
She laughed – and if he’d thought her smile was sweet, her laugh was ten times better. “Good to know,” she said.
“I’m Devan, Devan McLeod.”
“Katherine Smith. Kate.”
“Nice to meet you, Kate. Come back soon.”
“I will,” she said. She looked better now, less lost. As she buttoned her coat and disappeared into her scarf, Devan held onto her words like a promise. Oh, Kate probably didn’t mean them – he knew that. It was the sort of thing you said to shopkeepers to be polite. But Oak Park was a small town; once you met someone, you were always running into them again when you didn’t expect it. One way or another, he hoped he’d be seeing Kate again soon.
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