The Forever Garden

by Rosanna Ley

Genres: Romance; Holiday Romance; Later in Life Romance

Synopsis

Amid the sun-soaked hills of southern Italy lies the Romano family olive grove, where Lara lives with her daughter Rose and her granddaughter Bea. Lara has spent a lifetime trying to forget the traumatic events that led to her escape from Dorset 70 years ago. But when she sees Bea being swept off her feet by Matteo, Lara fears her granddaughter is in danger of making the same mistake as she did all those years ago. Remembering a promise she once made, Lara asks Bea to travel to Dorset to restore her family's long-lost garden. Bea would love to find out more about the mystery of her beloved grandmother's past. But if she leaves Italy, will Matteo wait for her? Meanwhile back in Italy, an old flame from Rose's past reappears, threatening to expose a secret that could tear the heart out of the Romano family for good.

Release date: March 2, 2023

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 480

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Lara

Italy, March 2018

It wouldn’t be long now.

Lara held on to the edge of the stone balustrade. It was very warm for spring and she felt a little dizzy. From this spot on the terrace, she had the best view of her Italian garden – the garden she had created long ago in her new home in the Valle d’Itria, Puglia, just as soon as she’d been able.

So many years had passed. It had been difficult at first – adjusting to Italian ways, learning the language, feeling such a stranger to it all. But despite the hard work, she had found a sense of peace here at the masseria, a sense of peace still rooted here, despite the frequent visitors they now welcomed to the farm. She had been young, there had been plenty of time to adjust to her surroundings and she had been so very desperate to escape.

Recalling that desperation, Lara found herself gripping the stone balustrade so tightly that her knuckles turned blue-­white with tension. The feeling wasn’t new. Breathe, she told herself. Don’t think of it now. It was so long ago. It’s over . . .

She was grateful. Because she’d needed to leave England so badly, because of all the joy Italy had brought her, she would always be overwhelmingly grateful – for her new home, for everything.

Lara focused on a statuesque cypress tree on the far left of the row lining the back of the garden. If she concentrated on one static object, one definite shape, the dizziness would pass. And from the tree . . . the rest of the garden swam into focus.

It was surrounded by dry-­stone walls, to protect the fig trees, the pomegranate and the more vulnerable of the citrus. The garden was divided into seven small but separate sections – that much had been important – and Lara had worked on the perspective, so that when standing on this terrace, the viewer could look over, through, beyond, be visually connected and hopefully appreciate the overall symmetry, the way the garden blended with the farm buildings and the landscape of the olive grove and hills. Thus far she had not strayed from her mother’s vision of an Arts and Crafts garden. This garden was an echo of the first, but it was certainly not a replica – how could it be? This Italian garden was very different from the garden of the past, the garden Lara had left behind.

Creating it, even while she worked hard with the rest of the family in the olive grove from which they made their living, had been a solace. The planting, the laying of stone pathways and the small pond, the selection of a crumbling stone urn here, a delicate sundial there, had brought order to her mind and made her feel more at home. Most of all, it had allowed her to remember her mother’s walled garden in Dorset.

Remember, yes. But Lara had never been able to go back. How could she go back? It was impossible. She had always known that if she left, the garden would be lost to her forever.

‘Mamma?’

Lara turned around. Her daughter Rose stood framed in the doorway. She was tall and fair just as Lara had been before her hair turned grey and she’d begun to stoop and hobble around like some elderly nonna. Well, now she was an elderly nonna, she reminded herself. She was ninety-­seven years old and, indeed, also a grandmother to Rose and Federico’s daughter Beatrice. Beatrice . . . Ah, now, there was a girl who made Lara’s breath catch in her throat for so many reasons.

Much as she loved Rose, Lara had always wished they were closer, whereas Bea . . . Grandmother and granddaughter shared so much more than a love of gardening. Like Lara, Bea was a dreamer. The bond between them ran deep and true.

‘Yes, darling?’ she said to Rose.

Lara had never quite understood her daughter, perhaps that was it. Even now, as Rose stood poised in the doorway as if unsure whether to dash forward onto the terrace or whisk back to attend to some task in the kitchen, there was an elusive quality to her daughter’s green eyes that Lara had never been able to quite fathom.

‘Should you not be resting, Mamma?’ Rose came out onto the terrace. But she barely glanced at the garden and so she wouldn’t have noticed the way the warm afternoon sunshine created a yellow heat haze around the tops of the olive trees beyond. Instead, she tutted (Rose tutted rather too frequently in Lara’s opinion), took her mother’s arm and led her gently back to the chair she’d been sitting on before.

Like a rag doll, Lara found herself thinking. ‘I’m not tired, Rose,’ she said. Though she was. Her eyes were aching with the effort of taking everything in and oh, it was so bright today. Her mind was aching when she thought of Dorset – which she still did so often – of the house and garden there and everything that still needed to be done. And her heart was aching because she knew she didn’t have long left on this earth and she really didn’t want to say goodbye to the family she loved.

‘So you say. But come.’ Rose was calm but firm.

She eased Lara into the chair and adjusted the cushions to support her mother’s neck. She was a good girl. She seemed more settled now too and Lara was relieved. That was what she wanted – for everyone to be settled before she left them.

That was why she simply must consider the Dorset business . . . How she hated to leave ends untied. The promise she’d made to her own beloved mother before she died had been made more years ago than Lara cared to remember. Nevertheless, a promise was a promise and perhaps it wasn’t too late to see it fulfilled. But how? Lara was far too old to go back to Dorset now – she could barely make it to the end of the olive grove. She couldn’t ask Rose or Federico – they were much too busy here on the masseria, especially since Federico had converted three of the trulli on the farm to take paying guests and Rose had to cook and clean for them.

Then there was Bea . . . But how could she deprive herself of her granddaughter for what might be the final summer of Lara’s life? Besides, Bea was working now, building up her horticulture and landscape gardening business. She was making contacts, finding new clients; she was already somewhat in demand. Her granddaughter had a bright future in front of her, Lara was sure. So how could she uproot her and send her to Dorset? Lara found herself chuckling at her own pun. No. It was impossible. The chuckle turned to a frown. There must be another way.

‘Why are you frowning, Mamma?’ Rose smoothed Lara’s hair from her face. ‘What do you have to worry about, hmm?’

‘Oh, nothing. Non importa. Take no notice of me.’ Lara picked up the book she’d been staring at earlier. She couldn’t remember either the plot or the characters, but it didn’t seem to matter as much as it once had.

She was reluctant to confide in Rose. It was a time in Lara’s life that was painful to revisit and keeping silent was a hard habit to break. But if things were to be sorted, then she would have to tell someone the truth, painful though it might be. She had told Bea stories of the garden when she was a little girl, but she had made them into fairy tales, thinking perhaps of the sweet afternoons when Lara had climbed the roots of the wisteria, over the wall and into the woods beyond. To tell the whole story, though, that seemed a daunting task indeed.

Unlike Lara and Bea, Rose wasn’t a dreamer. Her daughter wanted everything to be clear-­cut and organised. If Lara was supposed to be resting after lunch, then Rose expected her to close her eyes and do exactly that. Rose wasn’t one for gazing sightlessly into space and letting her thoughts wander; she was unlikely to lose herself in contemplating the beauty of the landscape around them. Lara glanced up to take in the dark and intense green of the cypress trees outlined against the canopy of blue sky. Her daughter would say she didn’t have time.

‘Good. I’ll make you a cold drink then, shall I?’

‘Grazie, darling.’

‘And I’ll get your hat.’

‘I’m sitting in the shade,’ Lara remonstrated.

‘Even so.’ And Rose disappeared through the doorway.

Always doing something, thought Lara. It was quite exhausting, just watching her. Why did Rose work so hard? Of course, there was the masseria; there were the guests, the cleaning and cooking that was demanded of her. But it was more than that. Lara’s gaze drifted out towards the garden once again. It was almost as if her daughter was forever trying to atone . . . But for what, she couldn’t imagine.

Lara supposed that when Rose was young, she had rather let her go her own way. It was a reaction, she knew, to what she, Lara, had gone through. Not her childhood – no, that had been happy enough – but after her mother’s death, that was when it had begun. Lara had been obliged to fight for her freedom and so she knew more than most that freedom was a precious gift – and the gift she’d always wanted to give her beloved daughter.

She knew that others – not least her own husband – had sometimes doubted the wisdom of her liberal parenting. She’d caught the occasional frown from Eleanora or one of the other family members that seemed to forever fill the Romano home on the other side of the olive grove. They would speak, too, in a fast Italian that Lara had not yet got to grips with back then. Not unkindly, for the Romano family were far from unkind; they had welcomed Lara into their midst without question; they had always tried to make her feel as if she belonged. But sometimes, Lara had sensed their disapproval. The way that Lara brought up her daughter . . . it was not the Italian way, and so, for them, it was certainly not the right way.

Lara was determined, though, that Rose should not have a strict upbringing. She wanted Rose to feel unburdened by rules, free to experiment (at least, up to a point – she didn’t want her to get into trouble, naturally). Lara trusted her daughter, as a young girl, as a teenager, to choose the right pathways. More than anything, Lara wanted her to be free to climb and ramble, just like the wild rose in the Dorset walled garden after which she had been named.

Lara closed her eyes. Allora. There had been that time when Rose was a teenager, but their daughter had come through that and probably learnt from it too. She pushed a memory away. There were so many memories cascading through her mind now that she was old – some good, some bad. They appeared, they disappeared; there wasn’t room for them all these days, something had to go. But in the end . . . Lara hoped she did not have too much to reproach herself for. Rose was married – happily, she was sure – to Federico Romano no less, which was so much more than Lara and all the rest of the two families had dared to hope for. There had been undeniable losses – but then there was Beatrice.

‘Here you are, Mamma.’

Lara opened her eyes and looked up in surprise. She hadn’t heard Rose come out again, so deep in thought had she been. Or was she sleeping? She really wasn’t sure.

‘Thank you, darling.’ She took the juice with a trembling hand.

‘Are you feeling okay, Mamma?’ Rose looked concerned. She placed a hand on Lara’s forehead.

‘I’m perfectly well.’ Lara put down the juice, the glass rattling ominously on the tiled tabletop for a moment before it found its balance. She took Rose’s hand from her brow and held it. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, Rose?’ She searched her daughter’s face for the clue she needed.

Rose’s expression moved so speedily to a reassuring smile that if Lara had blinked, she would have missed it. She didn’t blink, though, and so she saw it – a deep sadness in her daughter’s eyes that shocked her.

‘Rose?’ she whispered.

‘What a question! Certo. Of course I am.’ Rose moved the footstool (was that a chance for her to look away?) and gently lifted Lara’s feet so that they rested on it.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sì . . .’ Rose laughed. ‘Honestly, Mamma . . . What has brought this on? Too much sun?’

Lara shook her head. Though sometimes the sun could help you see. ‘I’m here, you know,’ she said.

‘Here?’

‘If you ever need to talk.’

‘Oh, Mamma.’ Rose had already moved to one side. Now she was examining the leaves of the lemon tree just in front of the terrace, checking for pests, no doubt. In the last few years, Bea had begun a tradition of planting a trough of strawberries and pots of peppers and tomatoes alongside, so that the fruits were all handy for picking – no need for a greenhouse here. And for Lara, more than any ornate fountain, piece of statuary or line of cypress trees, it was the simple lemon planted in an old clay pot that most symbolised the Italian garden.

‘I may be old,’ Lara said. No one could argue with that. ‘But I can still listen, you know. Perhaps even help – if you needed me to.’ I am still your mother, she wanted to say, even though it is now you that is nurturing me.

‘Help?’ Rose glanced back at her. She looked fond and affectionate but not as if she needed help. She was, she had always been, very capable. Nevertheless. Lara was certainly old and canny enough to have learnt to look below the surface now and again.

‘With anything that’s bothering you,’ she clarified. Because she knew she hadn’t mistaken that look of sadness. Was it the old loss that her daughter still mourned? Or was it more than that?

‘I am fine.’ Rose took some scissors out of her pocket and snipped off an offending leaf. ‘There is nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Please do not worry so much, Mamma.’

Do not worry so much. Lara sipped the cool orange juice. If only. This knowledge that there wasn’t long left had taken up residence in her mind and she knew she must pay attention to it. She must find out what was making her daughter sad. And she must decide what to do about Dorset, about the house and the walled garden. And only then, she realised, could she be at peace.

CHAPTER 2

Bea

Italy, March 2018

Bea was working in a garden in Ostuni, a city whose tumble of whitewashed buildings rose high on a hill above the sea of olive trees in the Valle d’Itria. The clients were kind and pleasant and, even better, had given Bea free rein to design the garden she wanted to design – with certain provisos, of course.

Everyone had provisos and it was her job to establish the clients’ needs and desires first off, even when they didn’t themselves know what those needs and desires might be. Especially then. Even so . . . it was the best thing, Bea reflected, when a client trusted you to do the job.

She paused to survey the landscaping. The garden was long and rectangular and she’d broken it into connecting pockets, using the plants to define the spaces. Stone paths led to two long, scented pergolas draped with honeysuckle and orange trumpet vines to provide privacy and create shady, welcoming and sensuous areas for outdoor seating. The pathways would give a sense of journey as they drew the garden walker around the rest of the space, with smaller pebbled paths of light and dark stones leading to the central parterre of box hedging and the stone pool and fountain. Most Italians adored proportion and symmetry, but there was room within la ligne for artful invention, for history and for emotion – in Bea’s opinion at least. Traditionally, the Italian garden was never merely a grouping of plants; it was a pool of ideas reaching beyond its boundaries into a realm of philosophy, myth or poetry – if that wasn’t too fanciful a notion, she thought to herself. And here, Bea intended to be sensitive to the surrounding landscape. Ostuni was a labyrinthine city and she wanted this garden to reflect that quality.

A terrace of cool pale stone stretched the full width of the villa; this Bea had decorated simply with terracotta pots crammed with geraniums, fragrant bay and a lemon tree. Wooden trellising supported dark pink bougainvillea, which would climb up the white walls with a splash of vibrancy intended to give impact to the back of the villa. Stone steps led down from the terrace past a prickly pear and a walnut tree and these added a little trick of perspective and invited exploration – she hoped.

The white city of Ostuni, known as La Città Bianca, with its tangled alleyways, steep staircases and crumbling arches, was also a coastal town, being only eight kilometres from the ­Adriatic Sea, and so she had kept the colour palette of her planting bold and simple. The complexity of the garden was provided by the symmetrical pathways, the neat box hedging at its best when viewed from the terrace or back windows of the house, and the mosaicked stone. And the history lay in the small half-­hidden grotto and the stone pool and fountain – these being the only structures that had existed in the overgrown garden when she began. The fountain especially had taken a lot of work, but it was a vital element; the cascading water brought music to the garden after all.

This was her final week and Bea was working alone, though she had employed some labour for the earlier and heavier jobs. Now, she was adding some finishing touches – training her climbers, clipping back the geometrical box hedges, laying more gravel, planting up the rest of her pots and urns. Making it as perfect as it could be. Imagining how it would be used, exactly how it would make people feel.

‘Beatrice? Could you come up to the house for a moment, per favore?’ Signora Milella’s voice from the direction of the terrace interrupted Bea’s daydream.

Bea’s mother always said that she didn’t know how her daughter got any work done, she spent so much time with her head in the clouds. Nonna, though . . . Bea smiled fondly at the thought of her beloved grandmother who sadly was now so frail. She understood that sometimes it was the dreaming that got the best things done.

‘Sì. Certo. I’m on my way, signora,’ she called back.

Some last-­minute change of mind perhaps? Bea got to her feet from where she had been kneeling at the base of the pergola. She brushed some loose earth from her jeans and pulled off her gardening gloves as she made her way up to the house. Or perhaps the signora had made her a cool drink – she could do with one, it was surprisingly hot for March. Bea fanned her face with her gloves as she reached the steps leading up to the terrace. She would have to water the plants in extra carefully if they were to take quickly to their new surroundings here.

Signora Milella was waiting for her on the terrace. She took in the sight of Bea’s muddy boots. ‘Let’s chat out here.’ She waved at some people in the house. ‘Come through,’ she called to them. ‘Come and meet Beatrice and see what she has done for us.’

Bea’s heart sank. She wasn’t unsociable, but she was working and she didn’t relish small talk. Her father was fond of pointing out that it wasn’t very Italian of her and this was certainly true. It must come from your mother’s side of the family, he’d say, rolling his eyes good-­naturedly. He was only teasing. He adored Bea’s mother and anyway, Rose was sociable enough; it was Bea who was the ‘quiet flower’ as Nonna called her, the solitary one of the family.

The signora bustled over to the door, speaking to the three people standing on the threshold. According to Bea’s grandmother, Bea had always been the same. Nonna had told her she used to play alone for hours with her toy animals and, later, Nonna would find them in her garden – elephants, giraffes and the rest, who had kept Bea happily occupied all morning with whatever activities and stories she had conjured up for them. Now it was plants, she supposed. But, she reminded herself sternly, she had a business to run and this kind of networking was a vital part of it.

The older couple were accompanied by a younger man who was about her age and rather attractive. Bea quickly glanced away. If only she wasn’t looking quite so, well, earthy. And were there sweat marks from her armpits visible on her faded T-­shirt? She kept her hands stuck firmly to her sides just in case.

‘Meet Beatrice Romano,’ Signora Milella said to the couple. ‘Our garden designer.’ She smiled. ‘Bea, I am happy to introduce you to my good friends Signore and Signora Leone.’

Bea returned the smile. But she wasn’t yet accustomed to being called a garden designer. Had she earned the title? She wasn’t entirely sure. ‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ she said.

‘The pleasure – it is ours.’ The signora gave a little nod but her eyes were appraising.

‘Grazie.’ Although it was nice of Signora Milella to want to show off her garden and Bea’s talents, this was the part of the job that made her feel uncomfortable. Secretly, she’d rather like to get on with her planting – after that cool drink, that was.

‘Prego.’ Signora Leone gestured proudly to the young man beside them. ‘And this is our son Matteo.’

Bea turned towards him. It would certainly be rude not to return eye contact.

‘Ciao.’ He stepped closer and, to her surprise, kissed her on both cheeks, a greeting usually reserved for those who might have met at least a few times before. Bea felt the stubble from his jaw slightly graze her skin. He smelt of agrume, of citrus and cedarwood. His hair was thick and dark, his eyes a rather shocking navy blue. His smile was confident and his look was direct – friendly, maybe even a bit more than friendly.

‘Ciao.’ She kept her voice casual. He was quite something. But men like this one, allora . . . In Bea’s limited experience they were usually best avoided.

He touched her arm. More physical contact . . . ‘It looks amazing.’ And he finally stopped staring at her for long enough to allow his gaze to scan the garden and presumably ensure that his compliment was justified.

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Grazie mille.’ She glanced across at the view of the landscape beyond the garden. It was impressive. The house was situated near to the ornate Ostuni Palace, on the higher reaches of Corso Vittorio Emanuelle, which ran around the perimeter of the old town, and so this terrace overlooked the centro storico, clusters of pine trees and hazy olive groves beyond merging into a wide strip of sea on the horizon. From here, Bea could easily make out the white and pinky-­beige profile of the fifteenth-­century Gothic cathedral standing serenely at the peak of the white city, the gentle blue sky above. And she hoped she’d made this garden special too – to make ‘practical logic meet beauty’ as one of her tutors used to put it; the aim of any fine Italian garden.

‘You have done a brilliant job. Has she not, Mamma?’

His mother was smiling at him fondly. ‘Sì,’ she agreed. ‘She has indeed.’

Was Matteo an only child too? Bea wondered. She suspected so. Bea would have liked siblings for companionship, for sharing, even to take the parental pressure off from time to time because when she was younger her mother had always wanted to be in full control of her daughter’s life . . . But the brother that she might have had was taken from her parents at birth, and Bea suspected that her mother couldn’t bear to take the chance on having another child. She couldn’t blame her. It must have been heartbreaking.

Signora Leone looked to her husband who gave a little nod.

‘And so,’ she said to Bea. ‘Are you very busy right now?’

‘Allora . . .’ Bea realised that she was still clutching her gardening gloves as if for protection. Really . . . She should have at least put them down when she greeted these people. ‘I have a few small projects in hand,’ she said. ‘But nothing major.’

‘Bene.’ The signora beamed. ‘And you are finishing here soon, is that so?’ She looked from Bea to Signora Milella for confirmation.

‘Yes, yes,’ the signora reassured her friend. ‘Though Bea will be coming back to keep an eye on things. Right, Bea?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ This garden – like every garden she worked on – felt like her baby. Bea wanted to continue nurturing it and watching it grow.

‘But not every day?’ Signora Leone asked.

‘No.’ Bea shook her head. ‘Not every day. Otherwise, as I said, I have a few other clients, some ongoing jobs . . .’ It sounded as if the signora had something big in mind, and Bea was still building up her business, so of course she would accept – but not too eagerly.

After she’d completed her degree, Bea had done some work experience at various public gardens in the areas of Bari and Lecce in Puglia. After that, she’d worked for another company based in Brindisi, labouring, planting and fulfilling someone else’s designs. Then eventually, when she’d felt ready, she’d set up her own business, Giardini di Beatrice Romano -­ Beatrice Romano’s Gardens. She still lived at home, so her expenses were low; she’d managed to procure a small bank loan and her parents had helped out with some savings. Their family had never been wealthy, but the olive farm did well enough and Bea’s father had always taken on extra building work to help them get by and afford the occasional luxury. Since the masseria had opened its doors to visitors, with the farm stays, they had done better still and her parents had been able to set some money aside to help Bea with her plans.

It was early days. Things were going well so far, but a new client would be more than welcome.

‘I will get us some drinks.’ Signora Milella smiled graciously as she left the terrace for la cucina.

‘We live in Polignano a Mare.’ Signora Leone took Bea’s arm and spoke quietly, confidentially.

‘Yes, I know it well.’ It was an upmarket and charming town on the Adriatic coast, a cluster of whitewashed buildings built on limestone cliffs overlooking the turquoise waters and sea caves and only half an hour’s drive or so from Bea’s own home near Locorotondo in the Valle d’Itria.

‘We run a restaurant there,’ the signora added. ‘Our terrace is a little . . .’ – she grimaced – ‘. . . tired, and we want a revamp, a new concept for the coming season. Perhaps you would come round and see it?’

They weren’t giving her much time if they wanted something for the season which was already almost upon them, thought Bea. Over her shoulder, she saw Matteo grinning. He gave her a thumbs up and she couldn’t help smiling back at him. He was quite a charmer.

‘Certo,’ she said. A job was a job and she would check it out first before she told them how much or how little she would be able to achieve in a few months. ‘When would be convenient? Next week perhaps?’

They fixed a date and Bea was glad to see Signora Milella returning with a tray of homemade lemonade.

After her drink and as soon as it felt polite to do so, Bea asked them to excuse her. She wanted to get back to work. They were all pleasant enough, but there was so much more she had to do in the garden in a relatively short time and she wanted to get on.

For the next half hour, she continued working on her pergolas, training the vines to achieve the effect of a simple and casual drape of flowers and leaves that actually took a lot of effort to achieve. The honeysuckle was already blooming, the blossoms frothing cream, yellow and pink and scenting her fingers as she teased and persuaded their vines to do what she required.

Bea only felt truly herself when she was designing a garden or, better still, in it, walking around to survey the mood of the place, digging the soil, tending to plants, weeding or snipping or trailing. Her back and shoulders sometimes complained – she often took a hot bath in the evenings and she kept up with her daily stretching and yoga, aware that she hadn’t chosen the easiest of career paths.

But the rewards more than made up for it. To be outside, in the fresh air, in the elements. To hear birdsong and to feel at one with nature. To nurture plants and watch them grow, to witness a garden coming to life, changing with the seasons and evolving into a relaxing space, a tranquil space, a liberating and healing space – indeed, whatever kind of space was required. A garden was a living being full of the living beings that made it their home – birds, animals, insects, yes, and humans too – and a garden could make you feel alive. These thoughts and sensations, these daily joys, made every ache and pain worthwhile.

Bea twined the last of the honeysuckle around the ­pergola and checked the trumpet vine. She had chosen Campsis ­grandiflora because although it was vigorous and would be flowering by mid-­May, it was not as invasive as some of its cousins. This variety would provide a vivid sunset-­orange spectacle of blooms with golden-­yellow throats which would mingle with and take over seamlessly from the honeysuckle. And when the orange trumpets stopped growing, there would be pretty seed pods to ensure that the pergola’s interest went on.

By her feet were some pots of thyme, which she’d been pushing in between the gaps of the path so that it would scramble over the stone, blur the hard edges and be crushed by footsteps which would send its scent wafting into the air. Bea breathed in deeply, relishing the lemony fragrance.

She had been inspired to study horticulture by her grandmother. Not just by the Italian garden that Nonna had created which had been Bea’s playground as a young girl, but also by Nonna’s stories about another garden, a garden in Dorset, ­England, where Nonna had lived as a child. Bea had loved to listen to her grandmother spinning her stories about that g