They have an enormous garden, flowers in rows and bunches, and wide borders. Daffodils. Tulips. Irises. Peonies. Lilies. Ranunculus. Hydrangea. Stephanotis. Sweet peas. Foxgloves. Wildflowers. Sunflowers. Delphinium. Gladiolas. Hyacinth. And rows and rows of roses: Claude Monet rose, Lady Diana, Raspberry Swirl, Blue Moon, Painted Moon, Twiggy’s Rose, Cinnamon Dolce, Marilyn Monroe, George Burns, Cary Grant, on and on.

They also have a huge greenhouse, where they grow many flowers, and vegetable starts, and an impressive collection of orchids with names like Miltonia, Laelia, Slipper, and Aerides.

In summer and fall, Rose Bloom Cottage is near covered in climbing roses drooping over arbors and arches and trellises, roses that their mother almost frenetically planted in her quest to create a “fairy-tale rose castle.” Every year, for months, it’s like having pink, red, and white blooming magic swirling all over the house.

“Hello, honey.” My mom, Poppy, stood up and hugged me. “I think you need some daisies in your life.” She touched my nose. I knew that she knew I’d had a premonition and saved the girl. Hence, the daisy comment, which is her way of saying, “Let’s get you into a bubble bath with a mongo-sized glass of wine and a piece of pie so your brain doesn’t flame out and explode again as it has in the past, and I love you!”

My aunt Camellia said, bent over the stove and stirring soup, “I’m making you tomato soup.” Which in code meant, “Tomato soup will calm your nerves from what happened today with the truck and boost your inner soul’s desire to be serene.”

My aunt Iris said, “Hello, Evie. How was your day at the bookstore? Did you tell anyone off with that temper of yours?” Which meant, “Let’s not get sappy, it’s so irritating.”

“The bookstore was crowded. No, I didn’t tell anyone off today. I resisted.” Now and then I can get a little heated at my bookstore with customers. Especially if someone says, “I don’t read.” I get irritated thinking about that comment. You don’t read? Then what do you do? How do you live without books, you fool?

“You did not tell anyone, ‘Only stupid people don’t read’?” my mother asked.

I felt my brow furrow. Sometimes I swear my mother reads my mind. “No. No stupid comments.”

“So you created a Zen-like atmosphere,” Aunt Camellia said, waving her arms around. “Peaceful.”

“Yes. Zen-like,” I said.

“You didn’t draw blood,” Aunt Iris drawled, drinking a beer. “We’re proud of you. Violence isn’t the answer most of the time. Especially around books.”

“I always say no to violence around books.”

My mother and Aunt Camellia and Aunt Iris are in their seventies. They have all let their hair grow white, and it is stunning. It used to be blonde. They all have dark brown eyes, like chocolate, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

Aunt Iris is the oldest. She’s about five ten and sturdy, with high model-like cheekbones. Her white hair has a short and sensible cut.