Chapters (75)
- Cover
- Back Cover Text
- Praise
- Booklist
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Quote
- Prologue
- Part One
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- Part Two
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- Part Three
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- Part Four
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- Part Five
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- Part Six
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- Part Seven
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- Part Eight
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- Part Nine
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- Part Ten
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- Part Eleven
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- Part Twelve
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- Part Thirteen
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- AUTHOR NOTE
- Reader’s Guide
- Questions for Discussion
- The Heirloom Garden
- Abby
“But you were just on the ground playing with your friends,” I say. “Ring-around-the-rosy.”
Mary puts her hands on her hips.
“Mrs. Roosevelt has a victory garden,” I say.
She looks at me and stands even taller, hooking her thumbs behind the straps of her overalls, which are just like mine.
“I don’t want to get dirty,” she says again.
“Don’t you want to do it for your father?” I ask. “He’s at war, keeping us safe. This victory garden is helping to feed our neighbors.”
Mary leans toward me, her eyes blazing. “War is dumb.” She stops. “Gardens are dumb.” She stops. I know she wants to say something she will regret, but she is considering her options. Then she glares at me and yells, “Fat head!”
Before I can react, Mary takes off, sprinting across the lot, jumping over plants as if she’s a hurdler. “Mary!” I yell. “Come back here!”
“She’s a handful,” Shirley clucks. “Reminds me of someone.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
Mary rejoins her friends, jumping back into the circle to play ring-around-the-rosy, turning around to look at me on occasion, her violet eyes already filled with remorse.
Ring around the rosy.
A pocket full of posies.
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
“I hate that game,” I say to Shirley. “It’s about the plague.”
I return to hoeing, lost in the dirt, moving in sync with my army of gardeners, when I hear, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
I look up, and Mary is before me, her cheeks quivering, lashes wet, fat tears vibrating in the rims of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to call you a fat head. I didn’t mean to get into a rhubarb with you.”
Fat head. Rhubarb. Where is she picking up this language already?
From behind her back, she produces another bouquet of dandelions that have gone to seed.
“I accept your apology,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Make a wish,” she says.
I shut my eyes and blow. As I inhale, the scent of my Jonathan Rose fills my senses. When I open my eyes, I see our minister approaching, a man beside him, both of their faces solemn.
“Iris,” our minister says softly.
“Ma’am,” the other man says, holding out a Western Union telegram.
The world begins to spin.
Mrs. Maynard,
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regrets that your husband, First Lieutenant Jonathan Maynard, has been killed...
The last thing I see before I fall to the ground are a million white puffs of dandelion floating in the air, the wind carrying them toward heaven.
Abby
May 2003
“This is the house I was telling you about.”
I twist and look out of the open car window. A smile overtakes my face as soon as I see a rambling bungalow with a wide front porch. A warm summer breeze shakes the porch swing before making the American flag on a corner pillar flap.