CHAPTER 1

THE honeyed, floral scent of sun-drenched zinnias curled into the air from the half-barrel planters in front of the Poppyville Library. It was subtle, likely unnoticed by most passersby, but tantalized my senses with possibility. Distilled to its essence, the fragrance would deepen, become richer and multilayered. Inhaling deeply, I paused to consider how I might use it in a custom perfume. My corgi, Dash, immediately plopped down on the walkway, watching me. His foxy ears swiveled, and his head tipped to one side as if he was wondering what I was up to now.

Scarlet zinnias for constancy. White zinnias for goodness.

In the Victorian language of flowers, the dark, bird’s-foot ivy that spilled around the edges of the barrels represented fidelity and friendship. In combination with the zinnias, the planters sent good vibes all the way down the block.

My stomach growled. Glancing up, I saw the enormous round clock at the top of the library building read nearly one o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Dash and I had already stopped by the stables at the other end of town to drop off a big bottle of lemon eucalyptus insect repellent. The black flies were biting in August, and Gessie King preferred to use the essential oil blend I’d developed rather than commercial chemicals to protect her horses. Then we’d picked up Dash’s favorite peanut butter treats at Doggone Gourmet. Finally, I’d snagged two bags of hazelnut-shell mulch and a rosemary topiary from my friend Thea Nelson at Terra Green Nursery. Those were the last items I needed to add to my gardens before the photo shoot the next day.

Photo shoot.

I wanted everything to be perfect when Blake Sontag came to interview me for his piece in Conscience Magazine on the tiny house movement and small-scale, green living. Of course, nothing is ever perfect. But after spending every spare moment of the last three days cleaning and organizing, planting and deadheading, I felt confident my tiny house and the elaborate garden between it and my store would make a good showing.

Now, if only I could say the same about myself. The whole idea of being featured in a magazine article made me quake in my muck boots every time I thought about it.

Remember to mention Scents & Nonsense a few times—but don’t be too obvious.

The women’s business group I belonged to, the Greenstockings, had emphasized that in the flurry of e-mails that erupted after I’d told them about the interview. Unfortunately, Sontag’s assistant hadn’t expressed interest in my custom perfume shop when she’d contacted me, but it was sure to come up. The other Greenstockings had also urged me to publicize their businesses if the opportunity arose. Our charming little town buttered its bread with tourism, so naturally we wanted to get the word out about it any way we could.

Ha. As if I’ll be thinking straight enough to remember all the things they told me.

I’d be lucky if I didn’t pass out.

Shaking my head, I pushed into the library and breezed over to the online catalog with a brisk sense of purpose. My nose filled with the age-old aroma of ink on paper, flavored with a metallic soupçon of modern electricity and a hint of Pine-Sol. Dash trotted at my heel, his corgi eyes bright. He’d just had a treat, but there were always more behind the checkout counter, so he kept right on going when I sat down at the keyboard.

“Hello, Dash,” I heard Maria Canto say. “Sit. Good boy.” And then the sound of a dog cookie crunching between his teeth.

“Ellie,” she said, and I looked up.

“Hey! Sorry I’m in such a hurry. Have to get back to the shop. Maggie’s there, but she has to get to the Roux soon.” My part-time employee also tended bar at the Roux Grill, the restaurant I’d owned with my husband until I’d discovered him shtupping Wanda Simmons in the walk-in cooler. Then he’d become my ex-husband. More than a year later he still managed to be a pain in the backside, though.

“Dios mío.” Maria raised her eyes toward the ceiling in exaggerated supplication. “Always so busy. Still, I had a feeling you might come in today. I set aside a few things for you.”

I hesitated, but only for a second. The book on botanical drawing I wanted could wait. I jumped up and joined Dash in front of the counter.

Maria perched on a tall stool. A crocheted headband in the same eye-popping lime green as her blouse held a wave of luscious black hair away from her face. Nearly as height-challenged as I was and comfortably padded, the librarian exuded calm and the scent of orange blossoms. I instantly felt my blood pressure drop a few points. She scanned my face with quick, intelligent eyes and reached beneath the counter. Retrieving a selection of magazines and books, she slid them across to me.

One book was a guide to preparing for an interview, and the other was on how to interview someone else. The periodicals were mostly back issues of Conscience. There were also a couple of issues of architectural magazines that showcased tiny houses.

But Maria wasn’t a member of the Greenstockings, and I hadn’t told her about Sontag’s article. A smile broke out on my face.

“You know, Astrid would say this is evidence of your superpower,” I said. Astrid Moneypenny was my best friend.

Maria’s eyes widened. “My what?”

“We were talking about how so many of our friends seems to have unique, er, gifts.”

She nodded knowingly. “Like your sense of smell.”

I shrugged. “I guess. Or how Gessie can calm a horse with a simple touch.”

“Astrid has her own way with animals,” Maria pointed out. “Doc Ericcson says she usually knows right away what’s wrong with the pets that people bring into the vet clinic, before the owners say a single word.”

“Right. And you have the uncanny ability to know exactly what book someone might need.” I leaned forward.

She matched my conspiratorial gesture until our heads were nearly touching.

“How do you do it?” I asked in a low voice.

Though in truth, if she’d asked me the same question about my olfactory skills, I’d have been hard-pressed to explain. I’d always had a fine-honed, even freakish sense of smell, which was linked to a weirdly empathic ability to sense what aromas might benefit another person—sometimes physically, sometimes mentally, and sometimes simply by tapping into memories via the oldest and most primitive sense humans possessed. I’d taken my talent for granted most of my life. Then, more than a year ago, I’d divorced Harris, sold him my half of the Roux Grill, and opened my dream business. In the course of getting Scents & Nonsense up and running, I’d realized I had a real gift, one that could change someone’s day if not their life, and that I loved using it to help people. My custom perfume and aromatherapy shop had blossomed as a result.

There was more to my gift than I’d realized, however. A few months later, an encounter with a mind-bending plant oil had revealed hidden memories of my mother and grandmother, both of whom had passed away when I was a child. As a result, I was only beginning to explore the depths of my true connection to plants, their essences, and the ancient language of flowers.

Maria leaned even closer, her eyes darting around the library as if to see whether anyone was listening. “You really want to know my secret?”

Catching my breath, I nodded.

She spoke in a low voice. “Cynthia Beck came in to return some books this morning and told me all about the journalist from Conscience”—she pointed at the stack of magazines—“who’s coming to do the piece on your tiny house.” She straightened and sat back on her stool with a grin. “I thought you might want to bone up, if you haven’t already. The interview’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

I laughed. Cynthia Beck had started the Greenstockings a few years before. The other members were Thea, Gessie, Astrid, and myself, though other local businesswomen sometimes attended our meetings.

“Small-town gossip wins again,” I said. “I can’t believe Blake Sontag is coming all the way back to Poppyville to talk to me about my little house. I bet he hasn’t been back more than half a dozen times since he left for Princeton years ago.”

Not that I’d necessarily know if he’d visited his hometown. Poppyville was small, but not that small. However, Blake was a local boy who’d made good, and the rumor mill was always in fine working order.

A half smile lifted Maria’s lips. “Cynthia seems to think he might be coming back to see her, as well as doing the article on you.”

I blinked. “Oh?”

“You didn’t know? That’s how he found out about your house.”

“She told him? I wonder why she didn’t mention that at our last meeting. I thought maybe his sister had told him.”

Maria quirked an eyebrow. “So you know the family? I moved here after Blake had already left to start his career as a big environmental journalist, so I only know Joyous.” She gave a little snort before her hand flew to cover her mouth. She couldn’t keep the laughter out of her eyes, though.

A smile tugged at my own lips. Joyous Sontag was one of the most militantly unhappy people I’d ever encountered. Like nicknaming a big lunk of a guy “Tiny,” it was as if the elder Sontags had taken one look at their pinch-faced daughter and chosen irony over accuracy.

I shrugged. “Sort of. Joyous was a year ahead of me in school, but Mr. and Mrs. Sontag were friends of my dad and stepmother back in the day. Then they moved to Arizona, and Dad and Wynn moved to Florida. I wonder if they’re still in touch.”

“What about Blake?” she asked. “Were you friends?”

“Not really. He’s four years older than me, which is a lot in high school.” I paused. “Huh. I bet Ritter knew him. I’ll have to ask him next time I talk to him.” Which had better be sooner rather than later.

Ritter Nelson was my boyfriend. Of the long-distance variety, unfortunately. When he’d come back to town to stay with Thea a few months before, the old crush I’d had on her older brother as a teenager flared like a rocket. Lucky me, it turned out he felt the same way. Unlucky me, he’d left a month ago to resume his botanical research project in the Alaskan tundra.

A six-month project.

We’d known it was coming, and tried to keep things as casual as possible. It hadn’t worked. The night before he left, he told me he was torn about leaving. He’d actually considered dropping out of the research team and staying in Poppyville. But I knew how much he loved his work and urged him to go. No way could I be responsible for him giving it up.

I knew that his team would be using an expensive satellite connection for phone and Internet, and personal time on it would be very limited. We’d spoken on our cell phones a lot as the group prepared in Fairbanks for the trek up to the research site by the Beaufort Sea, but in the last two weeks they’d been setting up in the wild, and I hadn’t heard a single word from Alaska. Not a call, not an e-mail, nada.

My stomach twisted, and I pushed the thought away.

Maria hadn’t noticed my distraction. Her forefinger trailed along one of the magazine covers. “Blake has certainly made a name for himself. National Geographic, Esquire. Not bad for someone who focuses on the environment.”

I handed her my library card. “Maybe I should ask Cynthia for the skinny, so I know what to expect.”

“All I know is that she and Blake were engaged for a brief time and have remained on what she called ‘friendly’ terms.” Maria’s eyes danced again.

I was surprised, but only mildly. Cynthia went through husbands like her employees at Foxy Locksies Hair Studio went through shampoo. Two so far, and she was shopping for a third. That she might have had a few spare fiancés didn’t stretch the imagination much.

The door opened and a mother led two preschoolers in. I scooped up the books and magazines and turned to go. “Thanks, Maria.”

“Hang on,” she said. “I put this aside for you, too.” She handed me a book on botanical drawing.

I stared at it, then up at her. Her mouth curved up in a slow smile.

“This is why I stopped by in the first place,” I said. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I had a feeling.”

•   •   •

DASH and I stepped onto the covered boardwalk, which ran in front of many of the businesses on Poppyville’s six-block-long main drag. My footsteps echoed hollowly on the worn planks, reminiscent of the Old West sounds of the California gold rush that had formed the town in the 1840s. Within moments we’d reached my old, battered Wrangler.

“Come on, big guy.” I boosted Dash into the passenger seat and went around the back to the driver’s side. As I stepped out to the street, a squeal pierced the air. My head jerked up, and I whirled to see an SUV headed straight for me.

Big. Black.

And coming way too fast.

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. Dash barked, frantic and loud, teeth bared. For a split second, a distant sliver of my brain hoped he wouldn’t follow his canine instinct to herd the monstrous chunk of metal away from me. Then the roar of the engine blocked out all sound and thoughts.

Including my common sense. At the last moment, I leaped back between my vehicle and the one next to it. Pain jabbed through my knee where I’d banged it on the fender. Tires screeched by on the pavement, and the driver honked.

Honked. At me.

My hand flew up, middle finger extended. The windows were tinted, but I caught a flash of light hair and dark, wraparound sunglasses in the passenger-side mirror before the Cadillac—it was an Escalade, I saw now—raced through the empty crosswalk leading to the playground in Raven Creek Park and veered onto the winding road that led south of town. It had a California plate, and I made out a six and a five in the number. It wasn’t a vehicle I’d seen around town, though.

Tourists.

“That’s the kind of visitor we can definitely do without,” I said to Dash, my voice quavering from the flood of adrenaline. He gazed in the direction of River Road with worried eyes.

Rubbing my knee with a shaking hand, I frowned. There was only one stoplight on Corona Street, and that was at the other end where it intersected the county road that went out to the highway. The speed limit downtown was a tame twenty miles an hour, and hatched crosswalks guided the frequent foot traffic from corner to corner. The Cadillac would have picked off at least a few of the milling pedestrians if it had barreled down the entire length of Corona like that. Luckily, it had turned onto the main drag less than a block away. Amazing how it had picked up so much speed so quickly.

I could have died.

The thought popped unbidden into my mind. With a deep breath, I shook it off, hauled my four-foot-ten frame behind the wheel of the Wrangler, and started the engine.

Scents & Nonsense was at the very end of Corona, just before the park with its fitness trail, picnic areas, river access, and playground. I parked in the lot across the street so as not to take up one of the spaces in front of the boardwalk and reached into the back for the bags of hazelnut mulch. Over the seat back, I saw an old Volkswagen Westfalia camping van complete with a pop-up top parked in front of Flyrite Kites next door to my shop. It reminded me of the one my brother, Colby, drove.

Thinking of Colby—who was actually my half brother—made me smile. We were closer to each other than either of us was to my half sister, Darcy. Still, I hadn’t seen him much after he’d ditched his degree in economics and the world of high finance to take to the open road at the age of twenty-three. He’d found his bliss wandering from town to town across the United States, supporting himself with odd jobs and custom woodworking. Three years later, we stayed in touch mostly by e-mail, text, and frequent phone calls. It was high time he planned a visit home.

The thought had no more flitted through my brain than I saw the bumper stickers on the van. The THIS IS HOW I ROLL decal was right next to a stylized picture of a phoenix with POPPYVILLE SUNBIRDS underneath.

The van didn’t just look like his. It was his. Colby was back!

I dropped the mulch and jumped out of the Wrangler. Dash at my heel, I ran across the street to my shop, flung the door open, and stood on the threshold with a grin so big it almost hurt.

My brother turned from where he was standing in front of the register, a devilish grin spreading across his sweet face. “Surprise.”

I launched myself at him. He caught me in a warm bear hug, lifting me easily off the floor and swinging me around. Dash ran in excited circles, while Nabokov hissed feline disapproval of such antics from the windowsill.

“Careful of that candle display, you two,” Maggie Clement admonished with a happy smile. She was well padded, pushing sixty, and mothered everyone around her. “I’d hate to see your family reunion break the merchandise.”

Colby set me down but kept his hands on my shoulders. “Hey, you. I probably should have called first, but I wanted to surprise you.” His eyes flashed beneath the brim of his baseball cap. A fringe of dark hair poked out around his ears.

“Hey, yourself.” He smelled of wood shavings and peppermint. I reached up and jabbed at his brown beard. “What’s this thing?”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course that’s the first thing you’d notice.” He stepped back, and it registered for the first time that he had a companion. “This is part of my surprise. Ellie, meet Larken Meadows. Larken, this is my weirdo big sis, Elliana Allbright, aka Ellie.”

I felt myself color. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. It’s just that I haven’t seen Colby for such a long time, and this is so unexpected . . .” I trailed off.

Her serious gaze met mine, hazel eyes flecked with gold and framed by long lashes. She smelled of tender new shoots of green and rich soil warmed by sunshine. Her hair was the color of peanut butter, long and straight and parted in the middle. Her tanned skin was flawless without any hint of makeup. She looked at me for a few beats—probing, assessing—before a brilliant, crooked grin bloomed on her face, creating an off-center dimple and revealing a slight overbite.

“Hi, Ellie. Nice to meet you. Colby’s told me a lot about you.”

Her sudden smile was so contagious that I felt my own grin widening. But when I spoke, I sounded like I was just learning to speak English. “I, uh, nice to meet you, too.”

Colby laughed and leaned toward Larken. “She doesn’t know how to say that I never told her about you.”

“Stop that,” I protested, and held out a hand to Larken. “Welcome to Poppyville. I’m only sorry that you had to make your first visit with my very rude brother here.”

“I’m not,” she said, and the look she gave Colby was so adoring I almost didn’t take it seriously. But she was earnest, very earnest. I had a feeling gravitas was Larken’s default mode. However, I sensed it came from being grounded, not staid, from a position of quiet dignity rather than sternness.

God knew she’d have no luck being stern with my brother. And grounded? He could definitely use some of that in his life.

“Maggie here was saying you have a big interview tomorrow,” Colby said, ambling over to the coffee urn. He helped himself to a cup of dark roast and one of the lavender shortbread cookies Astrid had brought over that morning.

“Oh, no. Oh, Colby, Larken, I’m so sorry! He’s going to be here at nine in the morning, and there’s going to be a photographer, and my house is so little, and—”

He held up his hand. “Relax. I might be your rude little brother, but I never intended to impose on your hospitality like that.”

“Are you staying in the van?” I asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

Larken laughed, a lovely sparkling sound. “Believe me, we’ve spent plenty of time in that van. And I love it!” she added pointedly as she took the steaming mug Colby offered her. “But we’re indulging ourselves and staying at the Hotel California.”

My shoulders relaxed. “Nice! How long will you be in town?”

The two lovebirds exchanged a significant look. Finally, Colby said, “To be determined.”

I frowned, but before I could pursue it, Maggie reached under the counter and grabbed her tote bag. “Sorry, Ellie, but I’ve got to run. See you day after tomorrow?”

I nodded. “Sounds great.” Maggie was taking the next day off to spend with her grandkids, but luckily Astrid would be able to woman the shop while I was busy with Blake Sontag. Heaven knew my assistant deserved a day off from both of her jobs, as hard as she worked.

Colby drained his coffee. “We’re going to get out of your hair, too. I want to show Lark the house we grew up in.”

“But you just got here,” I protested. “Have you had a chance to go out to the Enchanted Garden?” I cultivated a garden behind my shop, which my customers and friends loved to sit in.

Larken shook her head.

“You’re in for a treat,” Maggie said as she headed for the front door, already gathering her bleached blond hair into a practical bun for her shift at the Roux Grill.

I followed her and flipped the sign in the front window from OPEN to CLOSED.

“Oh, now, I don’t want you losing business,” Colby said. “Not on my account.”

I waved away his objection. “It won’t take long to show you around, but I don’t want to be disturbed.” Quickly, I wrote a note that said I’d be back in fifteen minutes and stuck it on the door.