Not seeing Andrew Hart puttering around the place didn’t help. He missed the old guy more than he’d expected to, considering the man’s crusty demeanor and habitual reticence. Now that he was gone, Hart’s strong influence became notable in its absence—even more so because his touch could be seen on every inch of the property. Every possible square of ground boasted glorious banks of flowers and plants the landlord had tended with quiet dedication. Ivy and blooming trailers crawled up tree trunks and over stumps, while huge clusters of honeysuckle created gorgeous mountains of sweet-smelling beauty in colors Corbin had never seen until he came to Angel Falls. Periwinkle and passion flower vines meandered in and out of fence slats. Daisies, petunias, and impatiens—along with any number of other blooms he didn’t recognize—exploded from pots, barrels, tires…even an old claw foot bathtub and an ancient ringer washing machine. Drowning beneath a crushing wave of melancholy, Corbin hated the overwhelming evidence of Hart’s green thumb.
