Like, for example, the fact that she was spending the two hours she had between her Pierre’s shifts trying to coax the town’s American Beauty roses back to life. She could hardly blame herself. Most gardeners faced the late-frost conundrum. Every year, as the days grew longer, the warm sun lured gardeners to uncover their peonies, their hydrangeas, and most importantly, their prizewinning roses. Then, like a thief, a late-season frost would creep in off the lake and kill the buds. Claire had lost too many beautiful rosebuds before their time by leaning into the season too soon. So despite the mild winter and lack of snow, she had kept the covers on, not wanting to risk the frost. And her American Beauty roses sweltered under their Styrofoam coverings, broiling instead of freezing to death. Why, why didn’t she just listen to her instincts instead of her fears? She knelt in the dirt of the city rose garden and lifted one of the containers. Tiny green buds shot out from the cropped limbs, evidence that even in darkness, the roses survived.
