PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF BARBARA DAVIS

“A story of love, hope, redemption, and rediscovering who you were meant to be . . . will resonate with readers who love a tale full of heart and soul.”

—Camille Di Maio, bestselling author of The Memory of Us and The Beautiful Strangers

“Infused with honesty, friendship, and a touch of romance. Davis creates nuanced and well-developed characters . . . a carefully woven tale that the reader won’t soon forget.”

—Emily Cavanagh, author of The Bloom Girls and This Bright Beauty

“Brimming with compassion and a refreshingly grown-up romance . . . an uplifting tale about starting over and how letting go of our nevers just might be the only thing that lets us move forward.”

—Emily Carpenter, author of Until the Day I Die

“Heartfelt and beautifully written.”

—Diane Chamberlain, USA Today bestselling author of Pretending to Dance

“A beautifully crafted page-turner . . . Part contemporary women’s fiction, part historical novel, the plot moves seamlessly back and forth in time to unlock family secrets that bind four generations of women . . . This novel has it all.”

—Barbara Claypole White, bestselling author of Echoes of Family

“Everything I love in a novel . . . elegant and haunting.”

—Erika Marks, author of The Last Treasure

“A book about love and loss and finding your way forward. I could not read it fast enough!”

—Anita Hughes, author of Christmas in Paris

“One of the best books out there, and Davis is genuinely proving herself to be one of the strongest new voices of epic romance.”

—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

“Davis has a gift for developing flawed characters and their emotionally wrenching dilemmas . . . a very satisfying tale.”

—Historical Novel Society

“A beautifully layered story.”

—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of Flight Patterns

OTHER BOOKS BY BARBARA DAVIS

When Never Comes

Love, Alice

Summer at Hideaway Key

The Wishing Tide

The Secrets She Carried

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 by Barbara Davis

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542006491

ISBN-10: 154200649X

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino

For the women . . .

Healers of hearts,

Workers of light,

Makers of magick.

CONTENTS

START READING

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

Rosemary . . . for remembrance.

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

Bluebells . . . for truth.

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

Calendula . . . for the healing of scars.

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

Lilies . . . for rebirth.

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

Basil . . . for the mending of rifts.

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

Lily of the Valley . . . for reconciliation.

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

Dandelion . . . for resilience.

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

Gardenia . . . for secret love.

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

LAVENDER & LEMON SUGAR SCRUB

SILKY BEDTIME BATH TEA

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Love works magic.

It is the final purpose

Of the world story,

The Amen of the universe.

—Novalis

PROLOGUE

A body that’s been submerged in water undergoes a different kind of decomposition: harsher in some ways, kinder in others—or so I’ve been told. We Moons wouldn’t know about that. We choose fire when our time comes, and scatter our ashes on land that has been in our family for more than two centuries. Mine are there now too, mingled with the dust of my ancestors.

Can it really be only weeks that I’ve been gone? Weeks hovering between worlds, unable to stay, unwilling to go, tethered by regret and unfinished business. The separation feels longer, somehow. But it is not my death I dwell on today but the deaths of two young girls—Darcy and Heather Gilman—more than eight years ago now. They’d been missing nearly three weeks when their bodies were finally pulled from the water. It was a ghastly thing to watch, but watch I did. They were dragging my pond, you see, convinced they would find what they were looking for. And why not, when the whole town was looking in my direction? Because of who I was—and what I was. Or at least what they imagined me to be.

Memory, it seems, does not die along with the body. It’s been years since that terrible day at the pond, and yet I remember every detail, replaying them again and again, an endless, merciless loop. The police chief in his waders, his men with their boat. The ME’s van looming nearby, its back doors yawning wide in anticipation of new cargo. The bone-white face of a mother waiting to learn the fate of her girls. Whispers hissing through the crowd like electric current. And then, the telling shrill of a whistle.

A hush settles over us, the kind that carries a weight of its own—the weight of the dead. No one moves as the first body appears, the glimpse of an arm in a muddy brown coat, water pouring from the sleeve as the sodden form is dragged up onto the bank. A bloated, blackened face, partly obscured by hanks of sopping dark hair.

They’re careful with her, handling her with a tenderness that’s gruesome somehow, and agonizing to watch. They’re preserving the evidence, I realize, and a cold lick goes down my spine. So they can make their case. Against me.

A short time later a second body appears, and there comes a broken wail, a mother’s heart breaking for her darlings.

And that’s how it all unraveled, the awful day that set up all the rest. The end of the farm. And, perhaps, the end of the Moons.

ONE

July 16

Althea Moon was dead.

That was the gist of the letter. Dead in her bed on a Sunday morning. Dead of a long and wasting illness. Dead and already cremated, her ashes scattered at the rise of the full moon, as laid out in her will.

The room blurred as Lizzy scanned the letter through

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