The Lavender Farm was Gabe's idea. He recalled the lavender fields from his childhood in his native Italy, before he had immigrated to America with his parents.

"Oh, the fragrance on a morning mist-heaven come to earth," he had said. "I can't even describe it to you, Lyra.

The scent always seemed to me like the first real breath of dawn. "Now Gabe was on the battlefield with the 45th Infantry, fighting to free the old country from the fascist dictator, Mussolini, and it was up to his wife, Lyra, to breathe life into Gabe's vision - to coax the hardy lavender plants to take root in the rocky Arizona soil.

And just when normal had re-established itself in her household, a knock came at the door. Her mother-in-law had gone to town that morning, so she grabbed baby Luca and clutched him to her chest as she opened the door.

"Telegram, Ma'am. If you would sign right here, please.

"Since Gabe left, Lyra had wished for time to flee faster, and now it had brought her to this juncture. Suspended between what was and what would be, she faltered.

A thousand thoughts waged war inside her head. A long breath.

Another. The old couch covering, once soft velvet, scratched at her palm.

This could not wait forever. The tearing sounded too loud, as if her soul were being rent in two.

She sucked in a breath and read. REGRET TO INFORM YOU.

. .

. .