The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

Eating the hot, flaky fish, seasoned

liberally with malt vinegar the way my mother

unexpected pang. “How long did my

halt. “Bernard!” a woman cried, racing

of Italy. “I’m not an experienced gardener,” I admitted. “I’ve always lived in the city. My mother has—had—a beautiful garden.”

that she was volatile: wonderful or terrible. Did she get dementia or something?” “That’s

powerful and broad, and he slid his hands beneath

hollow of his shoulder, his hands draped

young. She was very polished, very beautiful,

love. Which scared the hell out of me. What if I was only leaping toward him because I was lonely and sad

“But you said the books are doing

out.” I laughed. “Okay, Heidi Klum.” “I

four entire days apart, we puttered