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295 pages, Paperback
First published May 6, 2014
Over the years, shoes were often thrown at the old house brooding atop its slope on Muir Glenn Road. The sole occupant of the old Victorian showed no distress upon finding footwear strewn about, however; she merely studied the smelly things as though evaluating works of art before taking them inside where boots, sneakers, heels, and cleats were transformed into charming planters.
It was because of the shoe garden that the house became locally famous, though there had always been rumors about disturbing fertile elements in the soil. The large elm tree, for instance, was not only unaffected by the disease that killed so many in the sixties, but thrived, branching dark shadows across the entire left side of the porch, which did not impede the vigor of blue heaven morning glory or moonflowers trained to crawl up the railings. The rose mallow flourished in their boots, as did the hollyhocks, the hostas� great leaves obscured the shoes they were planted in, the pennyroyal grew so vigorously in the lady’s slipper it had to be divided several times and the forget- me- not sweetly flowered blue above men’s work shoes.
She serves good red wine, chosen for its smoldering taste, hoping it will ruin both girls for the cheap affection of high school boys.