and been taken from him, and there had been nothing he could do about it. His sense of self, his trust in those things he had valued—knowledge, love, even his skill as a physician—had been shaken to the core. He needed. what? Privacy? Escape?
He needed sameness, he knew that much. Something on which to anchor his equilibrium.
He skirted the expanse of green grass, inhaling the comforting, earthy smells of summer honeysuckle, the peppery hint of horse manure, wood smoke. Cicadas screamed in the plum tree.
Four steps from the front walkway he brought himself up short “What the devil?” He raked an unsteady hand through his hair.
A new crop of scarlet zinnias poked their bright heads up along the square cement stepping stones Tess had insisted on. But instead of bordering the path in the neat orderly line he was used to seeing, the new plants were arranged in masses, mingled with clumps of purple woods iris and drifts of skyblue pincushion flowers. It looked like a riotous dance of blooms casually swirling in the general direction of the front steps.
He sucked in a breath. Never in a month of Sundays would Tess have tolerated such a wild-looking garden!
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