Twilight Fires

Sabine Oishi

Description

Being recently widowed, Gabrielle loses herself in her memories, while struggling with the demands of a large property. A chance encounter transforms her and offers an unexpected second chance at happiness.

Recently widowed, Gabrielle is paralyzed by grief and overwhelmed by the demands of a large property. A chance encounter not only transform her beloved garden, but offers her an unexpected second chance at happiness.



Gabrielle, a young French woman and Paul, an aspiring American attorney, meet and fall in love in Paris. They start married family life in Baltimore, renovate an old carriage house, and turn an overgrown patch of land into a beautiful garden.



After Paul ‘s sudden death, Gabrielle, now in the twilight of her life, feels unequal to the task of maintaining their creation. Convinced that her best years are behind her, she loses herself in memories of her childhood during WWII where, being half-Jewish, she had to hide in plain sight. A grandchild’s struggles trigger long-suppressed memories of forbidden love, and at every turn she is reminded of the ups and downs of her life with Paul.



But when a friend introduces her to Leila, a landscape architect, everything changes. The process of redesigning the garden together to make it more manageable, effects a transformation in Gabrielle as well. Will she dare to open her heart and reach for a new beginning?

Sujets

• Multiculturalism
• Love Story
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 12 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665740784
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Twilight FIRES
SABINE OISHI


Copyright © 2023 Sabine Oishi.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4077-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-4078-4 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905076
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 5/11/2023
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgments

ALSO BY SABINE OISHI
The Hidden Child , Woodbine House, 1987
Behind the Mirror , John Hopkins University Press, 2021

For Gene
 

PREFACE
I wrote my first work of fiction—a collection of somewhat derivative tales—at age nine, while I was recovering from a lengthy bout of bronchitis.
This novel, my second work of fiction, incubated over several decadesof my later life. Its seeds were sown by my husband. At work on a novel, he was dissatisfied with his portrayal of a female character—the wife of his hero.
“I can’t do women,” he told me. “I can’t get into their skin. Could you come up with a credible background and personality for me?”
He gave me the parameters: she had to be French and half-Jewish, and her father had to be a professor, or the like, who fled France during the German occupation in World War II. I came up with the goods, and he incorporated my character into his story.
Much later, having witnessed the deaths of husbands and wives within my family and circle of acquaintances, I became preoccupied by the question of how the rest of one’s life might play out after the loss of a lifelong companion.
And so, starting with the character of a half-Jewish French woman, a story started to take shape in my head, and then on paper, and wouldn’t leave. Other characters appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and soon the story took on a life of its own, carrying me along.
The geographic and historical frameworks of the novel are largely accurate, reflecting a number of my own itinerations through life, but all of the characters, relationships, and adventures are purely figments of my imagination and bear no resemblance to any person, living or dead, within my ken.
CHAPTER ONE
N ot again! Merde alors ! For the third time the shears jammed on one of the high-waving wisteria vines Gabrielle was stretching to trim back. With a surge of anger at Paul for not having been there in the fall to clean, oil, and sharpen the tools at the end of the season, she gave a sharp downward pull. But the shears wouldn’t release, and no amount of tugging broke the fibrous strands. The harder she pulled, the farther the shoots extended, until a last, vicious tug tore them free. She came down hard on her bad leg, almost toppling backward.
The wisteria arch was one of Gabrielle’s favorite garden features. It framed and defined the entry into the backyard, but it wasn’t easily tamed, and it required constant vigilance. Giving up on the trimming, she yanked at the roots of some predatory shoots that had snaked along the ground and had, seemingly overnight, established beachheads in the beds, where her prize dahlias should long since have been planted. Her knee protested, and an ominous twinge in her shoulder warned of potential further joint problems. There was no getting around it—the garden was going to rack and ruin after more than a year of neglect, and so, since Paul’s death, was she.
It was unseasonably hot for mid-May, and she wiped away the sweat dripping into her tearing eyes with the back of her glove. Dropping her tools helter-skelter in the shed, she headed back to the house. Paul would have had a fit, but she was already behind schedule. She was expecting her friend Caroline for tea, and little escaped Caroline’s gimlet eye. It was probably too much to hope that she wouldn’t notice the creeping effect of neglect in the garden. But she could at least make herself presentable.
As she scrubbed her hands and nails, and used a washcloth to remove the smudges under her eyes left by the glove, Gabrielle felt a little like Eliza Doolittle, preparing to meet Professor Higgins: “I washed my face and ’ands before I come, I did!” Her mood lightened.
She had met Caroline, a British expat and, at seventy-two, her senior by three years, at a native-plant seminar some nine years earlier. She had immediately liked her no-nonsense approach to life. Though Caroline rarely pulled her punches, her frank comments were never malicious, more like a dose of salts—salutary, if not always easy to swallow. Their common European roots helped cement their friendship, and Caroline had been one of her most stalwart supporters after Paul died.
Facing the mirror, Gabrielle combed out remnants of leaves and small twigs from her hair. Its burnished chestnut had begun to fade to the color of dry beech leaves, but it was still thick and wavy. She quickly braided it back into the single plait she had favored on and off since she had grown out of pigtails.
She had always been what in France was called une fausse maigre —slender but with well-defined curves in all the right places. Thanks to her housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell, she had regained the weight she had lost after Paul’s death, and the pale-yellow linen dress she slipped on fit properly again. As she stepped into her favorite, open-back sandals, Gabrielle hoped that, at least outwardly, she would live up to her friend’s exacting standards.
Caroline arrived punctually, as always. She was wearing one of her signature twin-sets, this one in superfine cotton, partnered with a wraparound skirt of polished poplin adorned with garlands of twining flowers. The design reminded Gabrielle of a Wedgwood teapot. But whatever her attire or the occasion, Caroline always looked every inch the lady. Was it breeding or an innate conviction of British superiority that did the trick? Or simply good posture?
“I thought we’d have our tea in here,” Gabrielle said, ushering her friend into the sunroom, which overlooked the backyard. “The wasps are already out. We’d have to fend them off the jam in no time.”
“Pity, that! It would have been pleasant to sit on the terrace. Before we know it, it will be June and too hot to sit outside.”
Caroline looked with approval at the table laid ready for tea. ”Scones! How lovely! You’re so lucky. Your Mrs. Mitchell does have a magical touch with pastry. And clotted cream as well. I’m being spoiled.”
Gabrielle had made the cucumber sandwiches herself, not trusting Mrs. Mitchell to cut them thin enough or trim off the crust. Now she extended the plate to her guest. “You deserve it. It’s as close to a proper English afternoon tea as I could make it, though we’re missing those little cakes with the pink icing that seemed to be de rigueur when I was in England.”
“Ah, yes, the pink icing,” Caroline said with a dreamy look.
How anyone could have fond memories of what, even as a student, she had considered a culinary abomination, was beyond Gabrielle. Well-schooled in English etiquette, she poured the tea through a strainer before passing Caroline her cup, then a small pitcher of milk, watching with an inward shudder as the liquid turned mud-colored and opaque. “One lump or two?” she asked, sugar tongs at the ready.
If she had hoped to avoid a closer scrutiny of her disheveled yard by offering up this bounty and moving the venue indoors, she was to be disappointed. For once Caroline had swallowed the first bite of her scone, with a liberal application of buttery cream and jam, her glance roamed over the scene outside and predictably it came. “Your garden’s looking a bit ragged.” But then, as if to take the sting out of her frank appraisal, she added, “knee still giving you problems?”
Gabrielle dismissed the query with a shrug. “It’s nothing.”
But Caroline wasn’t fooled. “Tell you what. I’ll send you one of my helpers. His name is Alvaro. He should see you right in no time at all.”
Caroline seemed to be able to call on an inexhaustible supply of help for any eventuality. It was a mystery where she found these people, but from what Gabrielle had been able to observe, she owed their loalty in good part to the close interest she took in them and their families, often quietly helping out where she perceived a need. It was the same with her large circle of friends,