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quite as forcefully as when she had insisted on buying Hill House.
    A gnawing fear in the pit of her stomach told her that he would not be supportive when he discovered she had planted herself square in the middle of an argument between Widow Leonard and her sons, but she would simply have to stand her ground against his advice. Again.
    The moment she stepped through the double doors in the dining room and out onto the stone patio, however, a warm but refreshing breeze still carrying the fading sweet smells of summer greeted her and blew away her concerns about meeting with her lawyer. A stone wall surrounding the patio blocked any view of the surrounding landscape, while overhead, a network of vines laced the lattice-style roof to obscure the direct glare of the sun.
    By day the small outdoor room appeared to be suspended high within the trees. By night the moon and stars that shone through the lattice seemed almost close enough to touch.
    The half-dozen outdoor chairs huddled in pairs about the patio, however, were empty. No Reverend Glenn. No Widow Leonard. No Butter, the mongrel dog who was the retired minister’s loyal companion and a constant source of irritation to Mother Garrett. Two empty glasses sat on a small table in front of the two chairs closest to the massive fireplace in the far corner.
    When Emma first purchased Hill House, she had wondered why the original owner had built a fireplace for an outdoor patio. Now she longed for the chill nights of autumn and even the occasional winter evening when she could sit outside in the moonlight, warmed by the fire at her feet and the glory of God’s universe overhead. With seven grandchildren all under the age of six, she hoped she might even have the opportunity to snuggle out here in front of the fire with one or all of them one night to count the stars overhead or just share the joy of being together as a family.
    She set the pitcher down on the table next to the glasses, swatted away a pair of yellow jackets, poured a drink for herself, and looked at her surroundings.
    As it stood, Hill House literally sat between two worlds—the world of commerce and industry quickly overtaking the town to the south, and the patchwork of small farms to the north on the fertile land that had lured the original settlers to the area, including Emma’s grandparents. Located high on a hill on the north side of town at the end of a winding brick lane, Hill House offered a commanding view of the town itself and of the Candlewood Canal that snaked its way north, running parallel to Main Street.
    But there was a lovely view from the rear of the house, as well. After taking a few sips of her drink, she set the glass down and walked over to the wall facing the back of the property, where she had a breathtaking panorama of pastoral splendor.
    A gate in the stone wall provided access to the terraced steps bordered by gardens that cascaded down the hill to a small plateau. A stand of natural forest that included pines common to the area, cedar trees, and several mulberry trees planted last year provided a lush backdrop for the new gazebo she’d had built there. Above the treetops, the Candlewood Canal flowed in the distance as it continued north and east toward Bounty and beyond, connecting Candlewood, ultimately, with the Erie Canal and the eastern markets.
    Warmed by the sun overhead, Emma studied the gardens where Mother Garrett’s herbs, still full and green, filled the first terrace. Everblooming summer roses—in shades of red and white and every hue of pink in between—filled the other gardens and gently scented the air. The roses were a beautiful reminder of the two women who had worked so hard to bring the formerly abandoned gardens back to their full beauty and who still returned twice a year to maintain them, more friends now than guests. She inhaled deeply and savored the heavenly scent, even as her gaze traveled down the curving steps that cut through the terraces to the