Some of Bay's fondest memories were of lying under the apple tree in the summer while Claire gardened and the apple tree tossed apples at her like a dog trying to coax its owner into playing catch.

The Waverley sisters hadn't been close as children, but they were as thick as thieves now, the way adult siblings often are, the moment they realize that family is actually a choice.

I was just telling Claire about a guy I met in bread class. I hate him, but he could be my soul mate.

On the day the tree bloomed in the fall, when its white apple blossoms fell and covered the ground like snow, it was tradition for the Waverleys to gather in the garden like survivors of some great catastrophe, hugging one another, laughing as they touched faces and arms, making sure they were all okay, grateful to have gotten through it.

It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.

She'd just walked into heaven. And her grandmother was right there, in every scent.
Sugary and sweet.
Herby and sharp.
Yeasty and fresh.