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Perennial: A Garden Romance
Perennial: A Garden Romance
Perennial: A Garden Romance
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Perennial: A Garden Romance

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No one expects love to bloom after a cancer diagnosis, but breast cancer survivor Mary Anne Mohanraj has written a heartfelt romance about two people finding each other at a difficult time in their lives.
Kate Smith, an aspiring artist facing a difficult cancer diagnosis, and Devan McLeod, a flower shop owner, meet when they are both experiencing life changes. They’re surprised to find that in opening themselves up to each other, they open a new path forward in their lives.

This little book intercuts poems the author wrote over the course of her own cancer year with a garden romance. It draws on the experiences of the author, who was diagnosed with breast cancer and successfully treated with chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation.

Mohanraj is an enthusiastic Chicagoland amateur gardener, and during treatment, she took great solace in her garden. She hopes this book bring solace and joy to its readers.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 9, 2022
ISBN9781626016439
Perennial: A Garden Romance

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  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is a very sweet book, combining cancer memoir poetry, romance, and illustrations by the author. Over the course of a year, you follow the romance between a garden/plant shop owner, Devan McLeod, and Katherine Smith, who is fighting cancer. Reading the description of the shop made me long for a similar shop in my neighborhood... and the interspersal of the poems Dr Mohanraj wrote while undergoing her own cancer treatments help to highlight the tribulations of cancer treatment without interrupting the storyline of the romance with overly graphic details. A very charming interracial romance which highlights romance, friendship, caring, and, of course, plants.

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Perennial - Mary Anne Mohanraj

Perennial: A Garden Romance ©2022 Mary Anne Mohanraj

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

For more information contact:

Riverdale Avenue Books

5676 Riverdale Avenue

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.riverdaleavebooks.com

Design by www.formatting4U.com

Cover by Scott Carpenter

Digital ISBN: 9781626016439

Trade: 9781626016446

Hardcover: 9781626016453

First Edition, Lethe Press 2018

Second edition: November 2022

For Arthur, who taught me how to garden,

not knowing how much I’d need to…

… and for Drs. Robinson, Perez, and Small, their staffs,

and the nurses in the Loyola Hospital chemo ward;

thank you again for your excellent and compassionate care.

Every little kindness was felt.

Author’s Note

In February of 2016, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the course of the following year, I was treated with five months of chemotherapy, lumpectomy surgery, and six weeks of radiation. I am now, knock on wood, cancer-free.

This little book intercuts poems I wrote over the course of that year with a gardening story. I’m an enthusiastic amateur gardener, and over and over during treatment, I took great solace in my garden and the philosophy it offers. I hope this book offers you solace and joy as well.

Mary Anne Mohanraj

December 2017

Chapter One

Can I help you? The woman in the front section of Devan McLeod’s garden shop had been wandering aimlessly about the store for a full 20 minutes. Usually he tried not to pester the customers; after 11 years in America, he still hadn’t dropped all of his more reserved habits. His Scottish father had been the strong, silent type, but his Indian mother came from shopkeeper roots, and he could just hear her scolding him now. Take care of your customers, son, and they’ll take care of you. He really ought to Skype them; it’d been too long.

I’m sorry, she said, blinking up at him. January in Oak Park meant that she had entered his shop swathed in what his wife had called sleeping bag coats—the kind of puffy coat that covered you from head to ankles. But Devan kept the shop warm and humid, for the customers as well as the plants, and the woman had already unbuttoned her coat, stuffed gloves in her pocket, and unwrapped her scarf, revealing brown curls, bright blue eyes, and a mouth that looked like it wanted to smile. I don’t really know what I want—your window just looked so lovely.

I try, Devan said, smiling. January meant paperwhites and amaryllises, and his shop window featured a splendid array of white blooms on tall green stalks, supported by graceful copper stakes. It had come out nicely, if he did say so himself. Manju had done all the displays, back in the day, but after five years without her, he’d developed his own style—a little more restrained, less exuberant than what she would have done. So far, the customers seemed to like it; the store was still paying its bills, at a time when many others had gone under. Most small businesses survived on the tiniest of profit margins.

His mother would have said it was the tea and hospitality that kept people coming. Which reminded him, Do you want some tea? And there’s some shortbread on the tray.

Oh, that would be so good… the woman walked across the store to the little table where an array of teas waited, and an electric kettle. She poured herself a mug, not bothering with sweetener or milk, and cupped it in hands that trembled a little. She drank the tea straight off, though it must have been scaldingly hot, and Devan winced for her. Then she stood there, staring at a table displaying succulents, for an unconscionably long time. Long enough that Devan had to ask, Are you all right, miss? She wasn’t a miss, exactly, but not a ma’am either—about his own age, he’d guess, early 30’s.

I’m sorry, she said, turning to face him. The mug was still in her hand, and she looked at it, startled. Where should I…

Devan came forward to take it from her, and their hands touched, brown to white, and

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