All the Pretty Places


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Epilogue
 Author’s Note
 Discussion Questions
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 
 Praise for Joy Callaway
 Also by Joy Callaway
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
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 Dedication
 
 
 For my mom, Lynn, the personification of joy and the best gardener in the world
 
 
 
 For my dad, Fred, the epitome of steadfast love and the ultimate role model in business and compassion
 
 
 
 For my grandma, Lee, my BFF and keeper and sharer of magical family stories
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 April 1893
 Rye, New York
 
 Charles was leaving. At long last. Si longtemps, Charles! Abschied, dearest brother! Tot ziens! I loved him fiercely—more than I loved anyone, really—but I was glad to see him go.
 
 
 Come 11:14 p.m., the rail cars would screech and lurch and he’d wave from the wrought iron caboose railing in his new champagne duster jacket, his fist full of the Bells of Ireland sprigs I’d shove into his hand for good luck. The clouds of his farewell shouts would mingle with thick rail steam in the chilly evening air. By Tuesday he’d be standing 1,300 miles away in the construction shadow of Mr. Flagler’s latest lavish hotel, boots sinking into the veritable beach the structure was built upon. Charles would think, of course, that he’d have no problem whatsoever transforming the barrenness into a lush utopia of viburnums and palms and, most importantly, royal poinciana—a scarlet flowering beauty for which the hotel was named. Never mind that the royal poinciana was native to Madagascar and had never been grown in Florida. Charles had achieved enough success cultivating foreign species from Japan and Germany and Italy and Israel with Father that he would believe the task an easy one. We all did. 
 
 I hoped he would love Florida. That he’d be so enraptured by the aquamarine sea, the prestige of being Mr. Flagler’s premiere
 landscape man, and the gorgeous fortune hunters—bless them—that he’d stay. Perhaps he’d even find a suitable girl who wouldn’t
 mind the oppressive heat akin to that of a boiler room or the way even the finest silks swallowed the humidity and stuck to
 her limbs as though they’d been bathed in maple sap. Surely a girl of that fortitude could persevere in her pursuit of Charles
 despite his obsessive love of plants. Charles and I were afflicted with the same curse—a curse that drove me to celebrate
 his going and that of my younger brother, Freddie, two years ago when he went to work for Uncle Teddy’s friend Mayor Carter
 Harrison in Chicago.
 
 
 My brothers had been my greatest supporters and my greatest obstructions. Until Mr. Flagler’s offer, I’d thought Charles would
 succumb to Father’s plan to make him successor and never leave. But Charles had been an adventurer from birth, always wanting
 the opportunity to travel, to