Along with naming me Marguerite after her favorite daisy, Mama gave me three things: Red hair that hasn't faded. A love of nature. And a belief that somewhere between heaven and earth there is magic. At age fifty-five, Meg's life is too filled with loss for her to remember what magic feels like. All she has left is a yard brimming with plants that are wilting in the scorching Iowa summer--and a bone-deep feeling that she's through with living. Meg...