"You two can come round to the cellar if you like and try some of my blackberry wine," she said to them, with what Bonnie could swear was a wink. (Dark Reunion, p. 82)


They took her for granted, the town. Always had. Or perhaps they had merely forgotten about her and the rambling house on the outskirts; relegated her to a footnote in Fell's Church folklore. She didn't mind. It was better that way.

But at least once a year, people remembered her; not necessarily as a person, but as a name, because every year, per tradition, Mrs. Flowers' famous blackberry wine won first place in the Roanoke County Fair. "Exquisite flavor, such pure color," they'd say, and they'd think of her boarding house, and recommend it to out-of-towners.

She'd plump them up with a home-cooked meal, tuck them into a warm bed, ripe as berries.

The boy - he had been none the wiser. But the other one - the one with the midnight eyes - he'd known. Occasionally, she'd receive an envelope from Italy, with fancy, almost womanly scrawl, and inside would be a money order that would settle her for the year. She had never been to Italy; she had never been out of Virginia. Her wine, though, was well-travelled.

Visitor after visitor, bottle after bottle. No one ever asked questions, because even the spell of her wine could only last so long, and she was promptly forgotten again. But not as quickly as the tourists.

Warm beds and ripe berries, and in the end, another blue ribbon for the kitchen wall.