Her husband cut down all the roses she had grown for 20 years. He said, ‘Enough wasting your life on nonsense!’ And he cut them down to the root.

Inside the shed Franklin kept his prized fishing gear arranged with obsessive pride including ten polished rods lined neatly along the wall. Each rod carried a playful name written on tape attached to the handle.

One was labeled The Titan while another read Storm Runner and a third bore the dramatic title Lady of the Lake.

Theresa raised an eyebrow while studying them.

“So you think you have a queen here,” she murmured softly before opening the wooden box that contained fishing worms. She added several drops of vanilla extract until the shed filled with a sweet overpowering scent that no sensible fish would approach.

Next she lifted the artificial bait and carefully applied a few drops of rose oil from a small bottle she had saved since her mother’s funeral.

“Let us see what fish think about the fragrance of an offended garden,” she whispered with quiet amusement.

Finally she laid the fishing rods across a table and used a large pair of scissors to cut the lines at the most complicated knots where repairing them would require patience and skill.