The day is cool and misty. In the garden, Noisette roses, peonies and Canadian are full bloom. The much maligned multiflora rose bushes exude a warm scent of cinnamon that more than makes up for its aggressive tendencies. The wood thrush unwinds a silvery chain of song in the green woods. The man in my life brings me a glass of blanc lime and we talk about France, books, family ties. I want to linger in this moment, but I have to review a bestseller in which suburban characters totally adore each other as they sit on squishy sofas wearing strappy sandals. This is, apparently the nec plus ultra of summer reads. Balzac it isn’t. Sigh.