Isobel’s backyard was a little piece of heaven carved right into the edge of town—a verdant retreat that smelled faintly of honeysuckle and the faint tang of mesquite drifting from somewhere down the block. Tall, leafy trees leaned in like old friends, shading the moss that crept between flagstones, its green rich and soft against the cool gray stone. Clay pots overflowed with blooms—snapdragons, geraniums, and marigolds—spilling color into every corner. White tin candleholders with ...