New Short Story: The Daffodils - Preview

“The Daffodils” was inspired by the simple scent of a flower, so I wanted to share it with you.

Daffodils are an annual celebration in Salt Lake City, Utah. I lived there for a year while doing my doctoral internship. In the spring of that year, I had a beautiful bouquet of yellow daffodils in my office. I'll never forget that wonderfully fresh scent that filled the air.

I've never found another flower that matches that intoxicating scent.

By the way, in Salt Lake City, they don't give you a "snow day" when the roads are covered in snow. In fact, Utahns find the idea rather amusing. Yes, even a true southern girl can learn to drive in the snow.

"The Daffodils"


Jacqueline Steele had watched the seasons come and go, tumbling over each other one after the other, but spring was her favorite. For so many reasons.
 
Nothing said spring like the sweet rich scent of the daffodil plants. 
 
Sometimes the simplest of things made the longest lasting impacts. 
 
A heartwarming tale of a love that survives forever. 

Here’s a preview:

Chapter 1

1936

 The daffodils were blooming. 

And nothing said spring like the sweet rich scent of the daffodil plants shooting up through the rich dark earth, their yellow blooms scattered across the back yard. A sea of yellow undulating with the soft breeze coming in off the Mississippi River. 

Even from her rocking chair, Jaqueline Steele could smell the dark green leaves and the hint of jasmine. 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, rocking gently back and forth. She sat with her legs pulled up onto the seat, her arms wrapped around one knee. 

Her white leather gloves lay on the wide banister of the porch along with a pair of gardening shears her son had given her long ago. 

A bumblebee buzzed past, landing on the freshly cut daffodil she held in her hand, the stem in her lap. 

She opened her eyes and watched as the bee drank the flower’s nectar. A bold little bee.

A little soldier, she thought, and a tear spilled onto her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. 

There was no one to see.

As she watched the bee another one joined it, their wings vibrating against the flower. They buzzed around each other, in a companionable flight. 

Their buzzing soothed her and she felt a calmness settle over her.

Later she might go inside and make a glass of tea. A cool drink would be soothing after her early morning walk. 

Her skirt was still damp from the morning’s dew, but it would dry soon. It was going to be a lovely March day. 

Natchez was delightful in March. 

She looked out across the back lawn, down the gently rolling hill toward the river. The view hadn’t changed much over the years. The oak trees her father had planted were tall now, their branches sweeping low toward the white daisies and purple wildflowers. 

Spring.

She’d seen the seasons come and go.

They came quickly now, tumbling over each other, one barely getting started before another tumbled along behind it. 

But Spring was her favorite.

Spring with the flowers.

Spring meant everything would go on. After a cold dormant winter, everything came back to life. 

And so on. And so on.

The people came and went. But the seasons always returned.

She was the last. 

Want to read the rest of the short story? Get your copy here.