The Language of Flowers: A Novel
The Language of Flowers: A Novel
The Language of Flowers: A Novel

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The Language of Flowers: A Novel

Product ID: 2220147

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  • Ballantine Books

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Product Description NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER   The Victorian language of flowers was used to convey romantic expressions: honeysuckle for devotion, asters for patience, and red roses for love. But for Victoria Jones, it’s been more useful in communicating mistrust and solitude. After a childhood spent in the foster-care system, she is unable to get close to anybody, and her only connection to the world is through flowers and their meanings. Now eighteen and emancipated from the system with nowhere to go, Victoria realizes she has a gift for helping others through the flowers she chooses for them. But an unexpected encounter with a mysterious stranger has her questioning what’s been missing in her life. And when she’s forced to confront a painful secret from her past, she must decide whether it’s worth risking everything for a second chance at happiness.   Look for special features inside. Join the Circle for author chats and more. Review “Instantly entrancing.”—Elle   “[An] original and brilliant first novel . . . a mesmerizing storyteller . . . I would like to hand Vanessa Diffenbaugh a bouquet of bouvardia (enthusiasm), gladiolus (you pierce my heart) and lisianthus (appreciation). . . . And there is one more sprig I should add to her bouquet: a single pink carnation (I will never forget you).”—Brigitte Weeks, The Washington Post   “A captivating novel in which a single sprig of rosemary speaks louder than words . . . The Language of Flowers deftly weaves the sweetness of newfound love with the heartache of past mistakes. . . . [It] will certainly change how you choose your next bouquet.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune   “Fascinating . . . Diffenbaugh clearly knows both the human heart and her plants, and she keeps us rooting for the damaged Victoria.”—O: The Oprah Magazine (book of the week)   “Diffenbaugh effortlessly spins this enchanting tale, making even her prickly protagonist impossible not to love.”—Entertainment Weekly   “Compelling . . . immensely engaging . . . unabashedly romantic . . . an emotional arc of almost unbearable poignance.”—The Boston Globe About the Author Vanessa Diffenbaugh was born in San Francisco and raised in Chico, California.  After studying art education at Stanford University, she went on to teach at-risk youth in East Palo Alto and Sacramento.  She and her husband, PK, have four children: Donovan, 24, Tre'von, 22, Chela, 7, and Miles, 6.  Inspired by her own experience as a foster parent, her first novel, The Language of Flowers, has been translated into more than 40 languages.  Following the success of her novel, Diffenbaugh co-founded Camellia Network, whose mission is to create a national network that connects every youth aging out of foster care to the critical resources, opportunities, and the support they need to thrive in adulthood.    Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1. For eight years I dreamed of fire. Trees ignited as I passed them; oceans burned. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams; the two were as different as Indian and Carolina jasmine, separation and attachment. They could not be confused. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and would never be again. But the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. It smoldered, and then the fire went out. It was my eighteenth birthday. In the living room, a row of fidgeting girls sat on the sagging couch. Their

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