Introduction

"Provocative in the way it explodes and expands the category of historical fiction." --Salt Lake Tribune

In this beautifully written and powerful debut novel, Ella Joy Olsen traces the stories of five fascinating women who inhabit the same  historic home over the course of a century—braided stories of love, heartbreak and courage connect the women, even across generations.
 
Ivy Baygren has two great loves in her life: her husband, Adam, and the bungalow they buy together in one of the oldest neighborhoods in Salt Lake City, Utah. From the moment she and Adam lay eyes on the  home, Ivy is captivated by its quaint details—the old porch swing, ornate tiles, and especially  an heirloom rose bush bursting with snowy white blossoms.  Called the Emmeline Rose for the home’s original owner, it seems yet another sign that this place will be Ivy’s happily-ever-after…Until her dreams are shattered by Adam’s unexpected death.
 
Striving to be strong for her two children, Ivy decides to tackle the home-improvement projects she and Adam once planned. Day by day, as she attempts to rebuild her house and her resolve, she uncovers clues about previous inhabitants, from a half-embroidered sampler to buried wine bottles. And as Ivy learns about the women who came before her—the young Mormon torn between her heart and anti-polygamist beliefs, the Greek immigrant during World War II, a troubled single mother in the 1960s—she begins to uncover the lessons of her own journey. For every story has its sadness, but there is also the possibility of blooming again, even stronger and more resilient than before…

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Excerpt

Outside, the air was still kissed with the pink of dawn, an early summer morning fresh with the lingering chill of a starry night. Blossoms blinked in the sun, heavy with dew, their fragrance emerging – surrounding me. Despite the work, this was why I loved my roses. The wrought iron trellis signifying the entrance to the garden was draped heavily in the papery lavender blossoms of a Blue Moon climbing rose. Carefully, I grasped one of the flowers, pulled it toward me, and breathed a heady aroma resonant of lemon and spun sugar. Rows of pastel beauty beckoned me beyond the gate, calling me to a place where time paused. This quiet corner full of sunshine, color, and peace was my sanctuary.

But today the roses were rangy. Roses were a needy plant and I’d been a neglectful gardener. Many of the flowers had already dropped their petals exposing the naked center, the round hips swollen like crab apples. Readying my shears, I reached behind a branch of the Sutter’s Gold to deadhead an aging blossom. Several peachy petals scattered on the brown earth and into the palm of my gloved hand. I touched them to my cheek, smooth and cool like the contours of my children’s faces – gently cupping their tiny heads as I put them down to nap. Was it yesterday? Or was it another life?

Deadheading was a necessary but melancholy part of keeping roses, because the belle of the ball only days ago must be abandoned the moment she started to age. She no longer served a purpose. Get rid of the old, allowing the new buds to utilize the nutrients otherwise captured by the fading. A practical yet dreary reality.

And where am I in my rose life span?

Stop it, Ivy, I scolded myself. I could hear Stephen’s voice. “Here’s the problem with ruminating: you don’t accomplish much.”

With determination, I reached for the next bush. Vibrant yellow, tiny withering suns shone from Sun Goddess – a rose with a perfect name. However, it didn’t stop me from trimming her dying blossoms. Next shrub – this one named Timeless. I clipped it without remorse; turns out, timelessness was a myth. Love Potion, Peace and Paradise – sadly none were immune to my blade.

The final bush: The Emmeline, the rose that inspired the garden. It was the only rosebush here, overgrown and strewn with thorns, when we decided to buy our home. Emmeline was an old-fashioned girl, her growth wild and unruly. She’d fill the yard if unattended and she stubbornly bloomed only once a season. Why not rid myself of her? Why plant more roses to accompany her? Two reasons. The fragrance: ephemeral and haunting. It changed from day to day, hour to hour – melting butter, jasmine, sun shimmering on wet pavement, or green. The second reason: She had a story.

The listing agent for this quaint redbrick bungalow on Downington Avenue must have seen in my face the starry-eyed notions I had about living in a historic house, attention skimming past the cracked foundation, overgrown lawn, and peeling paint, and resting instead on tiny perfect details – glass doorknobs, arts and crafts tile on the hearth (chipped but original), a covered porch spanning the width of the home complete with a white-painted wooden porch swing.

“The neighbor across the street told me this is called the Emmeline rose,” the realtor said as we walked into the romantically overgrown backyard for the first time, his hand lingering on one of the snowy blossoms like it was a precious gift. “Apparently, the bare root was carried west across the plains in a handcart, and planted right here in 1913, the year the home was built.”

“Was it 1912 or 1913 when the Titanic sunk?” I asked, mostly to myself, lost in a vision of a youthful Leonardo DiCaprio, standing proud on the deck of an ill-fated ship. The fragrance touched me, and I pictured corseted women with long skirts and feather-plumed hats. Could someone from that sepia time have planted this rose?

In that moment long ago, reflecting upon the lives spent in the house, the innumerable stories held within the walls, I longed to be one of those stories. Mine would be a fairy tale embraced by the little bungalow. Happily ever after.

If only.

Now, one hundred years after she took root, my Emmeline rose continued to thrive, but she’d outlived my husband. She’d surely lived decades longer than the actual Emmeline, the woman who must have carried the bare root across the plains. What might she have been like, Emmeline? Living in my house a century ago? In the years we’d lived in the time-worn redbrick bungalow our walls had seen several colors of paint, not to mention patching of wood floors, new kitchen cabinets, and updated lighting. What would the house have been like when the home was new and the beloved antique features, like push-button light switches and built-in bookshelves, were both cutting edge and modern? How must it have felt to live in new walls harboring no secrets and concealing no pain? view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1) Root, Petal, Thorn is written from the perspective of five different women, their stories bound loosely by their common ground. Was this connection enough to pull the stories together? Did you relate more to one character than the others? If you could meet just one of the women, who would you choose and why?

2) At its core, Root, Petal, Thorn is an observation of the permanence of place and the impermanence of people. How have you been affected by your home and/or neighborhood? And how has it affected you?

3) Much historical fiction illustrates a famous place or person, but every person (and every place) has a history, regardless of recorded significance. Is a story about normal people and typical struggles more relatable?

4) Root, Petal, Thorn is an illustration of the bittersweet passage of time. Are you a person who looks forward with anticipation, or back at all that has passed? Would you go back to a particular period in your own life? If so, when, and why?

5) Emmeline – If you were in Emmeline’s position, understanding the culture and time, would you have married Nathaniel? Why or why not? She’s a consenting adult when she decides to marry him. Does that make this type of marriage okay? Compare this type of marriage to that between same sex couples during modern times.

6) Bitsy – Written memories or journals have always been important documents, recording personal history and significant events. These days there is so much personal information recorded – vlogs, blogs, tweets – all meant for public consumption. Is this a truer representation of life, though the intent is to be widely shared? Or is social media a glossy image of the truth? And does so much information dilute the significance of each word? Finally, were the sections labeled Bitsy, more about Bitsy or about her mother, Cora?

7) Eris – Eris does what she thinks is best for her son, Adonis, in the face of possible danger, regardless of his anger, and at times sacrificing the happiness of other members of her family. To what lengths would you go (or have you gone) to manipulate a circumstance that might be dangerous to your loved ones?

8) Lainey – Mental illness is an especially challenging affliction, in that it has no obvious outward symptoms, like a cast or a cough. Yet it can be a life-long disease. Many think it can be cured by simply pulling up the old boot straps. And yet it contributes to suicide, drug use and homelessness. Have you personally experienced mental illness, mild or severe, in yourself or your family? How should this condition be treated?

9) Ivy – Ivy is the character who searches for stories as part of her healing process. Do you believe the stories are her imagination or the truth? What do you want them to be? Have you ever imagined the people who occupied your home, before you?

10) Ivy – The stories of the other women who lived in Ivy’s home don’t fix Ivy’s loss or bring her husband, Adam, back. Is understanding that you’re not alone in your pain, enough? Or would it have been more healing to have faith in a higher power, or a belief that Ivy will see Adam again? Did you want him to give her signs that he was still an active part of her life?

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