The morning after the tornado, the residents of wisteria lane began to sort through the devastation and slowly started picking up the pieces of their lives.
A large, Georgian rectory, its tall windows partly obscured by showers of pale wisteria, its drive a caramel pea shingle, it was the perfect house for a colonel.
It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under the wisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour—but a singular restlessness had driven him to her door.