The plot of this book is like so many other Beauty and the Beast retellings: a father steals a rose and has to pay for it to the owner of the gloomy abandoned place, his child volunteers to take his place in the punishment, the enchanted owner falls in love with the substitute, the curse is broken through love, and everything ends happily.

Wine for Roses would be forgettable if judged solely on its plot.

But it isn’t. I would say it’s one of the most memorable retellings I’ve read in recent years, all thanks to its setting in rural Indiana and the main character, Ethan.

When I was little, I remember reading a magazine article about a famous European rose expert who could identify any rose varietal at a glance. He once surprised a French aristocrat by identifying by name a very rare rose she had in her château. I think there were only four other specimens of that rose besides hers, so she was absolutely certain the expert didn’t know it.

My memory of that expert’s name and where he came from has faded, but from that article I gained two new insights: that there were botanists and gardeners that specialised exclusively in roses, and that they were called rosarians. And since the rose was my mother’s favourite flower—her pride and joy was a rosebush of pink roses at our old house—this memory stuck with me.

So the first thing that captivated me about this story was the profession of Ethan’s father.

My father was a rose rustler, but he wasn’t a very successful one. He had never come across that Black Swan variety that might make him sought-after in the rose world, that might allow him to devote himself full time to his rose business. The rose that might have meant we could stop living off the meager income from our grocery store bouquet sales, worrying about water bills, and buying cheap beer.

In this story set in modern-day America, magic exists and those who use it are divided into two classes: mages (the most powerful class) and hedge witches, whose magic is subtler and used only for natural purposes, such as helping crops and gardens and orchards grow—something very practical in the state of Indiana, where there are miles and miles of crops of all kinds. Mr. Keating is a hedge witch specialising in roses, but due to his failing health—he has early-stage Multiple Sclerosis—he finds it difficult to work and has a huge medical debt he struggles to pay off through his flower shop selling rose bouquets.

And like any good rose purveyor, Keating is always searching for roses, hoping to find a rare one. One day, he wanders into an abandoned estate and picks an ordinary rose without knowing why. Just like in the fairy tale, the estate manager catches him and offers him a fortune if he takes a job as a gardener and makes the overgrown jungle of his garden finally bloom, because his roses refuse to bloom for some strange reason.

But because of his Multiple Sclerosis, his son Ethan thinks he won’t be able to do the job, so he ends up taking his place. As expected, the pseudo-Victorian mansion is cursed, and that’s why those roses refuse to bloom. Although Ethan doesn’t have his father’s gardening magic, or so he believes, he has inherited his father’s love for roses, and he’s also incredibly stubborn: he’s prepared to force the rosebushes to bloom by any means necessary to fulfil his contract, even if it means making the plants “drunk” by watering them with rosé wine.

I really liked the boy. He’s sensitive, hardworking, loves his father dearly, sacrifices himself for those he cares about, is dedicated, and never gives up. How could he not be endearing? Even the house, which is sentient, and the rose gardens, which are also sentient, reluctantly grow fond of him.

I was impressed by the depth of the author’s knowledge about rose cultivation and care as well as diseases of roses. I can usually distinguish when it’s from extensive research for a book and when it’s from personal experience and a love of the craft, so I quickly realised that Em Liu is like Ethan: she grows roses and loves them. It didn’t surprise me at all when she confirmed this in her Author’s Note.

Perhaps readers uninterested in roses, or flowers in general, might find all the gardening and petals and thorns tedious, but for me, it was the best part of the book. When my mother passed away, her favourite pink rosebush died soon after because none of us knew how to care for it like she did. I’m more like Louis than Ethan when it comes to gardening, but I still regret neglecting that rosebush because I would have liked to take a cutting with me to my future home.

Anyway, someday I’m going to plant rosebushes at my little house with my mother’s four favourite rose varietals, and of course, this time I’m going to take care of them. Oh, and I’m not going to offer wine to my roses! But beer, on the other hand . . .

The biggest thorns in this roseraie are the two main plotholes: why was Aloysius Kilbride disinherited, and why exactly did the last owner of Kilbride Estate end up going mad in the rose garden?

For the former, we are given no explanation whatsoever; and the latter is explained only partially and without much clarity.

Perhaps it’s due to the length of the book, which is more of a novella than a full-fledged novel, but I don’t think so. At least for the first plothole, it wouldn’t have been hard to include a line or two explaining that the last heir was disinherited for this or that reason. For example, my personal theory is that he was disinherited for being gay, because the Kilbrides were a wealthy Catholic family involved in politics, like the Kennedys (to whom they are compared in the book), and perhaps they wanted to hide the fact that their heir was gay because it was bad optics for their conservative voters. If we know what Joseph Kennedy did to his poor daughter Rosemary to protect his public image, what wouldn’t the fictional Kilbrides do to their son?

But unfortunately, the author doesn’t clarify this point. A bothersome thorn in my side.

The second point is partially explained by Elizabeth Kilbride “overusing” magic, but we aren’t told how that happened, what abuse of magic consists of, or why exactly the garden would drive her mad but not the estate trustee, who also uses too much magic—at least that’s how it looks to me. This point isn’t as urgent to clarify, but is also a noticeable plothole.

To me, the disinheritance plot is a bit far-fetched, because if the last of the family was cut off from the Kilbride fortune, it doesn’t make sense that Elizabeth would have included that clause in her will about who should be the trustee after her death. And if Mrs Kilbride was institutionalised for insanity, how could she have made that will, and why would it be valid if she wasn’t in her right mind?

I know, I know, I overthink things . . .

Even so, I really enjoyed the book. Finding a retelling that brings something new and fresh to a very common trope is rare, and finding a good M/M retelling of Beauty and the Beast is as rare as finding a new rose varietal. Oh, bonus points for and no insta-lust or gratuitous erotica here, which is always much appreciated.

I received an ARC through NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.