Garden Spells

  Evanelle passed the White Door Salon, where women with too much time on their hands and too much money in their purses paid way too much for haircuts and hot-stone massages. Then she stopped in front of Maxine’s next door, the posh clothing shop that the women from the White Door liked to shop in after their hair was done. There in the window was a button-down silk shirt.

  She walked in, even though they hadn’t put out the open sign yet. Her gift was like an itch, like a mosquito bite in the center of her body, and it wouldn’t go away until she did what it demanded.

  And it suddenly, insistently, demanded that she buy Sydney that shirt.

  Sydney woke up with a start and checked her watch. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She stumbled to the bathroom and drank water from the sink, then she splashed her face.

  She left the bathroom and stopped to check in on Bay, but Bay wasn’t in her room. Her bed was made, though, and some of her favorite stuffed animals were sitting on the pillows. She checked all the rooms upstairs, then jogged downstairs, trying to stave off panic. Where did she go?

  Sydney walked into the kitchen and froze.

  She’d just walked into heaven. And her grandmother was right there, in every scent.

  Sugary and sweet.

  Herby and sharp.

  Yeasty and fresh.

  Grandma Waverley used to cook like this. When Sydney was young, Claire always found a way to run Sydney out of the kitchen, so Sydney would sit in the hallway outside the kitchen and listen to the bubble of sauce boiling, the sizzle of things in skillets, the rattle of pans, the mumble of Claire and Grandma Waverley’s voices.

  There were two big bowls, one full of lavender and one full of dandelion greens, on the stainless-steel island. Loaves of bread sat steaming on the counters. Bay stood on a chair by Claire at the far counter, and she was using a wood-handled artist’s brush to carefully paint pansy flowers with egg whites. One by one, Claire then took the flower heads and delicately dipped them in extrafine sugar before setting them on a cookie sheet.

  “How did you manage this in just a couple of hours?” Sydney said incredulously, and Claire and Bay both turned.

  “Hi,” Claire said, looking at her warily. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine. I just needed a little nap.”

  Bay jumped down from her chair and ran to Sydney and hugged her. She was wearing a blue apron that dragged on the ground and had Waverley’s Catering written on it in white. “I’m helping Claire crystallize pansies to put on top of custard cups. Come look.” She ran back to her chair by the counter.

  “Maybe later, honey. Let’s go get our things from the car and let Claire do her work.”

  “Bay and I brought everything in yesterday,” Claire said.

  Sydney looked at her watch again. “What’re you talking about? I was only asleep two hours.”

  “You arrived yesterday morning. You’ve been asleep for the past twenty-six hours.”

  Sydney’s heart lodged in her throat, and she stumbled to the kitchen table and sat. She’d left her daughter alone for twenty-six hours? Did Bay say anything to Claire about David? Did Claire care for Bay? Did she tuck her in, or had Bay been huddled, afraid and lonely, in her room all night in a strange house? “Bay…”

  “Has been helping me,” Claire said. “She doesn’t say much, but she’s a fast learner. We cooked all day yesterday, she had a bubble bath last night, then I put her to bed. We started cooking again this morning.”

  Did Claire think she was a bad mother? The one thing Sydney could be proud of, and she was already messing it up. This place messed her up. She was never sure of who she was here.

  “Have some coffee,” Claire said. “Evanelle said she was stopping by today to see you.”

  “Stay, Mommy. Watch what I can do.”

  Get yourself together, she told herself. “Okay, honey. I’m not going anywhere.” She went to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “How is Evanelle?”

  “She’s fine. She’s anxious to see you. Have some lavender bread. Bay and I have been eating on that last loaf there. There’s some herb butter too.”

  Was Claire concerned about her? She’d thought a lot about Claire over the years. Mostly they were thoughts of how adventurous Sydney was being and how poor, pitiful Claire could do nothing but stay at home in stupid Bascom. It was cruel, but it made her feel better because she’d always been jealous of Claire’s comfort with who she was. Claire had been so happy to see her leave. Now she was worried about her. Telling her to eat. Sydney tried to slice the bread slowly, but she was so hungry she ended up tearing most of it off. She spread some herb butter on the bread and closed her eyes. After her third slice, she started walking around the big kitchen. “This is impressive. I didn’t know you could do this. Are these Grandma’s recipes?”

  “Some of them. The dandelion quiche and the lavender bread were hers.”

  “You never let me see them when I was little.”

  Claire turned from the counter and wiped her hands on her apron. “Listen, this is for a job in Hickory tomorrow. I’ve called two teenage girls who sometimes help me in the summer, but if you need some money, you can help me with it instead.”

  Sydney looked at her strangely. “You want me to help you.”

  “Normally, I can do this alone. But for bigger jobs I have to call people. Are you still going to be here tomorrow?”

  “Of course I am,” Sydney said. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “While you’re here, I could use your help.”

  “I guess it’s pretty obvious I need the money.”

  Claire smiled slightly and Sydney liked that, the small connection it formed.

  Encouraged, she said congenially, “So, tell me about that Tyler guy.”

  Claire lowered her eyes and turned around. “What about him?”

  “Has he come by today?”

  “He doesn’t come by every day. Yesterday was the first time. He was bringing some apples that fell on his side of the fence.”

  “Did you bury them?”

  “We always bury the apples that fall off the tree,” Claire said, and Bay looked at Claire curiously. Sydney felt a sense of dread, wanting to hold off Bay knowing things for as long as possible. Sydney had traded any chance of Bay being considered normal for her safety. How exactly did you tell a child, even a child like Bay, that?

  “So, Tyler,” Sydney said before Bay could start asking questions. “Is he single?”

  “I don’t know.” Claire took the cookie sheet with the pansies on it and put it in a barely warm oven.

  “Are you interested in him?”

  “No,” Claire answered vehemently, like a middle-school girl.

  “He belongs here,” Bay said.

  Claire turned to her.

  “It’s this thing she does,” Sydney said. “She has very firm opinions on where things belong.”

  “So that explains it. I asked her to get me a fork and she went right to the drawer. When I asked her how she knew it was there, she said because that’s where it belonged.” Claire looked at Bay thoughtfully.

  “No,” Sydney said. “It’s not that. Don’t force that on her.”

  “I wasn’t,” Claire said, and she seemed hurt. “And no one forced it on you. In fact, you ran as far away as you could from it and no one stopped you.”

  “The whole town forced it on me! I tried to be normal and no one would let me.” The pots hanging on the rack above the kitchen island began to sway anxiously, like an old woman wringing her hands. Sydney watched them swing for a moment, then she took a deep breath. She forgot how sensitive the house could be, how floorboards vibrated when people got mad, how windows opened when everyone laughed at once. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing right now. Bay, you can go too.” Claire untied Bay’s apron and took it off her. “Do you have a black skirt and white blouse to wear to help me serve tomorrow?” she asked Sydney.

  “I have
a white blouse,” Sydney said.

  “You can borrow one of my skirts. Have you ever served before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you did after you left? Waitressed?”

  Sydney ushered Bay out of the kitchen. Running, stealing, men. Those had never been Claire’s areas of expertise. Sydney wasn’t going to tell Claire about her past. Not yet, anyway. It wasn’t something you shared with just anyone, not even your own sister, if you didn’t think she’d understand. “It was one of the things I did.”

  Later that afternoon, Sydney sat on the front porch while Bay did cartwheels in the yard. She saw Evanelle come down the sidewalk and smiled. Evanelle was in a blue running suit, that familiar large tote bag over her shoulder. Sydney used to love to guess what was in it. She hoped Bay would love that too. There weren’t many high points to being a Waverley, but Evanelle was definitely one of them.

  Evanelle stopped to talk with Tyler next door, who was in his front yard, contemplating a big clump of grass clippings. He was bored; Sydney recognized the signs. His hair was longish, obviously to hold down the natural curl. That meant he had a creative nature he tried to control, and he was trying to control it by spending most of his day raking a big pile of cut grass from one side of his yard to the other.

  She couldn’t imagine ever wanting another relationship with a man after David, but looking at Tyler, her heart felt sort of strange. She didn’t want him, and he was clearly attracted to her sister, but the simple idea of a good man made her feel hopeful somehow. Maybe not for herself, but for other people, other women. Luckier women.

  As soon as Evanelle left Tyler, Sydney hurried down the steps to meet her. “Evanelle!” she said as she embraced the old lady. “Claire told me you were stopping by. Oh, it’s good to see you. You look exactly the same.”

  “Still old.”

  “Still beautiful. What were you doing over there with Tyler?”

  “Is that his name? He looked like he needed some lawn bags. Lucky I had some on me. He was real nice-like about it. Here’s his phone number.” She handed Sydney a small piece of notebook paper.

  Sydney looked at the paper uncomfortably. “Evanelle, I’m not…I don’t want…”

  Evanelle patted Sydney’s hand. “Oh, honey, I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with it. I just knew I had to give it to you. I’m not trying to set you up.”

  Sydney laughed. What a relief.

  “I have something else for you.” Evanelle rooted around in her tote bag for a moment, then handed Sydney a shopping bag with the name of an upscale shop on the square. Sydney remembered it well. Girls at school whose parents had money bought things at Maxine’s. Sydney used to work all summer in order to shop there too, to look like she belonged. She opened the bag and brought out a beautiful blue silk shirt. It was about three sizes too big, but she hadn’t had something so decadent in a long time, not since she took all that money from her boyfriend the car thief and lived on it for a year. David had money, but he’d never been a gift giver, never big on rewards, remorse, or apologies.

  Sydney sat on the steps and put the shirt to her nose and smelled that wonderful wealthy scent of the shop. It smelled like fine paper and English perfume. “It’s so beautiful.”

  Evanelle lowered herself to the step beside Sydney and rummaged through her tote bag again. “I know it’s too big. Here’s the receipt. I was walking downtown this morning trying to find some nice male backsides. There was Maxine’s, and I thought of you, and I knew I had to get you this. This shirt. This size.”

  Bay had approached and was shyly fingering the soft shirt in Sydney’s hands. “Evanelle, this is my daughter, Bay.”

  Evanelle chucked her chin and Bay giggled. “She looks just like your grandmother when she was young. Dark hair, blue eyes. She’s got Waverley in her, that’s for sure.”

  Sydney put an arm around Bay protectively. No, she doesn’t. “Strawberry Pop-Tarts are her favorite. Thank you for them.”

  “Nice to know when things find a good purpose.” She patted Sydney’s knee. “Where is Claire?”

  “Busy in the kitchen, preparing for a luncheon.”

  “Are you going to help her?”

  “Yes.”

  Evanelle’s sharp eyes were on her. Sydney had always loved Evanelle. What child doesn’t love an old lady who gives presents? But Claire always seemed to understand Evanelle better. “Keep this in mind about Claire. She hates to ask for anything.” Bay ran back to the yard and did cartwheels for them, and they complimented her. Some time passed before Evanelle said, “It’s not an easy thing to do, ask for help. You were brave to come here. I’m proud of you.”

  Sydney met the old woman’s eyes, and knew that she knew.

  It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon on Friday when Claire, Sydney, and Bay arrived home from catering the luncheon in Hickory. Bay had fallen asleep in the van. Sydney thought Claire might be peeved at having to take Bay along, but she didn’t argue at all when Sydney said she didn’t want to leave Bay with Evanelle just yet. They’d only been in town three days. She wasn’t leaving her daughter alone in a strange place. Claire had said, “Of course not. She’ll come with us.” Just like that.

  Bay had enjoyed herself. The old ladies in the Amateur Botanists Association loved having her there, and every time Claire and Sydney came back from collecting plates or refreshing drinks, Bay had cleaned up the area or organized the coolers in that way she did, instinctively knowing where things were supposed to be.

  Sydney carried Bay upstairs and put her on her bed, then turned on one of the floor fans Claire had brought down from the attic because summer was filling the house, tightening it with heat. She changed into shorts and a T-shirt, thinking Claire was going to do the same before unloading the things from the van.

  But when Sydney went back downstairs, Claire had, in that short time, brought everything into the kitchen and was loading the dishwasher and filling the carafes with baking soda and hot water to soak. She was still in her blouse and skirt, the blue apron still over her clothes.

  “I was going to help you,” Sydney said.

  Claire looked surprised to find her there. “I can do this. When I hire people, it’s only to help serve. You can relax. I didn’t know if you’d prefer a check or cash, so I went with cash. The envelope is there.” She pointed to the kitchen table.

  Sydney paused a moment. She didn’t understand. Wasn’t it a good day? Didn’t they work well together? The ladies at the luncheon loved Claire’s food, and they complimented Sydney on what a nice job she did serving. Sydney had been nervous at first. Back when she waitressed, she used to steal from customers, not giving them back money from their checks. She would smile and flirt and try to smooth things over if they called her on it. And it never hurt that she was usually sleeping with the manager of the establishment, so he would always side with her if the complaint got that far. She could con with the best of them. She’d been worried that serving again might bring that time in her life back to her, might make her want it again. But it didn’t. It felt good to work honestly and hard. It reminded her instead of what was probably the best time in her life, in Boise, when she worked at the salon. She remembered her aching feet and the cramps in her hands and the shorn hair that would get under her clothes and itch and poke her skin. She loved it all.

  But now Claire was saying she didn’t need her help anymore. Sydney stood there while Claire continued to work. What was she supposed to do? She would go crazy if she couldn’t do more than just help Claire out every once in a while. Claire didn’t even let her do housework. “Can’t I help you with anything?”

  “I’ve got this covered. This is my routine.”

  Without another word, Sydney picked up the envelope and walked outside through the back to her Subaru. She leaned against it as she counted the money in the envelope. Claire had been generous. Sydney could go out and do something with this. That’s probably what Claire expected her to do. Put some gas in the car
. Go see someone.

  But she didn’t have a tag and she might get pulled over.

  And there was definitely no one she wanted to see again.

  Folding the envelope, she put it in the back pocket of her cutoffs. She didn’t want to go back into the house and watch Claire work, so she walked around the driveway, kicking gravel, which Claire would probably smooth over later with a rake, putting everything back in order.

  She walked to the front yard and looked over to Tyler’s house. His Jeep was parked on the curb. Impulsively, she crossed the yard and walked up his steps. She knocked on his door and waited, stuffing her hands deeper into her pockets the longer he took. Maybe he was asleep. That meant she had to go back home.

  But then she heard footsteps and smiled, taking her hands out of her pockets as he opened his door. He was wearing paint-splattered jeans and a T-shirt, looking sort of rumpled and forgetful, as if perpetually wondering where time went.

  “Hi,” she said after he stared at her a few moments, confused. “I’m Sydney Waverley, from next door.”

  He finally smiled. “Oh, right. I remember.”

  “I thought I’d come by and say hello.” His eyes drifted behind her, then to her side. He finally stuck his head out the door and looked over to the Waverley house. Sydney knew what he was doing, and she wondered how Claire had managed to make this guy so smitten. Maybe he had a thing for control freaks. “Claire’s not with me.”

  He looked chagrined. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back. “Please, come in.”

  She’d been in the house a few times when she was young, when old lady Sanderson lived there. A lot had been done to the place. It was brighter, and it smelled a lot better. Old lady Sanderson had been feline friendly. There was a nice red couch and some comfortable chairs in the living room, but they were placed oddly, like that was where the movers had set them. There were rows and rows of unframed paintings propped against the walls, and cardboard boxes were everywhere. “I didn’t realize you’d just moved in.”