Garden Spells

by Sarah Addison Allen

  “The flowers grown in our backyard are special. Or maybe it’s the way the dishes made from them are prepared that makes them so special. They can affect the eater. You’re obviously immune. Or maybe she’s trying too hard, maybe that changes the way it works. I don’t know.”

  Tyler looked at her incredulously. “She’s trying to make me not interested in her?”

  “Which means you’re in already. Let me tell you something about Claire. She likes things that don’t go away. So don’t go away.”

  Tyler leaned against the counter, as if for support, as if someone had pushed him there. For a moment Sydney wondered if she should have revealed something so personal about her sister. Claire obviously didn’t want him to know. But then Tyler smiled, and she knew she’d done the right thing. It had just been such a long time since she’d brought anyone any real happiness that she’d forgotten what it was like. Claire was doing so much for her. This was something she could give Claire. She could show her she could have happiness outside of what she knew. Happiness with Tyler. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

  “Good.” Sydney looked away. The words of a good man could bring tears to a woman’s eyes. She envied Claire for this, for Tyler. She’d known a lot of men after she left Bascom, none of them good. She didn’t even think she’d know what to do with a good man now. “Drink up,” she said, turning away and walking around the kitchen.

  Tyler lifted his glass to his lips and took a sip. “This is good. Unusual, but good.”

  “Welcome to Claire’s world.”

  “So what are your good memories?” he asked.

  She walked to his nook, past the easels, and looked out the windows. “It’s so strange. My good memories are of this week. Everything in all my years of living, and this week has been the best week of my life. You?”

  “It’s good wine, but I’m not getting anything. I’m just thinking of Claire.”

  She smiled and drank some more. “You’re hopeless.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Bascom’s Fourth of July celebration was held every year on the square downtown. On the green by the fountain, families and church groups set up tables and canopies and brought food so everyone could sample delicacies, like a big potluck, before the fireworks display. Waverleys always brought honeysuckle wine so people could see in the dark, but, whether or not the town knew it, the wine also brought about a few revelations every Fourth of July. A side effect of being able to see in the dark, after all, is being aware of things you weren’t aware of before.

  The Waverleys had a table off to the side—a most popular table, to be sure, but set apart from everyone else. Sydney fidgeted in her seat. Bay was over in the supervised children’s area, making paper hats and getting her face painted, so it was just Sydney and Claire and the honeysuckle hooch. People would quietly come by for small paper cups of honeysuckle wine, like it was somehow hallowed, and every once in a while the sheriff would stroll by and ask, “Now, this is nonalcoholic, right?”

  And Claire would answer, straight-faced, as every Waverley had, “Of course.”

  When Sydney was a teenager, the Fourth of July always meant spending the day at a friend’s pool, then showing up on the green just in time for the fireworks. She felt older than other people her age now, people like her old high-school friends, most of whom had obviously come from backyard barbecues or pool parties and had tans and bathing-suit straps peeking out from under their shirts. Emma was at the Presbyterian church’s table, talking with Eliza Beaufort. Knowing what she knew now, Sydney didn’t envy that life of privilege anymore. Curious then, that she felt sad for losing something she never had. Maybe she just missed friendship in general, the camaraderie of people her own age.

  Sydney looked away. “I can’t remember the last time I sat here at the Waverley table,” she said to Claire.

  “It has been a while.”

  She took a deep breath. “It feels okay.”

  “Why are you so uncomfortable? No one is going to throw rotten tomatoes at us.”

  “Right,” Sydney said. She could be like Claire and not care what anyone thought. She was even starting to dress like Claire—crisp sleeveless button-downs, khaki pants, madras shorts, flowy sundresses. What Claire had said that day at the salon, that she had Waverley magic, changed her mind-set completely. She felt like a Waverley. But right now it was a little like living in a country where she didn’t speak the language yet. She could dress like the natives, and it was nice, but a little lonely. “It’s okay to be strange. I can get used to this.”

  “We’re not strange. We are who we are. Hello, Evanelle!”

  Evanelle had walked up to them and taken a cup of wine. “Whew, I need this,” she said, throwing back the wine like a shot. “There’s so much to do. I need to give something to Bay.” She set the cup down and brought a truly gaudy brooch out of her tote bag. Faintly 1950s, the brooch was made of clear but yellowing crystal in a starburst pattern.

  “She’s getting her face painted right now,” Sydney said.

  “Okay, I’ll stop by there. Fred is helping me organize my house. He’s been a real help. I found this in an old jewelry box we came across, and when I saw it I knew I had to give it to Bay.”

  Claire leaned forward in her seat. “Fred has been helping you?”

  “He’s come up with a system for all the stuff I have. He created something called a spreadsheet.”

  “I’ve been offering to help you do that for years, Evanelle,” Claire said. Sydney turned to her curiously. Claire seemed hurt.

  “I know. I didn’t want to bother you with it. But since Fred is living with me—”

  “Living with you?” Claire exclaimed. “I thought he was just staying with you for a while.”

  “Well, we figured he might as well be comfortable while he’s there. He’s turning the attic into his own little apartment and making some improvements around the house. It’s been real handy having him around.”

  “You know if you ever need me, I’m here for you,” Claire said.

  “I know. You’re a good girl.” She put the brooch back in her tote bag. “After Bay, I have to take some nails to Reverend McQuail and a mirror to MaryBeth Clancy, then that will be it and I’ll meet Fred by the fountain. I hate big crowds, always so much to do. I’ll see you later.”

  “Bye, Evanelle. Call me if you need me!”

  Sydney snorted. “Oh, yeah. We’re strange.”

  “We are not,” Claire said, distracted. “What do you think of Fred staying with Evanelle?”

  “I think it’s sad that he and James are having problems.” Sydney shrugged. “But Evanelle seems to like having him there.”

  “Hmm.”

  A few minutes and another walk-by from the sheriff later, Sydney nudged Claire. “In case you haven’t noticed, Tyler keeps looking at you.”

  Claire snuck a glance, then groaned. “Damn. You had to go and make eye contact. Now he’s coming over.”

  “Oh, heaven forbid.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not the only one who’s being stared down. You’ve got one too.” Claire indicated a canopy across the green with HOPKINS DAIRY written on it. There was a handsome man there, blond and lean and tan, scooping ice cream out of electric ice-cream makers to put on paper cones. He was solid, as if made to withstand wind. He kept looking over to the Waverley table.

  “Does he think we need some ice cream? Maybe we look hot.”

  “That’s Henry Hopkins,” Claire said.

  “Henry!” From a distance Sydney couldn’t make out his features, but now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about his hair, his deliberate movements. “I’d almost forgotten him.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew him.” Claire started to stand, but Sydney caught her arm. “Let go. I forgot something in the van.”

  “You didn’t forget anything. You’re trying to avoid Tyler. And, yes, I knew Henry. We were…friends, I guess. In elementary school. We grew apart after th
at.”

  “Why?” Claire asked, tugging against Sydney’s hand, her eyes darting to Tyler as he got closer.

  “Because I was a blind ass in high school,” Sydney said.

  “You were not.”

  “Was so.”

  “Were not.”

  “Hello, ladies. Need a referee?”

  Sydney released Claire’s arm now that her work was done. “Hi, Tyler.”

  “Claire, your hair,” Tyler said, and Claire’s hand went to her hair self-consciously. She was wearing the white headband Evanelle had given her, which made her look as young and innocent as she pretended not to be. “It’s beautiful. I had a dream…I dreamed your hair was like this once. I’m sorry, there was really no way for that not to sound stupid.” He laughed, then rubbed his hands together. “So, everyone keeps telling me I need to drink some of the Waverleys’ honeysuckle wine. Either it’s a town tradition, or everyone is in on this Claire-trying-to-make-me-not-interested-in-her game.”

  “What?”

  “Sydney told me what you were trying to do with the dishes you were giving me.”

  Claire turned to Sydney, who tried to look sheepish but felt otherwise unrepentant.

  “Honeysuckle wine helps you see in the dark,” Claire said stiffly. “Have it or don’t have it. Walk into a tree when it gets dark. Fall over a curb. I don’t care.”

  Tyler picked up a paper cup and smiled at her. “This means I’ll be able to see you in the dark.”

  “I haven’t worked out all the glitches in the recipe yet.”

  Tyler drank the wine, not taking his eyes off her as he did so. Sydney just sat back and smiled. It was like watching a dance when only one of the dancers knew the steps.

  When Tyler walked away, Claire rounded on her sister. “You told him?”

  “Why are you so surprised? You should have known. I’m predictable like that.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am so.”

  “Oh, go socialize and stop feeling your Waverley oats,” Claire said, shaking her head. But there it was, a hint of a smile, the beginning of something new and close between them.

  It felt good.

  Henry Hopkins could still remember the day he and Sydney Waverley became friends. Sydney was sitting alone inside the dome of the monkey bars during recess. He’d never understood why other kids didn’t want to play with her, but he went along because that’s what everyone else did. But that day there was something about her, she seemed so sad, so he went over to her and started climbing the bars above her. He wasn’t actually going to talk to her, but he thought she might feel better having someone around. She watched him awhile before she asked him, “Henry, do you remember your mother?”

  He’d laughed at her. “Of course I do. I saw her this morning. Don’t you remember yours?”

  “She left last year. I’m starting to forget her. When I grow up, I’m never leaving my kids. I’m going to see them every day and not let them forget me.”

  Henry remembered feeling ashamed, a feeling so intense he actually fell off the monkey bars. And from that day forward, he stuck like glue to Sydney at school. For four years, they played and ate lunch together and compared homework answers and buddied up on class projects.

  He had no reason to expect that, on their first day of middle school after summer break, things would be any different. But then he walked into their homeroom and there she was. She’d grown in ways that made his pubescent head spin. She looked like autumn, when leaves turned and fruit ripened. She smiled at him and he immediately turned around and left the room. He spent the rest of homeroom in the bathroom. Every time she tried to speak to him that day, he felt like fainting and he ran away. After a while, she stopped trying.

  It was so unexpected, that attraction, and it made him miserable. He wanted things back the way they were. Sydney was fun and bright and could tell things about people just by the way they wore their hair, which he thought was absolutely amazing. He told his grandfather about it, about how there was this girl who was just a friend but suddenly things changed and he didn’t know what to do. His grandfather said that things happened the way they were supposed to, and it was no use trying to predict what was going to come next. People liked to think otherwise, but what you thought had no practical influence on what eventually happened. You can’t think yourself well. You can’t make yourself fall out of love.

  He was sure Sydney thought he had abandoned her, like her mother, or that he didn’t want to be her friend, like the other kids. He felt terrible. In the end, Hunter John Matteson fell hard for her and did what Henry couldn’t—he actually told her. Henry watched while Hunter John’s friends became her friends and she began to act like them, laughing at people in the hallways, even Henry.

  That was so long ago. He’d heard she was back in town, but he didn’t think much of it. Just like before, he had no reason to expect that her coming back would make things any different.

  Then he saw her, and the whole thing started over again, that curious wanting, that sensation of seeing her again for the first time. Hopkins men always married older women, so he wondered if seeing her change, get older, made him feel like this. Like when she grew up over the summer before sixth grade. Like coming back after ten years looking wiser, more experienced.

  “You’re staring so hard you’re going to knock her over.”

  Henry turned to his grandfather, who was sitting in his aluminum lawn chair behind the tables. He was holding his cane and every once in a while called out to passersby like a carnival barker. “I was staring?”

  “For the past thirty minutes,” Lester said. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Heads up. She’s on the move.”

  Henry turned and saw that Sydney had left the Waverley table and was walking to the children’s area. Her hair shone in the sun, bright like honey. She went to her daughter and laughed when her daughter put a paper hat on her head. Sydney said something to her, her daughter nodded, and together they walked hand in hand toward him.

  They were walking toward him.

  He wanted to run to the bathroom, just like he did in middle school.

  When they approached the table, Sydney smiled. “Hi, Henry.”

  Henry was afraid to move for fear he would explode from the riot going on in his body.

  “Do you remember me?” Sydney asked.

  He nodded.

  “This is my daughter, Bay.”

  He nodded again.

  Sydney looked disappointed but shrugged it off and discussed the choices of ice cream with her daughter. There was chocolate mint, strawberry rhubarb, caramel peach, and vanilla coffee. It was his grandfather’s idea. Give people something they don’t know they like yet. They’ll always remember you for it. The wives of some of the dairy workers were helping that day. Henry did some scooping, but it was clear the women were in charge.

  “Could we have two chocolate mint, please?” Sydney finally asked.

  Henry immediately scooped out small balls of ice cream and put them on the paper cones. Sydney watched him while he did it, her eyes on his hands, then traveling up his forearms, then finally to his face.

  She studied him as he handed them the cones. Still, he didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even smile.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Henry. You look good.” She and her daughter turned and walked away. Halfway across the green, she looked over her shoulder at him.

  “That was the most pitiful display I’ve ever seen,” Lester finally said, cackling. “I was shocked by a milking machine once when I was a boy. Knocked me off my feet. You look like I felt.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t say anything,” Henry said.

  “Zap! That machine got me. Couldn’t say a word. I just opened and closed my mouth like a fish,” Lester said, and laughed some more. He lifted his cane and poked Henry in the leg. “Zzzzzzzzppppp!”

  Henry jumped in surprise. “Very funny,” he said
, and started to laugh.

  Evanelle and Fred sat on the rock bench circling the fountain. They waved as Sydney and Bay passed, eating ice cream. Bay had the ugly brooch Evanelle had given her pinned to her pink T-shirt, and Evanelle felt guilty. Bay was so conscientious and concerned for others’ feelings that she felt she had to wear the pin just because Evanelle gave it to her. But that wasn’t a pin for a little girl. Why on earth did Evanelle need to give her such a thing? She sighed. She might never know.

  “I’m nervous,” Fred finally said, rubbing his hands on his neatly pressed shorts.

  Evanelle turned to him. “You look it.”

  Fred stood and paced. Evanelle stayed where she was, in the shade of the oak-leaf sculpture. Fred was hot and bothered enough for the both of them. “He said he’d be here to talk. In public. What does he think I’m going to do if we’re alone, shoot him?”

  “Men. You can’t live with them, you can’t shoot them.”

  “How can you be so calm? How would you feel if your husband said he’d show up and didn’t?”

  “Given that he’s dead, Fred, I wouldn’t be real surprised.”

  Fred sat back down. “I’m sorry.”

  Evanelle patted his knee. It had been nearly a month since Fred had asked for sanctuary in her home, and he had become an unexpected bright spot to her days. The whole arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but slowly, surely, Fred was moving in. He and Evanelle had spent days going through all her old things in the attic, and Fred seemed to enjoy the stories she told. He was footing the bill to renovate the attic space, and workers with nice posteriors started showing up, which Evanelle enjoyed so much she shoved a chair to the base of the stairs just so she could sit and watch them walk up.

  It all had a nice ring of domesticity to it, and Fred would say he knew he deserved better than the way James was treating him. But sometimes, when Evanelle would pass him the butter at dinner, or hand him a hammer to hold while she hung a picture on the wall, he would look at what she’d given him, then look back at her with such expectation that her heart would crack like dry wood for him. Even with all his brave words, he still secretly harbored the belief that one day Evanelle was going to give him something that would make everything all right with James.