It was a good Sunday afternoon. And Flora even had something good to look forward to on the following Sunday afternoon.
Miss Meriwether had promised to have Flora and Emma Jean to lunch at her apartment to thank them for taking care of the shop while she was in Paris. She knew that her trip had caused a bit of disruption to their Christmas. Miss Meriwether tried to live a cautious and deliberate life, but every now and then she just had to let loose and fly. So she wanted to thank them.
Flora did not really know Miss Meriwether very well outside of the bookshop. It was exciting to be invited for lunch.
So the next Sunday afternoon, Flora and her mother drove over to the blue Victorian house on Lincoln Street where Miss Meriwether rented an apartment on the second floor. The house was trimmed in white and had many stained-glass windows through which the warm interior lights glowed. A black wrought-iron fence made the house look all the more grand.
Miss Meriwether opened the door leading upstairs as soon as Flora and her mother stepped onto the porch.
“Welcome!” she said, and hugged them both. “Welcome to my petit appartement!”
Flora looked at her mother.
“Small apartment,” her mother said, smiling.
They climbed the stairs and entered Miss Meriwether’s home.
Flora took one look and loved it.
There were plants everywhere! On antique desks and tables and in large urns in corners and hanging in every window. And the plants were unlike any Flora had ever seen in a home.
“Your plants,” said Flora, “they are so . . .”
“Eccentric!” said Miss Meriwether. “Like me!”
Miss Meriwether took Flora and her mother on a tour of her plants. Their names were as interesting as their shapes, names such as Elephant’s Ear and Staghorn Fern and Paddle Plant. One large window was draped with a Passion Vine. And there was a miniature glass house sitting on an iron stand, and inside it were many lush ferns and mosses and orchids.
“This is a terrarium,” said Miss Meriwether. “It is always nice and moist in there, and I rarely have to add water.”
“I saw a picture in a book of a big building that looked like this,” said Flora, “and it was full of plants and even trees.”
“That was a conservatory,” said Miss Meriwether.
“I would love to visit one,” Flora said.
“There is a conservatory in Indianapolis,” said Miss Meriwether.
“Really?” asked Flora. She would tell Nessy. Maybe they could visit it together.
Miss Meriwether had the most interesting home Flora had ever seen. It looked just like the home of a free spirit. A line of square cloths with writing on them was hung across the top of the bay window, and these, Miss Meriwether explained, were prayer flags from Nepal, where she had once lived.
“The five colors represent the elements,” she explained. “Blue for sky, white for wind, red for fire, green for water, and yellow for earth.”
“So pretty,” said Flora.
“In the Himalayas,” said Miss Meriwether, “very large prayer flags fly on the mountain passes, blowing prayers to the wind so that peace can spread to all people.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Flora’s mother.
Miss Meriwether had a very small kitchen with a very small table crammed into a corner, barely large enough for three people. An old cabinet with glass doors stood next to it, and its shelves were filled with many old tea tins and teapots. Flora read the names on some of the tins: Black Dragon, Tippy South Cloud, Monkey King. Being a word-lover, of course she enjoyed the unusual names.
When Flora and Emma Jean squeezed themselves into their chairs, Miss Meriwether revealed what had created the delicious aroma throughout the apartment: potato soup. She ladled the hot creamy chunks of potatoes and herbs into large pottery bowls. Then she sliced a fresh loaf of what she called Grainy Bread and placed the slices on the table beside a dish of rich butter.
“It is still winter in Indiana,” said Miss Meriwether. “Soup is a must!”
The three had a wonderful lunch, and Miss Meriwether talked about whales and dolphins and how intelligent they are. She said they needed protection.
“I will protect them,” said Flora.
“Good,” said Miss Meriwether, smiling. “Good. You will do so much for the world, Flora, I just know that you will.”
Dessert was a lovely rice pudding with raisins, served in small Japanese bowls with cups of oolong tea.
“The pudding is so good,” said Flora.
“Thank you, dear,” answered Miss Meriwether. “It is a recipe from an old yoga instructor during my limber years.”
Flora smiled. She could just imagine Miss Meriwether standing on her head while her instructor cooked pudding.
At the end of their visit, Flora and Emma Jean thanked Miss Meriwether and promised to have her to their house when the tulips bloomed.
“I would love that,” said Miss Meriwether. “And I can say hello to Miss Fluffy Tail,” she added with a smile.
As Flora and her mother drove back home, Flora could still smell Miss Meriwether’s potato soup, could still remember all the colors of the stained glass. She thought that she would like to have an apartment like that one day.
And she thought also about what Miss Meriwether had said concerning whales and dolphins, how Flora could help protect them. Here in Indiana, with farm fields spreading out in all directions, the world’s oceans seemed so far away from her own small life.
But then she remembered the encyclopedia. And she told herself that she would choose the O volume next time, and find “ocean,” and become better acquainted with its creatures.
Maybe one day she would travel far away and take a boat and meet some of them.
But always return to Rosetown.
23
Serenity the cat loved to sleep in the warm light of a sunbeam shining through window glass, and most especially in spring when all the birds had returned to Rosetown to entertain her. With the sound of birdsong coming from every tree, Serenity closed her eyes and purred with pleasure.
And because it was now spring, Flora had recently celebrated her tenth birthday. She was a bit unsettled to be at an age made up of two numbers instead of just one. Flora was not always receptive to change, and there was something in her that held on to the old, even to a single-number age, as nine had been. But she was adjusting to ten, and it helped that Nessy had also recently had a birthday, turning nine. If Nessy was always just right behind her, thought Flora, then surely things would not change too much. Flora could simply hand Nessy the age that Flora had been, like passing along an outgrown favorite coat. And they could adjust to the new numbers together.
Flora’s need to hold on to the old probably had something to do with growing up in Rosetown, for very little changed, outwardly, there, and most people felt that this was a good thing. There were even old posts along the streets, here and there, that were meant for tying up a horse someone would ride to town. Many years had passed since someone had ridden a horse to the Rosetown Bank and Trust or to City Hall, but still most people could not part with the old hitching posts, so they remained. Flora was very much like those sorts of people.
And what better place, then, for her than a shop filled with old books? Wings and a Chair Used Books had become very important to Yury, too. For when his family had left the Ukraine, they’d left behind all the old books of their own country. Reading vintage books with Flora had given Yury his own experience of memory and belonging. For with each book read, a spinner thread was sent out, connecting him to the past. He could always say to Flora, “Remember when the Mercer Boys rescued Colonel Morrell?” And Flora remembered with him.
One day on their walk Flora asked Yury whether he might become a doctor like his father.
“Oh, no,” said Yury. “I would not have the patience.”
“Patients?” repeated Flora. “Well, they would show up eventually.”
“No,” said
Yury, smiling. “Patience. I do not have the patience to wait for results.”
“Oh,” said Flora. “Patience.”
“My father says that the most important element of healing is time,” said Yury. “He says that many people do not understand that time is their friend.”
“I think it is,” said Flora. She had always been a cautious person, and the more time she had to decide about a thing, the better she felt. Time was her friend.
“I am impatient,” said Yury. “I would not be a good doctor.”
“Well, what then?” asked Flora.
“I could rescue people,” said Yury. “I could battle the elements to reach them on glaciers or out in the ocean.”
“You could even train Friday to help,” said Flora.
“That’s it!” Yury said excitedly. “I will be a Search and Rescue person, and Friday will be my right-hand dog!”
It made sense to Flora. Even though Yury was very smart and could become a fine doctor, Flora could see that what Yury said was true: he needed to help people but without having to wait around.
“If you take Friday,” she said, “you will need to teach him hand signals. The wind might be so loud that he wouldn’t be able to hear you when you say ‘stay.’ ”
“The advanced dog classes teach hand signals,” said Yury.
He looked at Flora with happiness on his face.
“I believe I have just found my calling,” he said.
“Probably,” said Flora. “But first you have to pass fourth grade.”
Yury looked at her and smiled.
“I can do that,” he said.
24
There is something about spring that makes an unchanging thing suddenly seem changeable. Even Laurence’s passing had been in spring, so he, too, must have felt the invitation to change. He had left the good earth a year ago, and what happened next for him no one could know, but they all hoped it would include pumpkin. Laurence had loved pumpkin.
But for Flora this spring, the unchanging thing that seemed ready to change was her parents’ marriage.
For all these many months Flora and Serenity had been going back and forth between the white house and the yellow house, and her parents had remained connected to each other in helpful and cooperative ways. But neither Forster nor Emma Jean had given Flora any hint that change might be in the stars. It was not until Flora’s father began talking to her about that very thing—a change in the stars—that Flora realized something new was happening to her family.
In mid-April her father was driving her to visit Nessy, and they had been talking about their favorite foods, when Flora’s father suddenly changed the subject.
“Has your teacher mentioned the April Lyrids by chance?” Flora’s father asked her.
“Lyrids?” repeated Flora.
“Yes,” said her father. “April Lyrids.”
“No,” said Flora. “What is an April Lyrid?”
“The Lyrids are meteor showers that happen every April,” said her father. “Shooting stars, a lot of them. This might be a good year for seeing them in Indiana.”
“Will we see them?” asked Flora.
“That is what I thought I’d ask you,” said her father. “I thought maybe I’d drive you out to the countryside where the sky is darkest, and we could watch them for an hour.”
“That sounds good,” said Flora.
“And I thought I would ask Emma Jean to come with us,” added her father.
“My mother Emma Jean?” asked Flora.
“I think she is probably the only Emma Jean we know so far,” her father answered with a smile.
“Do you think she will want to come with us?” asked Flora.
“I am pretty sure she will,” said her father.
Obviously changes had been happening right under Flora’s nose.
She was silent a few moments.
Then she said, “That would be wonderful.”
So wonderful that it made her worry that watching shooting stars with both her parents might not happen at all.
“Good,” said her father.
They both were silent another few moments.
“The Lyrids are found in the constellation Lyra. They have been occurring for more than two thousand years,” her father finally said.
“Two thousand,” repeated Flora.
“More than,” said her father.
“And people can wish on them, right?” asked Flora.
“Yes,” said her father. “People can wish on shooting stars.”
They arrived at the big gate, and soon they were pulling up in front of Nessy’s pretty brick house. Nessy and her mother opened the front door and waved to them.
“So just let me know when,” Flora said as she got out of the car. “About the stars.”
“Definitely,” said her father.
Flora ran up to Nessy at the door.
“I can’t believe it,” said Flora. “My parents and I are going on a date!”
25
It was the following Monday when Flora’s teacher, Mr. Cooper, asked if he might speak with her for a few minutes after school. Naturally she said yes, and naturally she thought that she must be in trouble. Unlike some other children she saw who broke rules so easily that it seemed they were born to break them, Flora tried to follow rules to the letter. This was in part due to conscience, but it was also the result of being sensitive. She just could not bear the thought of being singled out for discipline. She might shatter like a piece of glass.
So for the rest of the hour until the final bell rang, Flora was so anxious that she could think of nothing else except what she might have done wrong. She missed everything Mr. Cooper said about the rain forest and about the homework assignment on the subject. Flora wondered if she was having something she had heard about called an out-of-body experience. But she felt her nose and her knees and decided that was not happening. It was just fear, plain and simple.
When the final bell rang, Flora asked Yury to wait outside for her. This being Monday, it was their day to walk together to the bookshop. Yury’s eyes got wide when she told him that Mr. Cooper wanted to speak with her, and the look on Yury’s face relieved her fear not one bit.
When the room had emptied out, Mr. Cooper asked Flora to come up and sit at a front-row desk. Flora felt so hot that she thought she might faint.
Then Mr. Cooper came around to sit on the edge of his big desk, in front of her, and he gave her a warm and reassuring smile. He had taken some kind of book from his drawer, and now he brought it forth.
“Flora,” said Mr. Cooper, “thank you for staying after school an extra few minutes. I wanted to talk to you about this.”
He handed Flora the book. It was not a book, though, but a sturdy, thick little magazine. The cover read CRICKET in large letters. Beneath that, in smaller letters: the magazine for children.
Flora could not guess why she was holding this in her hands, but she was fairly certain now that she was not in trouble, and her temperature started to return to normal.
Flora looked at the magazine, then looked up at Mr. Cooper.
“It is a new publication just for young people,” said Mr. Cooper. “Especially young people who love reading and writing.”
Flora nodded her head and waited.
“I’m going to loan it to you for a week,” said Mr. Cooper. “Then I’ll need it back to use in the classroom.”
“It’s a homework assignment?” asked Flora.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Cooper. “This magazine is an invitation. An invitation for you to be a young writer.”
Flora still did not understand. How could a ten-year-old be a writer?
“Look,” said Mr. Cooper. He took the magazine from her hands and turned several pages until he found a certain section.
“Here,” he said. “These pages are what I want you to think about. Every month the magazine includes stories and poems written by children. See? Ages nine to twelve.”
Flora leaned forward as
he held up the magazine. She read Story Contest and Poetry Contest. She looked again at Mr. Cooper.
“Do you mean that I should enter a contest?” she asked. Flora was not very competitive. She was unsure about contests.
“I do,” said Mr. Cooper. “Because, Flora, you are a very good writer. And don’t worry about the word ‘contest.’ The magazine chooses winners for every issue. It is not a one-time-only contest. You could send in something every month.”
He paused.
“It could be your job,” he said with a small laugh.
Flora smiled for the first time in the past hour and ten minutes.
“So take this home,” said Mr. Cooper, “and sleep on it, okay?”
“Okay,” said Flora. “Thank you, Mr. Cooper.”
She wanted to tell him that she enjoyed not only writing but also following the rules. But she decided just to say good-bye and to go find Yury.
He was sitting on the school’s front steps.
“What did you do?” he asked the moment he saw her.
Flora was slightly offended that Yury obviously thought she had broken a rule. But she could hardly blame him, as she herself had thought the very same thing.
She told Yury about Mr. Cooper and the magazine as they walked to the bookshop.
“That’s fantastic,” said Yury.
“It is?” asked Flora.
“Of course,” said Yury. “Mr. Cooper is telling you something important. He is telling you that you are talented.”
“I am not talented,” said Flora. “I don’t even like the word ‘talented.’ ”
“Okay,” said Yury. “Now that I think about it, neither do I. What about ‘creative’?”
Flora thought of her father and his photography. She had always considered her father to be creative. Creative seemed much friendlier than talented.
“I can live with that,” she said.
Flora looked through the magazine as they walked.
“There are a lot of stories in here by real writers,” she said.
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