The Night Garden: A Novel

by Lisa Van Allen

  As Sam crossed toward her, walking quickly, then jogging, then beginning to sprint, she tried to hold on to the finality of her decision. But Sam’s face as he neared her was bright, almost ecstatic, and even without knowing what had made him so happy, his obvious joy and excitement washed over her, a feeling not unlike watching the sun rise over the mountains, filling the valley with light.

  “Olivia!”

  In the distance, she heard a rumble that must have been thunder. And she realized the scent of lightning was in the air.

  “Olivia!” He was breathless when he reached her, his eyes brighter than she’d ever seen them, and he took her by her upper arms.

  “Sam—what are you—”

  She couldn’t finish the question; he’d kissed her. Her eyes flew open. She tried to pull away. “Sam!”

  “Olivia—it’s okay,” he said, his lips moving against her. His arms came around her, one hand a pressure at the small of her back, pulling her against him, the other at her neck, his thumb hitting the pulse that beat hard below her jaw, angling her mouth beneath his, and then she closed her eyes and couldn’t stop kissing him if she wanted to. His body was hard against hers, his shoulders wide under her hands, his kiss relentless. The thunder rumbled and she thought, Is this a dream? She touched his face, felt the stubble of his cheek, arched her back for the pleasure of friction against her breasts, ran her hand into his hair.

  It was Sam who broke the kiss; his eyes were black and dancing. He pulled away only enough to look at her. She saw a flash of lightning, heard thunder like the snap of a whip echoing over the hills. Sam didn’t turn his head. His lips were parted, his breath coming fast, his hands running over her, everywhere.

  “Sam—you kissed me.”

  “Oh yes. I know. And I plan to do it again.”

  He leaned in, but she stopped him with her hands on his chest. “Wait. You have to tell me what happened.”

  He groaned. His thumb ran along her bottom lip even as he licked his own. “This morning. I woke up in the garden with my arms around you. I thought I was going right back to the hospital again. But I’m fine, Olivia. I’m completely fine!”

  She thought of the night, of how warm she’d been, then how cold. They’d found each other in their sleep. She could have hurt him. She tried to move away. “We should go slow. You’re still recovering.”

  “No. No more going slow.”

  “But we don’t know that it’s safe.”

  “I know my own body. Trust me. It’s safe.” He tugged her bottom lip down with the pad of his thumb, then threaded his hands in her hair. “I’m not waiting. Not another second. Please don’t make me.”

  He kissed her again, openmouthed and hot. Her whole body flushed with heat. She felt an odd sensation on the top of her head, but she could barely register it. It took a moment to realize it was raining. Raining! She pulled away from him, laughing. The rain was coming down hard and fast—too much rain all at once—but she didn’t care. She lifted her face to the sky, and the rain fell warm and cleansing in fat, heavy drops, and then Sam was kissing her again, her wet cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth, and touching her through her soaking clothes. His kiss shifted, an increased urgency. He drew her up against him.

  “Olivia,” he said. Little silver droplets clung to his eyelashes. “Ask me inside.”

  She looked into his face, held between her two hands. The thunder was rumbling, and through it she could hear the songs of birds. If there was a thing she meant to tell him, all thoughts of it were gone. “Yes,” she said. And she took his hands tightly in hers and laughed, and then dodged through the silo door, the scent of rain dragging in behind them.

  Rose-Colored Glasses

  For a night and a day the rainfall continued, the initial downpour tapering off and giving way to a slow, steady, soaking rain. With preternatural quickness, Green Valley revived. The grass went from dull yellow to a bright, youthful green. The fish in Hemlock Pond did airborne backflips with quick-flashing vigor, and flowers that should have closed in bad weather opened wide. Only the valley’s goats were annoyed by the change in weather; they hunkered under a plastic roof behind the salvage yard, and glared at the dance of rain.

  While Olivia and Sam made the most of their newfound closeness, the rumor mill was grinding away. But this time the engine that powered the latest speculations was located smack in the center of the Pennywort farm. The source was credible: One of the Penny Loafers had said that she’d heard Olivia Pennywort say that she couldn’t touch Sam Van Winkle because if she did she would hurt him. The girl, Mei, spared no detail: She made me check his pulse because she wouldn’t touch him. Would you let somebody do that to your boyfriend if you could just do it yourself? Some women defended Olivia—everyone knew she didn’t like to be touched. She’d always been that way. And Mei must have misheard.

  But Mei was emphatic: She told me flat out that she’s poisonous. Seriously. She said it. There’s something weird about this place and it all starts with her. As the boarders scrutinized evidence and swapped explanations, word about Olivia’s odd behavior began to spread, fanning out into the community as beans were exchanged for dollars over the counter of the Pennywort farm stand.

  But Olivia had no idea. From her high silo window, she saw the whole of Green Valley, the gray clouds over her rustred barn, the trees appearing greener as the dust dribbled off their leaves, and it was as if everything was opening up in a new way—herself included. As far as she could tell, all of Green Valley was reeling in the same high giddiness she was, as if the rain were as potent and intoxicating as wine. This, she knew, was love: the feeling of the outside world reflecting her inner joy right back at her. The feeling that happiness was a circle, with no beginning or end. She didn’t know if Sam’s immunity to her skin was permanent or temporary, but she was too preoccupied to spend much time worrying about it. In their haven in the silo, there was no room for the past or the future: only what was now.

  She felt Sam’s arms wrap around her from behind. They had not bothered with clothes since the silo door had shut behind them yesterday evening. The insides of his forearms, which curled around her midsection, were smooth and warm.

  “What time do you think it is?” he asked.

  “Evening,” she said. He kissed her shoulder and she sighed. She felt Sam’s stomach growl—felt it on her middle back where he was pressed against her—and she laughed for the joy of discovering that such a thing was possible. “You need to eat.”

  “I’ll run out and get us something.”

  She turned to him, with the window at her back. She laughed and kissed his sternum, then his clavicle, then his neck. He wrapped her tighter in his arms.

  “Maybe it can wait,” he said. In bed, he rolled her beneath him and kissed her, and though she didn’t think it was possible for her body to rally the resources to respond to him again, the now-familiar pressure was already building everywhere he touched. She let him make love to her through a haze of blissful tiredness, gave herself completely without a single thought to the approaching return of real life.

  She felt his breath hitch, knew he was close, and tipped up her hips a little more. When he collapsed against her, she felt a surge of feminine triumph that she was certain went all the way back to Eve. He lifted his head from her shoulder, panting.

  “Now, dinner?” he said.

  She laughed again.

  Olivia was not in the silo bedroom when Sam woke the next morning. He showered, dreading his return to work and whatever new failures were in store for him, then went in search of her. He found her in her kitchen. The Pennywort farm was a patchwork of things borrowed, broken, and cobbled together—tractors and harrows that had long given up the will to live were coaxed into continued use through various jury-rigged contraptions. Repairs had to be made with or without the part that was needed for the repair. But Olivia’s kitchen was the exception to the Pennyworts’ natural frugality: It was as big and beautiful as a kitchen could be. Olivia would not spr
ing for new clothes or order designer bedsheets, but her kitchen was modern and high-tech. Why have a farm if you’re not going to enjoy your food? she said.

  But now, as Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the work she did seemed more anxious than relaxing. She was shuttling glass jars from one counter to another, lifting silver lids to check boiling vats on her stove, banging and clanging and thumping as she went. The air was as muggy as if a tropical storm had passed through the valley and left a thick, soupy humidity in its wake. Heaps of fruits and vegetables were piled on the counters or lumped in bowls. She wore a yellow tank top that was nearly threadbare, her hair piled high on her head and her face ruddy with heat and hard work.

  Sam wanted to go to her. But he only stood and watched her strange and obsessive work that put him in mind of a lunatic scientist hell-bent on bending the laws of nature to his whim. When she finally did notice him standing there, she barely offered a nod. She continued on with her work—hyper and almost klutzy—as if he weren’t there.

  “So … what is it you’re doing, exactly?” he asked.

  “Canning,” she said. Then, after a moment. “Getting ready.”

  “For what?”

  “For winter.”

  She continued to work in silence.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” She didn’t answer immediately; she was slicing a carrot with such focused rage it appeared the tuber had personally offended her. He spoke softly. “I’m not great in the kitchen, but I know for a fact that I’ve got an exceptional talent for stirring things.”

  “I’ve got it,” she said.

  He sat down on one of the stools at the granite counter. He watched her fevered work as she removed one set of glass jars from a boiling pot, then carefully lowered other jars in.

  “Do you do this every year?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How many … jars do you make?”

  “Enough,” she said.

  He understood what she was doing—why she was sealing up the summer’s tomatoes and cucumbers beneath glass and tin. The past few weeks had been the best of Sam’s life. If he could take them and stretch them out to fill all the years of his life, he knew he would never be in danger of unhappiness again. He too wanted to bottle up the moment, preserve it under wax or metal. He knew something that Olivia did not: It was coming to an end.

  A rash had appeared on his belly this morning. It was just a nothing little hint of red, a faint wisp like a distant cloud. He told himself, It could be anything, and he tried to make himself believe it. But deep down, he knew.

  The effects of his allergic reaction to the honey had only been temporary.

  Olivia lifted another bunch of mason jars out of a boiling pot, then set them down on tea towels. She was sweating, and her skin glistened as if she’d spent a day at the beach. Sam knew they had a lot to discuss—not only the short-term effects of his reaction and his interest in trying to replicate the response again, but also they needed to talk about marriage. His feelings had not changed. Marrying her, sealing up their future together, seemed even more imperative than it had five days ago. But he would not be able to bring it up now—not when there was a more troubling problem at hand.

  “Olivia.”

  She didn’t slow down. She was frantic with the drive to work, spooning bright red preserves into glass jars.

  “Olivia—stop.”

  She glanced up, her eyebrows lifted. Her hair was curling and darkening in the humidity. She ran the back of her wrist across her forehead. “What?”

  “Can you stop doing that?”

  She looked around the kitchen as if her pots and jars could offer him the reason she could not stop.

  “Please?”

  She put down her spoon and gave him her full attention. But to his surprise, her lower lip started to tremble.

  “Olivia—”

  She held up a hand, her shoulders curling, her face crumpling in sorrow. “I don’t want you to tell me.”

  He was quiet.

  “Once you say it out loud, it’s real.”

  “You already know.”

  She gestured vaguely to his midsection, her face reddening like her jam. “I saw the rash this morning. While you were asleep.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Of course I’m angry. I’m angry! I’m so angry! But …” She wiped a tear. “Not at you. Don’t think I’m angry at you. I’m just—I’m sad. And I haven’t been in the Poison Garden for almost two days. It takes a toll.”

  He went to her but did not take her hand. He felt a wall had been erected between them once again, and he reminded himself: He hadn’t lost anything. Not really. Being able to touch Olivia, for however brief the interlude, was a windfall, not a loss.

  “The last two nights with you were an incredible gift,” he said.

  She sniffed.

  “I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Would you?”

  “No. I just … For one second I was so happy. The way you looked at me—and touched me—I mean, I thought it would be good with us. But I didn’t know it would be like that. How am I supposed to come back from that, Sam? How are you?”

  He touched her cheek; he didn’t care about rashes. “This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

  “How can you say that? I don’t think there’s any way around the fact that it does.”

  He stepped closer, needing to hold her.

  “No, Sam.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not that bad yet. Come here.” He gathered her close, felt the stiff resistance of her body softening as the fight went out of her. His immunity was vanishing, but his desire for her was not. He thought, Just one more time. He kissed her, then. And kissed her again, and again. But when he reached for the hem of her shirt, she pulled away from him abruptly, her hand over her mouth, a look of horror in her eyes.

  “Don’t,” he said. But she was already panicking.

  On the stove one of her pots had started to boil over; she ran to it and flipped the flame off, but the mess had already been made.

  “Son of a—” She grabbed for a towel.

  “Here. Let me help you—”

  “Don’t you have to go?”

  He pulled himself up straight.

  When she spoke again, her tone had softened. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to stay here forever.”

  He smiled.

  She touched her own mouth. “You know you should probably—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “I know what to do.”

  She turned and bent her head over the spilled water, and he knew she was crying again.

  “I’m coming back tomorrow morning, after my shift.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I love you,” he said. He was glad to hear her say it back. His heart cracked like ice in a glass. “We’ll continue this later,” he said.

  *

  As Sam crossed the barnyard and trailed wet footprints behind him in the mud, he was so lost in thought that his sixth sense failed to make him turn his head and notice that he was being watched. With no orders from Olivia and no visitors to occupy them, the Penny Loafers took up the pastime that all people in Green Valley engage in when summer afternoons get long: gossiping. And Sam Van Winkle’s morning trek across the barnyard was excellent lubrication for wagging tongues. The boarders speculated: What was he doing up there that whole time?

  Before the rain, Mei had the Penny Loafers quite convinced that Olivia Pennywort was as poisonous as poison ivy—impossible though it did sound. She’d had nearly all of the Penny Loafers comparing notes and swapping stories until they finally seemed to believe that—yes—Olivia Pennywort was toxic. Possibly.

  But then Sam and Olivia had gone and spent a day and a half holed up together in the silo. And what could they have been doing in there for so long except having sex? Mei made the point that long hours in private did not automatically mean
skin-on-skin contact, but the women of the barn remained unconvinced. Mei repeated old arguments, swore that Olivia said she was poisonous, and tried to convince the Penny Loafers that it wasn’t safe for them on the farm, that they needed to go somewhere else—until finally one of the other women offered the suggestion Mei was angling for all along: The only way to know if Olivia was poisonous was to ask her to prove that she wasn’t. If she wasn’t poisonous, she would surely relax her “no touching” rule for a moment just to put everyone at ease. The boarders, those who were convinced of Olivia’s ability as well as those who thought Mei was nuts, agreed that it was time to get all of the speculation out in the open—if only so they could put it behind them and go on with their lives.

  It was noon when Olivia emerged from the silo, squinting into the sun. She had whiled away a good part of the morning feeling sorry for herself, and when she walked out into the cooler air of afternoon, she felt as if she’d stepped into a different world. Everything was sparkling and cheery, the air clean and fresh. There would be a lot of work to do now that the rains had come. The plants that had been such sad little things would start growing fast even though it was nearly the end of the summer season, and she would have to be vigilant about harvesting just before the quick-swelling flesh of her fruits and vegetables caused their skins to split.

  As she approached the garden maze, she saw that it too had gone wild with the joy of the rains. The smell of flowers was so thick it crossed the line from pleasant into nearly repulsive. Inside, Olivia wound through the turns and twists, admiring how rambunctious and joyful her maze seemed, as if it were spring instead of late summer. Morning glories the size of dinner plates stayed open all day long, and thickened beds of coreopsis gave off a mustardy glow. There was a slight breeze that carried the faintest scent of autumn, and far beneath that sweetness, the mineral scent of winter. Her Poison Garden was calling her; she felt its deep pull and promise. But for once, she felt no joy in having to visit her favorite plants and flowers. She hated the garden—hated it for everything it was. She wound her way toward it, ducking under garlands of wisteria and pushing aside sprigs of bright forsythia that had bloomed overnight. Each step and turn brought her closer and closer to the Poison Garden, her sanctuary and hell.