Garden Spells Part 10

"Sure," Fred said, following her, as if glad to be told what to do. "Thank you."

Well, isn't this nice, Evanelle thought as they sat on the couch with a bowl of popcorn. They watched the eleven o'clock news together, and then Fred washed the popcorn bowl.

"I'll see you in the morning," Evanelle said as she took a can of c.o.ke from the refrigerator. She liked to open it and leave it on her bedside table and then drink it flat first thing in the morning. "The bathroom's down the hall."

"Wait."

Evanelle turned around.

"Is it true that you once gave my father a spoon when you were kids? And that he used it to dig a quarter out of the dirt when he saw something shiny? And he used the quarter to go to the movies? And that's where he met my mother?"

"It's true that I gave him a spoon. I don't have the power to make things all better, Fred."

"Oh, I understand," he said quickly, looking down and folding the dish towel in his hands. "I was just asking."

Evanelle suddenly realized the real reason he was there.

Most people tried to avoid her because she gave them things.

Fred wanted to move in to be closer, on the off chance she was going to produce something that would make sense out of everything happening with James, that spoon that was going to help him dig out of this.

Sydney, Bay, and Claire sat on the porch that Sunday, eating extra cinnamon buns that Claire had made from her regular Sunday order to the Coffee House. It was hot and things were out of whack. Doork.n.o.bs that everyone swore were on the right side of the doors were actually on the left. b.u.t.ter melted in the refrigerator. Things weren't being said and were left to stew in the air.

"There's Evanelle," Sydney said, and Claire turned to see her coming up the sidewalk.

Evanelle walked up the steps, smiling. "Your mother had two beautiful girls. I'll give her that. But you two don't look so chipper."

"It's the first heat wave. It makes everyone cranky," Claire said as she poured Evanelle a gla.s.s of iced tea from the pitcher she'd brought outside. "How have you been? I haven't seen you in a couple of days."

Evanelle took the gla.s.s and sat in the wicker rocker by Claire. "I've had a guest."

"Who?"

"Fred Walker is staying with me."

"Oh," Claire said, surprised. "Are you okay with that?"

"I'm fine with it."

"I guess the rose geranium wine didn't work."

Evanelle shrugged and sipped her tea. "He never used it."

Claire glanced over to the house next door. "Do you think Fred would let me buy it back?"

"I don't see why not. Got another customer for it?"

"No."

Sydney piped in and said, "She probably wants to use it on Tyler."

Claire gave her a look, but it was only halfhearted. She was right, after all.

Evanelle put her tea down and rooted through her tote bag. "I came because I had to give you this," she said, finally bringing out a white headband and handing it to Claire. "Fred tried to talk me out of giving it to you. He said you use combs, not headbands, that headbands were for people with short hair. He doesn't understand. This This is what I had to give you. It's been a while since I've lived with a man. I forgot how stubborn they can be. They smell right nice, though." is what I had to give you. It's been a while since I've lived with a man. I forgot how stubborn they can be. They smell right nice, though."

Sydney and Claire exchanged glances. "Evanelle, you do know Fred is gay, don't you?" Claire asked gently.

"Of course," she said, laughing, looking happier and lighter than Claire had seen her in ages. "But it's nice to know that you two aren't the only ones who like having me around. So tell me, Sydney, how is work?"

Sydney and Bay were sitting on the porch swing, and Sydney was using one bare foot to gently rock them back and forth. "I have you to thank for it. If you hadn't given me that shirt I returned, I never would have gone into the White Door to see if they had an open booth."

"Fred said he saw you a couple of times last week, getting lunch for the girls. And once he saw you sweeping up."

"That's all I'm good for right now."

"What's the matter?" Claire asked, aware that Sydney had been mopey lately. She'd been so excited about her job at the White Door at first, but as the days wore on she came home earlier and earlier, smiling less and less. Claire had mixed feelings about Sydney's new job. Claire liked working with Sydney, liked having her around. But Sydney had a light to her when she talked of hair. She left every morning with so much hope.

"The clientele at the White Door all seem to know the Clarks and the Mattesons. I had a visit from Hunter John my third day. Apparently some people-and I'm not naming names-aren't happy with that and spread the word. Not that I was busy before, but there seems to be a reason for it now."

"Did you cut his hair?"

"No, he wouldn't let me. It's a shame, because I do great men's cuts," Sydney said. "I was the one who cut Tyler's hair."

"You were?"

"Uh-huh. And Bay's and my own."

"So...so people have been snubbing you?" Claire asked. "Not even giving you a chance?"

"If this keeps up, I'm not going to be able to keep the booth. But maybe it's just as well," Sydney said, putting her arm around Bay. "I'll get to spend more time with Bay. And I'll be free to help you anytime you want."

Claire had been in a hair salon three times in her adult life, only when her hair would get too long to control and she needed a couple of inches taken off. She went to Mavis Adler's Salon of Style on the highway. Mavis used to make special house calls to cut Claire's grandmother's hair, and if Mavis was good enough for her grandmother, she was good enough for Claire.

Claire didn't consider herself a rube, and she'd pa.s.sed by the White Door countless times, but when she walked in and found leather couches and original artwork and a gaggle of some of the more wealthy women in town, some of whom she'd catered brunches, lunches, and teas for, she suddenly felt frighteningly out of place.

She spotted Sydney in the back, sweeping hair from around another stylist's chair, looking beautiful and self-contained. She looked so alone, which was all well and good for Claire, but not for Sydney.

Sydney saw her and immediately walked to the reception area. "Claire, what's wrong? Where's Bay? Is she okay?"

"She's fine. I asked Evanelle to watch her for an hour or two."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to cut my hair."

A crowd of stylists and patrons gathered around Sydney and Claire. Rebecca, the owner of the White Door, stood like an instructor, waiting for Sydney to begin. Whispers of Claire's beautiful long hair and Sydney's untested abilities floated around like dust motes.

"Do you trust me?" Sydney asked as she pumped up the chair after she'd washed Claire's hair.

Claire met her sister's eyes in the mirror. "Yes," she said.

Sydney turned her around, away from the mirror.

Over the next few minutes, Claire's hair felt lighter and lighter as wet chunks of dark hair fell onto the smock she was wearing, looking like thin strips of mola.s.ses candy. Every so often, Rebecca would ask Sydney a question and Sydney would answer confidently, using words like beveled cut beveled cut and and wisps of bangs wisps of bangs. Claire didn't understand what it meant. It made her think of bevel-cut crystal bowls and wisps of steam rising from curried rice.

When Sydney finally turned the chair back around, the people around her applauded.

Claire couldn't believe what she saw. Sydney had taken off at least twelve inches of length. The cut angled down so that it was longer in the front, but high and full in the back. The thin bangs made Claire's eyes look beautiful and sparkling, not flat and judgmental. There in the mirror was someone who looked like Claire had always wanted to be.

Sydney didn't ask her if she liked it. There was no question. It was a transformation performed by a master. Everyone was looking at Sydney with such awe, and Sydney was shining like polished silver.

Claire felt tears come to her eyes, a joy of birth, of redemption. Somewhere deep inside her, Claire had always known. It had been the source of all her jealousy when they were kids. Sydney had been born here. That was a gift, and this had always been inside Sydney, just waiting for her to embrace it.

"You can't deny it anymore," Claire said.

"Deny what?" Sydney asked.

"This is your Waverley magic." is your Waverley magic."

CHAPTER 7.

Lester Hopkins sat in an aluminum lawn chair under the chestnut tree in his front yard. A ribbon of dust followed a car in the distance, coming up the long driveway to the house next to the dairy.

Lester had come back from his stroke last year with a limp and a corner of his mouth that wouldn't quite turn up, so he kept a handkerchief handy to wipe away the spittle that collected there. Didn't want to offend the ladies. He spent a lot of time sitting these days, which he didn't mind so much. It gave him time to think. Truth be told, he had always looked forward to this time in his life. When he was a boy, his grandfather lived the life of Reilly, his days full of big breakfasts, hunting when he felt like it, sleeping in the afternoons, and picking the banjo in the evenings. That, Lester thought, was the way to live. You even got money in the mail every month, like clockwork. So Lester decided early on that he wanted to grow up and be retired.

But there were a few glitches along the way. He had to work harder than he imagined after his father died when Lester was seventeen, which left him to run the dairy by himself. And he and his wife were blessed with only one son. But his son married a hardworking woman and they all lived there in the house, and his son had a son and everything was all right. But then Lester's wife got the cancer and his son died in a car accident two years later. Lost and grieving, his daughter-in-law wanted to move to Tuscaloosa, where her sister lived. But Henry, Lester's grandson, then eleven years old, wanted to stay.

So Lester had known only two things of constant faith: his farm, and Henry.

As the car came closer, Lester heard the screen door bang shut. He turned to see that Henry had come out of the front of the house to see who it was. It was too late for business. The sun was nearly set.

Henry called out, "Are you expecting something, Pap?"

"My ship to come in. But that ain't it."

Henry walked down to the chestnut tree and stood beside Lester. Lester looked over at him. He was a handsome boy, but like all Hopkins men, he was born old and would spend his whole life waiting for his body to catch up. This was the reason all Hopkins men married older women. Henry was taking his time, though, and Lester had taken to helping him along a little. Lester would tell Henry to lead the elementary-school tours of the dairy if the teachers were the right age and unmarried. And the decorating committee at church consisted of mostly divorced women, so Lester let them come out to collect hay in the fall and holly in the winter, and he always made Henry go out to help them. But nothing ever took. Solid and sure of himself, hardworking and kindhearted, Henry was quite a catch, if only he wasn't so happy with himself.

But that's what happens when you're born old.

The car came to a stop. Lester didn't recognize the driver, but he did recognize the woman getting out of the pa.s.senger seat.

He cackled. He always liked for Evanelle Franklin to come by. It was like finding a robin in the winter. "Looks like Evanelle needs to give us something."

The man stayed in the car as Evanelle crossed the yard. "Lester," she said, stopping in front of him and putting her hands on her hips, "you look better every time I see you."

"They have a cure for cataracts now, you know," he teased.

She smiled. "Devil man."

"What brings you out this way?"

"I needed to give you this." She reached into her bag of goodies and handed him a jar of maraschino cherries.

Lester looked over to Henry, who was trying to hide his smile. "Well, I haven't had these in a long time. Thank you, Evanelle."

"You're welcome."

"Say, who's that who brought you?"

"That's Fred, from the grocery store. He's been staying with me. It's been real nice."

"Would you two like to stay for dinner?" Henry asked. "Yvonne made potato cakes."

Yvonne was their housekeeper. Henry had hired her after Lester's stroke last year. She was married, of course. Lester would have hired someone single.

"No, thank you, I have to get along," Evanelle said. "I'll see you at the Fourth of July celebration?"

"We'll be there," Lester said, and he and Henry watched her walk away.

"She gave me a ball of yarn once," Henry said. "I was probably fourteen and we were on a school field trip downtown. I was so embarra.s.sed. I threw it away. But the very next week I needed it when I was working on a school project."

"Men in this town learn their lesson young when it comes to Waverley women," Lester said, reaching for the cane he'd rested against the tree. He slowly stood. "Whenever there's one around, sit up and pay attention."

The next afternoon Claire heard Sydney's voice upstairs. "Where is everyone?"

"I'm down here," Claire called to her.

Soon she heard the creak of the dusty stairs as Sydney walked down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. It was cool and dry, and sometimes grown men who had too much to do would knock on the front door and ask to go sit in the Waverley bas.e.m.e.nt for a while because it cleared their thoughts and brought back their equilibrium.

Sydney's footsteps drew closer as she followed the racks deeper into the bas.e.m.e.nt, toward the shine of Claire's flashlight. The lightbulbs in the bas.e.m.e.nt had all burned out in 1939, and what had started out as someone too tired to replace them had turned into a family tradition of keeping the bas.e.m.e.nt in the dark. No one knew why they did it now, just that this was the way it had always been done.

"Where is Bay?" Sydney asked. "Isn't she down here with you?"

"No, she likes to stay in the garden most of the time. She's okay. The tree stopped tossing apples at her when she started throwing them back at it." Claire handed Sydney the flashlight. "Help me with this, will you? Shine here."

"Honeysuckle wine?"

"The Fourth of July celebration is next week. I'm counting the bottles to see how many we have to bring."