Garden Spells
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE HINDSIGHT
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART TWO INSIGHT
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
PART THREE FORESIGHT
CHAPTER 14
FROM THE WAVERLEY KITCHEN JOURNAL
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
For my mom. I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my dad for these stubborn writing genes, and for the stories of his grandfather that brought Lester to life. Endless gratitude to the wonderful, magical Andrea Cirillo and Kelly Harms. Big butter biscuit thanks to Shauna Summers, Nita Taublib, Carolyn Mays, and Peggy Gordijn. Much love to the loopy Duetters, and to Daphne Atkeson for encouraging me to write this, then make it better. Thanks to Michelle Pittman (two times!) and Heidi Hensley, who deserve tiaras for their patient friendship. A special shout out to the eponymous Miss Snark. And I bow to Dawn Hughes, hairdresser extraordinaire, for helping me get my salon facts straight.
CHAPTER
1
Every smiley moon, without fail, Claire dreamed of her childhood. She always tried to stay awake those nights when the stars winked and the moon was just a cresting sliver smiling provocatively down at the world, the way pretty women on vintage billboards used to smile as they sold cigarettes and limeade. On those nights in the summer, Claire would garden by the light of the solar-powered footpath lamps, weeding and trimming the night bloomers—the moon vine and the angel’s trumpet, the night jasmine and the flowering tobacco. These weren’t a part of the Waverley legacy of edible flowers, but sleepless as she often was, Claire had added flowers to the garden to give her something to do at night when she was so wound up that frustration singed the edge of her nightgown and she set tiny fires with her fingertips.
What she dreamed of was always the same. Long roads like snakes with no tails. Sleeping in the car at night while her mother met men in bars and honkytonks. Being a lookout while her mother stole shampoo and deodorant and lipstick and sometimes a candy bar for Claire at Shop-and-Gos around the Midwest. Then, just before she woke up, her sister, Sydney, always appeared in a halo of light. Lorelei held Sydney and ran to the Waverley home in Bascom, and the only reason Claire was able to go with them was because she was holding tight to her mother’s leg and wouldn’t let go.
That morning, when Claire woke up in the backyard garden, she tasted regret in her mouth. With a frown, she spit it out. She was sorry for the way she’d treated her sister as a child. But the six years of Claire’s life before Sydney’s arrival had been fraught with the constant fear of being caught, of being hurt, of not having enough food or gas or warm clothes for the winter. Her mother always came through but always at the last minute. Ultimately, they were never caught and Claire was never hurt and, when the first cold snap signaled the changing colors of the leaves, her mother magically produced blue mittens with white snowflakes on them and pink thermal underwear to wear under jeans and a cap with a droopy ball on top. That life on the run had been good enough for Claire, but Lorelei obviously thought Sydney deserved better, that Sydney deserved to be born with roots. And the small scared child in Claire hadn’t been able to forgive her.