Evanelle shook her head. “Your problem is routine. You like your routine too much. You get that from your grandmother. You’re too attached to this place, just like her.”
Claire smiled because she liked being compared to her grandmother. She had no idea about the security of having a name until her mother brought her here, to this house where her grandmother lived. They’d been in Bascom maybe three weeks, Sydney had just been born, and Claire had been sitting outside under the tul-lip tree in the front yard while people in town came to see Lorelei and her new baby. Claire wasn’t new, so she didn’t think anyone would want to see her. A couple came out of the house after visiting, and they watched Claire quietly build tiny log cabins with twigs. “She’s a Waverley, all right,” the woman said. “In her own world.”
Claire didn’t look up, didn’t say a word, but she grabbed the grass before her body floated up. She was a Waverley. She didn’t tell anyone, not a soul, for fear of someone taking her happiness away, but from that day on she would follow her grandmother out into the garden every morning, studying her, wanting to be like her, wanting to do all the things a true Waverley did to prove that, even though she wasn’t born here, she was a Waverley too.
“I have to pack some boxes of jelly and vinegar to deliver,” she said to Evanelle. “If you’ll wait here for a minute, I’ll drive you home.”
“Are you making a delivery to Fred’s?” Evanelle asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll just go with you. I need Cokecola. And some Goo Goo Clusters. And maybe I’ll pick up some tomatoes. You made me crave tomatoes.”
While Evanelle debated the merits of yellow tomatoes versus red, Claire took four corrugated boxes out of the storeroom and packed up the jelly and the vinegar. When she was done, Evanelle followed her outside to her white minivan with Waverley’s Catering written on the side.
Evanelle got in the passenger seat while Claire put her boxes in the back, then Claire handed Evanelle the container with her plain white cake in it and a brown paper bag to hold.
“What’s this?” Evanelle said, looking in the brown bag as Claire got behind the wheel.
“A special order.”
“It’s for Fred,” Evanelle said knowingly.
“Do you think he’d ever do business with me again if I told you that?”
“It’s for Fred.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s for Fred.”
“I don’t think I heard you. Who is it for?”
Evanelle sniffed. “Now you’re being Miss Smarty Pants.”
Claire laughed and pulled out of the drive.
Business was doing well, because all the locals knew that dishes made from the flowers that grew around the apple tree in the Waverley garden could affect the eater in curious ways. The biscuits with lilac jelly, the lavender tea cookies, and the tea cakes made with nasturtium mayonnaise the Ladies Aid ordered for their meetings once a month gave them the ability to keep secrets. The fried dandelion buds over marigold-petal rice, stuffed pumpkin blossoms, and rose-hip soup ensured that your company would notice only the beauty of your home and never the flaws. Anise hyssop honey butter on toast, angelica candy, and cupcakes with crystallized pansies made children thoughtful. Honeysuckle wine served on the Fourth of July gave you the ability to see in the dark. The nutty flavor of the dip made from hyacinth bulbs made you feel moody and think of the past, and the salads made with chicory and mint had you believing that something good was about to happen, whether it was true or not.