"Forney, is there-"

"I guess we'll eat then." He stood up and started toward the kitchen.

"Can I help you?"

"No. You're the guest of honor. You're not allowed in the kitchen,"

he said as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

Novalee could hear kitchen sounds-a spoon sc.r.a.ping metal, the clink of gla.s.s against gla.s.s, but she could not imagine Forney managing ovens and burners or skillets and lids. She could see him dipping and swaying between history and fiction, but not between a stove and a kitchen sink.

When he came back in, carrying a tray, he said, "Dinner is served,"

trying to speak with a French accent, the way he had practiced.

He set the tray on a cart beside the table, then placed a bowl in front of Novalee and one at his place. "Your soup, madam."

"I've never seen orange soup before."

"It's orange almond bisque," he said as he sat down.

Novalee took a taste, a wonderful nutty taste . . . tangy, velvety smooth-but cold.

"Forney, it's just great."

She knew when he tasted it he would be embarra.s.sed that it had gotten cold, but she couldn't imagine it would taste any better hot.

She tried not to eat too fast, at least no faster than Forney, but he wasn't doing much eating. Mostly, he was watching her.

7 8.

"You made this yourself?"

Forney nodded.

"How'd you learn to cook?"

"I just read about it."

"You learn everything from books, don't you?"

Forney ran a finger under the stiff white collar of his shirt.

"I want to get this recipe."

"You like to cook?"

"Well, where I'm living now, I'm not set up to cook, but when my baby comes . . ." She didn't finish what she started to say, didn't really know how.

Suddenly, Forney jumped up and dashed across the room. He swooped around a counter, dipped down, then bobbed back up, a book in his hand.

"The Physiology of Taste: or Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy, Gastronomy, " he said, as he sailed back across the room. He handed it to Novalee. " he said, as he sailed back across the room. He handed it to Novalee.

"Is this a cookbook?"

"Well, it has recipes, but it's history and philosophy and . . ."

Forney looked at his watch. "Uh-oh, it's time." He took up the soup bowls and raced to the kitchen.

Novalee checked her watch, too. She would have to be back before nine, otherwise she'd be spending the night in the park. She felt like Cinderella.

She was still looking at the book when Forney returned with another tray, this one loaded. It smelled so good Novalee felt dizzy.

"This is asparagus mousse," he said as he dipped a large serving spoon into a quivering mound of something that looked, to Novalee, a bit like green vanilla pudding.

"What are those?"

7 9.

"Tournedos Wellington."

"They look like fancy biscuits."

"A pastry, with beef inside."

"Beef!" She had to fight herself to keep from s.n.a.t.c.hing food from the tray, tearing into it with her hands. To h.e.l.l with knives and forks.

"And this . . ." Forney picked up a small silver pitcher filled with dark brown liquid. "This is Madeira sauce." He put a tournedo on Novalee's plate, then poured some of the sauce over it. "And finally, green peas with cream."

"The only thing I can recognize."

After Forney filled their plates, he sat down across from Novalee again.

"Forney, I've seen pictures of food like this in magazines, but I never thought someone would fix it for me."

He couldn't imagine what to say.

"This is the most perfect night of my life."

Nothing he had practiced would sound right now. He had never antic.i.p.ated that she would say, "the most perfect night."

She had just cut into the beef and seen the juice seep into the pastry when a terrific crash directly above them jolted the chandelier, sending a shower of dust adrift. Forney was frozen, his look fearful, his eyes disbelieving. Then he vaulted from his chair, colliding with the table as he rose. Gla.s.ses tumbled, wine sailed through the air and a plate crashed to the floor.

"Forney!"

"Stay here, Novalee," he yelled, then he was across the room and through the kitchen door.

Novalee raced through the long, narrow kitchen following the sounds of Forney's heavy steps somewhere beyond her. She found the stairway to the second story at the end of a poorly lit hall, then 8 0 took the steps two at a time to a broad landing at the top. She rushed toward light spilling from an opened door, then stopped when she reached it.

Forney was bent over the crumpled body of a woman, a woman whose bony arms and legs reminded Novalee of the stick figures she had drawn as a child. The woman had thinning gray hair and skin like tarnished silver. Novalee thought she was dead until she saw her fingers curl like claws around Forney's wrist.

The floor was wet and sprinkled with shattered gla.s.s. When Novalee stepped into the room, the smell of whiskey was so strong it stung her eyes, but there was something else, something she- Forney spun around so suddenly, Novalee jumped back.

"No, Novalee. Don't come in."

"Let me help, Forney," she said as she edged nearer to him. And then she knew what it was, a stench so powerful she tried to hold her breath. The woman had soiled herself.

"Novalee," Forney said, in a voice he hadn't practiced, "I'd like you to meet my sister, Mary Elizabeth Hull . . . the librarian."

Chapter Eight.

I N THE WEEKS following her birthday, Novalee felt herself growing heavier and slower each day. N THE WEEKS following her birthday, Novalee felt herself growing heavier and slower each day.

One morning in early May, when Forney offered to drive her home from the library, she was tempted to say okay, to let him find out that "home" was the Wal-Mart . . . but she didn't.

And then, that night, just after she had crawled into the sleeping bag, a hard cramp gripped her lower belly. At first, she thought maybe her time had come, but the pain didn't last and didn't hurt much more than a bad stomachache. But if she was going into labor, if this was the worst of the pain, she figured it wasn't going to be as awful as she had feared.

She had heard dozens of horror stories about childbirth when she worked at Red's. Seemed like every woman who got drunk had a delivery story to tell. They told her about being in labor for four days, begging to die. They talked about pain so dreadful they bit through 8 2 their tongues or pulled wads of hair right out of their heads. They described the way their flesh was ripped apart when their babies came.

But maybe that was just liquor talk; maybe they told those stories to scare girls like her who had never had babies. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad.

She had read, in one of the books Forney had told her to read, about a pregnant Chinese woman who worked in a rice paddy until her contractions began, then birthed her child alone, hardly interrupting her labor . . . bending, stooping, wading in water up to her knees. Novalee figured if a woman could manage that, having a baby must not be too terrible.

Besides, she wasn't totally unprepared. She had been reading about delivery; she knew what she would have to do. And she had gathered the supplies she would need-scissors, rubbing alcohol, cotton pads, receiving blankets. She had packed everything in an overnight bag, the way some women packed to go to the hospital when their time came. But Novalee knew she wouldn't be going to the hospital.

But the bag was in the storage room and when she thought of going back to get it, just to be on the safe side, she was too tired to get up. She yawned and rolled onto her side. She wasn't sure she should go to sleep in case she was starting into labor. She was afraid she might sleep right through it, then wake up and find her baby already born, but she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.

Early that morning she had walked to Sister Husband's to plant some pyracantha cuttings she had taken from a planter outside City Hall. The week before, she had started a flower bed in the corner of Sister's yard with cuttings of hydrangea and mock orange; a couple Where the Heart Is 8 3.

of days later, she had added some morning glory seeds and a few stems of crepe myrtle.

The flower bed would have been shaded by the buckeye tree if it had had any leaves. The last one had fallen off a week after the tree was planted. But Novalee thought it might still make it. She didn't know why she thought that; it was a little less hardy than a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, but she had hope.

Sister Husband hadn't been home, but Novalee had rested on her porch for a while, then walked to the library where Forney was waiting for her. He had brought her some carrot sticks, two bran m.u.f.fins and a thermos of cold milk. He had something for her every day, something healthy. Food with bean sprouts, whole wheat and soy. And milk.

Lots of milk. Milk in gla.s.ses . . . and cups. Pitchers, pails . . .

She slept then, jerked nearly to consciousness from time to time by the cramps in her stomach which seemed to coalesce with her dreams, dreams of babies lost in dark places . . . babies stuck in deep wells . . . babies calling her name.

Then she was struck by a pain unlike the others. It tore into her pelvis, shot through her hips and into her spine. She held her breath until it eased, then struggled out of the sleeping bag.

Her water broke as soon as she was on her feet. She watched as the warm liquid trickled down her legs and puddled between her feet.

Even though she knew what it was, she still felt a little silly, like a child who had wet herself.

She sponged herself off and changed into a fresh night-shirt, then she cleaned the floor and dried her trail to the bathroom by skating on paper towels.

The second pain, stronger than the last, caused her to suck in her breath and grit her teeth. This was no stomachache. Her baby was coming . . . but she wasn't ready.

8 4.

Why, she wondered, had she waited until the last minute? Where had the time gone? Two months had pa.s.sed since w.i.l.l.y Jack had dumped her-and she had done nothing. She hadn't looked for a place to live, hadn't figured out how to make a living. She hadn't even picked out a name for her baby.

Then she remembered a list of names she had started on the day she and w.i.l.l.y Jack left Tellico Plains. She pulled the spiral notebook out of her beach bag and flipped to the back. The list was still there- one page for girls, one for boys. Felicia, Brook, Ashley. Felicia, Brook, Ashley. Novalee made a face as she read them. Novalee made a face as she read them. Rafe, Thorne, Hutch, Sloan. Rafe, Thorne, Hutch, Sloan. Names she had taken from soap operas. Names she had taken from soap operas. Blain, Asa, Dimitri. Blain, Asa, Dimitri. Moses Whitecotton had told her to find a strong name, but the names on her list weren't strong. They just sounded silly. Moses Whitecotton had told her to find a strong name, but the names on her list weren't strong. They just sounded silly.

The third pain, deep and hard, left her feeling queasy. She closed her eyes for a few minutes until the nausea pa.s.sed, but a heavy, dull ache in her lower back would not go away. Finally, she decided to get up and move around, to see if that would bring her any relief.

It took her awhile to get to her feet, but when she did, it was worth it. Her back didn't hurt as much. And anything, she figured, was better than doing nothing . . . just waiting. As she huffed up the aisle, she searched for names she might use for the baby. Coleman. Prescott. Coleman. Prescott.

Dixie. Hanes. She grinned then at the thought of naming her baby after underwear. She grinned then at the thought of naming her baby after underwear.

She was near the front of the store when the next pain knocked her to the floor. She reached out, grabbing for support, and took a rack of ca.s.settes with her. As they clattered across the tile, Novalee said, "Shhhh," embarra.s.sed at the racket she was causing.

She didn't know how long she was out, and she didn't know if everything she saw was real or not. She thought she saw a mouse dart across the aisle, very near her feet. And she thought she saw a Where the Heart Is 8 5.

brown stocking cap bobbing around outside the plate gla.s.s window at the front of the store. Then Momma Nell and the umpire named Then Momma Nell and the umpire named Fred waved at her from Fred waved at her from the television, but the screen was so thick the television, but the screen was so thick and smoky she had to and smoky she had to squint to get a clear picture. squint to get a clear picture.

She drifted in and out . . . let sleep take her between the pain that fit her like a brace . . . pain that ran from beneath her ribs, to her pelvis, around her back . . . pain that pulled her to the edge of . . . the edge of the edge of the highway as the Plymouth raced past, w.i.l.l.y Jack hunched over the highway as the Plymouth raced past, w.i.l.l.y Jack hunched over the steering wheel . . . the picture faded . . . the steering wheel . . . the picture faded . . .

Then she saw Forney Hull's face, but it was blurry and dark. She She adjusted the contrast and focus, pulling in a better picture as he adjusted the contrast and focus, pulling in a better picture as he waved, both arms high over his head. She waved back waved, both arms high over his head. She waved back though her though her hands were asleep, too heavy to raise more than a few hands were asleep, too heavy to raise more than a few inches. inches.

Forney's mouth was working, but she couldn't hear him. Then she Then she laughed, realizing the volume was turned down. She laughed, realizing the volume was turned down. She could hear could hear someone moaning, but that was coming from another someone moaning, but that was coming from another channel. channel.

Interference. When she turned the sound up, Forney's voice came came out too fast and he sounded like w.i.l.l.y Jack. out too fast and he sounded like w.i.l.l.y Jack.

"I found us a place, Novalee."

w.i.l.l.y Jack's voice was out of sync with Forney's lips . . . the sound coming out of his mouth just a few seconds too late. coming out of his mouth just a few seconds too late.

"I found us a place."

There was so much static she could barely hear him.

"w.i.l.l.y Jack? I thought you went to California."

". . . a house with a balcony . . ."

The picture began to roll, faster and faster, until she fiddled with with the vertical b.u.t.ton. the vertical b.u.t.ton.

". . . a balcony where we can sit with the baby."

"I'm having the baby tonight, w.i.l.l.y Jack."