"Yes, ma'am, but just temporary like."

"I can't-"

"And I'll take care of it, too. While it's here. It's not too pretty right now, but I'm gonna doctor it and maybe it'll be okay."

We must wait till some months hence in the spring to know.

"Darlin', I can't think of anything I'd like better than to have you plant your tree in front of my home."

And with that, Mr. Sprock was up from the table and out the door.

6 9.

Novalee and Sister Husband hurried behind as Mr. Sprock took a shovel from Sister Husband's shed; then Novalee had to decide where to plant the buckeye. From her reading in the library, she had learned that she should plant the tree on a slight rise for drainage, so she chose the highest point in Sister Husband's yard, a spot nearly in the center.

"Right here," she said. "This is it."

Mr. Sprock nodded, then started to dig, but Novalee stopped him.

"No, thank you, Mr. Sprock. I'll do it."

"But darlin'," Sister Husband said, "that's heavy work. Do you really think it'll be good for you?"

"Yes, ma'am. It'll be good for me."

By the time Novalee had the hole deep enough, she had blisters on her hands, and a pain in her lower back that would not rub away.

She loosened the burlap, then very gently lowered the tree into the hole, being careful not to disturb the roots. She had guessed right. The hole was twice as wide as the tree's root ball and plenty deep enough.

She was so tired before she finished filling the hole that Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock used their shoes to sc.r.a.pe dirt over the roots when they thought Novalee wasn't looking.

When she finished, Sister Husband and Mr. Sprock took her hands once again and they circled the tree while Sister Husband sang "A Fig Tree in Galilee," a song Novalee had never heard.

Then, Sister Husband said, "Now, I quote from the Good Book, Mark 8:24. And he took the blind man by the hand, and And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out led him out of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up and said, I see and said, I see man as trees, walking. man as trees, walking. " "

7 0.

By the time Novalee crossed the parking lot, bedraggled and grimy, it was nearly dark. She had specks of dried b.u.t.termilk on her blouse and gra.s.s stains on the knees of her pants. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and she had a dark smudge across her cheek, but she was too exhausted to care.

She was too tired to enjoy the beauty of the sun setting behind the hills west of town, too tired to welcome the cool evening breeze, relief from the early spring heat. And she was far too tired to notice the man in the brown stocking cap standing across the street . . . the man watching her as she slipped inside the back door of the Wal-Mart.

Chapter Seven.

F ORNEY TOLD NOVALEE if she was late for her own birthday dinner, he'd feed her gra.s.shopper stew. She made sure she wasn't late. In fact, she got to the library twenty minutes early. But Forney had made such a fuss about being on time, she figured he might be as upset about her arriving early as he would about her coming late. So instead of going inside, she waited on a bench near the iron gate while she tried to brush some of the frizz from her still-damp hair. ORNEY TOLD NOVALEE if she was late for her own birthday dinner, he'd feed her gra.s.shopper stew. She made sure she wasn't late. In fact, she got to the library twenty minutes early. But Forney had made such a fuss about being on time, she figured he might be as upset about her arriving early as he would about her coming late. So instead of going inside, she waited on a bench near the iron gate while she tried to brush some of the frizz from her still-damp hair.

She had come directly from the truck stop on East Main, where she went to shower and shampoo her hair whenever she could. A few weeks earlier she had discovered the shower stalls in the back of the station had an outside entrance. All she had to do was get in and out fast before the manager or one of the truckers walked in on her. So far, she had been lucky.

After her shower she had changed into a new dress from the maternity rack at Wal-Mart. Though she hated writing another charge 7 2 in her account book, this was a special occasion, something Forney had been planning for weeks.

Soon after they had met, on her third or fourth visit to the library, when Forney found out about her birthday, he started acting secretive.

She had seen him scribble hurried notes, always shielding the writing from her, always with some good excuse. Once, when she saw him writing on a dollar bill, he said he was alerting the Treasury Department to a forgery. Then, with the expertise of a secret agent, he held the bill to the light, popped it to test its strength, and nodded shrewdly before he crammed it deep in his pocket.

About the same time, he started asking Novalee odd questions about food-what she thought of veal, if she could eat curry, whether she liked orange food better than red. When he asked her if she liked the smell of tarragon, she said she didn't like fish at all, a comment Forney found so delightful his eyes teared.

What she had wanted to tell him was that she was sick of beef jerky, tuna packed in spring water, and Vienna sausages-that she would never eat deviled ham or Treet again-that Stokely's peas and carrots tasted like the cans they came in-and that after living on Wal-Mart food for nearly two months, a home-cooked meal of veal, curry and even tarragon, orange or red, would suit her just fine.

Thinking of food made her stomach rumble. She checked her watch and though she was still a few minutes early, she stood up and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. The street lights had just come on, casting shadows stretching from the heavy evergreens at the edge of the sidewalk to the letters chiseled into stone pillars at the front of the library.

Forney was watching her from the window just behind the reference section. He had been watching her since she first sat down on the bench.

7 3.

When she was halfway up the sidewalk, he stepped away from the window and started for the entry hall. He tried to slow his steps, to match her pace, but he had the door opened before she had even reached the top of the stairs.

He knew she had pulled her hair back and fastened it with a silver comb and he knew she was wearing a dress just a shade darker than wisteria, but he didn't know until he opened the door that her hair would smell like honeysuckle or that the deepening light would make the green flecks in her eyes look the color of willows in early spring.

"Good evening," he said in the voice he had practiced.

Novalee could hardly believe the man standing before her was Forney Hull. He was not wearing his stocking cap, the first time she had seen him without it. His hair, so brown it was almost black, fell loosely across his forehead. He had shaved, exposing skin that looked too smooth, too tender to belong to this giant of a man.

He was wearing a strange suit with a long coat and velvet collar.

Novalee had seen such suits in movies and old photographs, suits worn by rich men who wore shiny top hats and drank tea from china cups.

"Hi, Forney. You sure do look nice."

"Oh. I . . . uh . . . well." This was a line he hadn't rehea.r.s.ed.

"You want me to come in?"

"Please, come in," he said, a bit louder than he had intended.

"Are you catching a cold?"

Forney shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You sound stopped up."

He closed the door behind her. "So do you," he said.

"I sound stopped up?"

"No! I mean, look nice. So do you . . . look nice . . . too."

"Thank you."

7 4.

"Well," Forney said, trying to get back on track. "Well." Suddenly, with both arms, he made a grand, sweeping gesture toward the reading room, a gesture he had refined in front of his mirror. "This way, please."

He walked a bit behind her as she moved down the hall, sure now that the whole thing had been a mistake, certain she would think he was crazy, afraid she would laugh when she saw it.

But when she stepped through the reading room door, when she saw what Forney had done, she sucked in her breath and clapped her hands together, struck by the wonder of it.

The entire room glittered in candlelight. Golden, shimmering light flickered in every corner, on every surface. Candles burned on tables, shelves, cabinets and carts. And wherever there were candles, there were roses, dainty tea roses in soft pinks and pale yellows-rosebuds, full blooms, bouquets of roses in vases and bowls. Candles and roses crowded onto planters and stands, cl.u.s.tered on desks, arranged in windowsills. Candles glowed on thick marble and polished wood, sending ripples through shadows that danced on the ceiling and floor.

And in the center of it all, Forney had prepared a table for Novalee's birthday dinner-a round table covered with ivory damask, set with crystal goblets, white china and pink tea roses in a ruby red vase.

"Oh, Forney. It's so wonderful," Novalee whispered. Then she began to circle the room, marveling over everything she touched-a fragile pink vase shaped like a Chinese fan, a pair of silver candlesticks engraved with bows of ribbon, a green ceramic bowl painted with seash.e.l.ls, a candleholder made of dark, carved wood.

Forney watched her moving slowly around the room, candle-glow lighting her face as she traced the design of a candlestick, then put the palm of her hand over the flame, feeling its heat. When she found a fallen yellow rosebud, she put it in her hair. Forney couldn't see it Where the Heart Is 7 5.

from where he stood, but he knew the tiny scar at the corner of her mouth was silver-white in the candlelight.

"I feel like we're in a movie, Forney. Like we're the stars. Velvet curtains open up and there we are, up on the screen, smoking cigarettes in silver holders and-"

"I don't have any cigarettes, but I could go get some."

"No, we don't need cigarettes. This is perfect, just the way it is."

Novalee picked up a vase painted with blue dragons. "Where did you get all this, Forney? All these vases?"

"They belonged to my mother. She kept flowers in every room."

"It's hard for me to imagine this place as a house. I mean, it's so big."

"Oh, it's changed a lot now. Walls have been knocked out. Doors sealed up. See, this room was originally three rooms-a parlor, a dining room and my father's study. The kitchen is back there and the bedrooms are upstairs."

"You were a rich kid."

"Well, my grandfather was rich. And my father inherited from him.

Yeah, I guess we were rich. A long time ago."

"It must be neat to live in a library, to have all these books to read and-"

A sc.r.a.ping sound from upstairs caused Novalee to look up, to glance toward the ceiling, but Forney didn't move. She might have thought he hadn't heard it except for the tightening of the muscles in his jaw.

Suddenly, he crossed the room to the table and pulled out a chair.

"Let's sit down."

Novalee followed him to the table, then settled into the chair he had pulled out for her. She felt awkward as he scooted it up to the table.

7 6.

"Do you like wine?" he asked.

"You mean Mogen David?"

"Well, something like that."

"Sure."

Forney brought a full decanter to the table and filled their gla.s.ses, then he raised his and held it across the table toward her.

Novalee smiled and said, "Don't tell me this isn't a movie." Then she picked up her gla.s.s and touched it to Forney's.

"Happy birthday, Novalee. Happy eighteenth birthday," Forney said, exactly the way he had rehea.r.s.ed it.

When Novalee took a drink of the wine, she tried not to make a face, but she shivered with the effort.

"It's too dry for you, isn't it?" Forney asked.

"What do you mean?"

"It's . . . not sweet."

"Dry wine is sour, you mean?"

"I'll get you something else to drink."

"No! It's wonderful. I love dry wine . . . always have." She pretended to take another sip from the elegant gla.s.s that felt so good in her hand.

Forney reached under the table then, came up with a package wrapped in yellow paper and handed it to Novalee.

"Oh, Forney . . ."

"Open it, Novalee."

She began to unwrap the package, being careful not to tear the paper or crush the ribbon. Inside, she found a book bound in dark leather with gold lettering across the front: Gardener's Magic and Gardener's Magic and Other Old Wives' Lore. Other Old Wives' Lore.

"It's beautiful," she said as she brushed her fingers across the t.i.tle. "And you don't know how much I need some magic."

7 7.

"Maybe you'll find some way to save your buckeye."

"This is my first book, Forney. And you know what else? This is my first birthday party. Ever."

Forney cleared his throat to deliver the speech he had prepared, but two quick thumps from the floor above them caused him to forget his lines.