Forget-Her-Nots (22 page)

“Hey. Don’t knock it till—ya know,” Everett said.

Laurel wanted something sharp to throw at him. “Rose was right. You
are
scum of the earth.”

Everett spread his palms wide. “And here I thought we had a thang goin’ on.”

“Not in this lifetime, Ev.” Laurel turned and ran toward the conservatory.

“Think about it!” he yelled after her. “It’s brilliant.”

Laurel’s thoughts were a confused tangle. She didn’t want to be a hot topic on the sometimes vicious gossip grid. She didn’t want a blip of popularity just because Everett was using her and her magic. Had he told any other guys yet?

She slowed to a walk. Maybe—with Rose’s and Kate’s help—she could convince everyone that flower magic
was
a huge prank. That might at least buy her time to master her powers. Surprisingly, Laurel felt a twinge of regret about Tara, too. Tara had to feel like she’d lost everything: soccer, Kate, and now Everett. He’d probably been harsh with her. Now that Laurel was free of basil, she had to find a way to call a truce.

As she ducked under the cedars, she yanked off some needles. She lifted them to her nose—
cedar for strength
—and slipped them into her pocket. She knocked on the conservatory door and almost fell off the step when she saw who answered.

“
G
randma
?”
Laurel said, breathless with surprise.

“Laurel, dear.”

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Laurel stepped into open arms, but Grandma was frail now, almost papery thin. She pulled back to study the lined face, as if she feared the petite, white-haired woman might vanish. “When did you get here?”

“A few hours ago,” said Grandma.

“But I called you this morning,” said Laurel. “Tons of times.”

“I left quite early to drive down,” said Grandma.

Laurel’s hands moved to her hips. “But why didn’t you call when you got here? Why didn’t you come straight to my room?”

Grandma leaned against a table. “I needed to see Geneva first.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Ms. Suarez walked toward them with a plant in the crook of her arm. “We weren’t expecting you this soon.”

Laurel forced herself to meet Ms. Suarez’s eyes. “I’m sorry. About everything.”

“You should be,” said Ms. Suarez. “But I have some good news. Come and see.” Her bracelets jingled as she gestured for them to follow.

Laurel held out her arm for Grandma to lean on as they walked, but a silence fell over them. I don’t know where to begin, she thought as they entered the orchid enclosure. She looked around anxiously, but several windows were open.

“See.” Ms. Suarez pointed to a small bud. “My baby will bloom again soon, and then I will harvest the seeds.”

Laurel felt a rush of gratitude, but she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see that orchid again. She sniffed but smelled only orange. The bloom was still tightly wound. Grandma let go of her arm with a squeeze and walked to the far end of the enclosure to examine another flower.

Laurel moved closer to Ms. Suarez and whispered, “I’m really sorry.”

“I know you are,” she whispered back.

“It won’t happen again,” said Laurel.

“It can’t.” Ms. Suarez rubbed her temples. “Maybe I should be furious, but I’m not going to ruin this reunion. It’s too important. Cicely just showed up on my doorstep, like a gift.” They both stared at the older woman, who was cradling a pink orchid.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw her,” Laurel whispered.

“Me, either. This may be our only chance. She’s so fragile.”

Laurel nodded solemnly. “I know.”

Ms. Suarez cleared her throat and spoke louder. “I’ll be here all summer tending my orchids, and you can stay here, too, as my apprentice.”

“Really?” Laurel gazed out an open window toward the cedars. Avondale was her home now more than any other place on earth. She could stay and master Flowerspeaking side-by-side with Ms. Suarez, but then she might not be able to patch things up with her dad. They needed time together for that. Time without basil.

“With powers like yours,” Ms. Suarez went on, “you need serious training. Soon.”

“But my dad,” Laurel began. “I think he
needs
me to come home this summer.”

Grandma turned back toward them. “Besides, you’ll be visiting me.” Her hand rested on Laurel’s arm. “Let’s go
to the gardens—just us. I need to find you something.”

“What an excellent idea, Cicely,” said Ms. Suarez. “Laurel can show you what’s blooming.”

“I think I know what’s blooming,” Grandma said. “I’m not senile, you know.”

“I didn’t mean—” began Ms. Suarez, but Grandma waved her apologies away.

“Let’s go now!” Grandma threaded her arm under Laurel’s. “I’ve been cooped up for too long.” They walked out of the conservatory, careful with each other. Sunlight flashed through the cedar needles as Laurel held the branches out of their way. Cedar for strength, she thought. I’ll share mine with Grandma.

“I haven’t been here for ages,” Grandma said when they reached the garden’s entrance, “but I think the plants I want are that way.” She led them down a path Laurel had never taken because the plants just looked like unkempt brambles.

“There they are.” Grandma reached into a tangle of purplish branches and broke off a cluster of small white flowers. “Raspberries. Can we find a place to sit?”

“Sure.” Laurel led her back to a stone bench where the sun shone golden on their shoulders and the garden around them buzzed. Nectar-drunk bees and butterflies with stained-glass wings flitted from flower to flower. Laurel had prayed and waited so long for this moment
that it felt strange to speak. She had to start with something ordinary.

“Grandma?”

“Yes?”

“My dad said you wrote a letter for me. Did you sign me up for Latin, too?”

“Of course.” Grandma nodded. “The majority of botanical names are in Latin. You need to know them to master your gift.”

“But you didn’t know I had the gift then,” Laurel pointed out. “Nobody knew.”

“You’re right.” Grandma pursed her lips. “I suppose I still had hope. Sometimes hope keeps living—even when we starve it.”

She swiveled toward Laurel and held up the raspberry branch between them. Laurel watched as Grandma raised her hand, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Bright cut flowers, leaves of green, bring about what I have seen.”

A sudden breeze swirled Laurel’s hair from her neck. The hum of the garden—the bees, the butterflies—crescendoed and suffused her body.

“Raspberry is for remorse,” Grandma said. “I’m ashamed that I neglected you, but I’ll make up for it.” She held out the branch to Laurel. “I promise.”

Laurel’s hand wavered, because she knew Grandma’s Flowerspeaking would be irresistible. She wanted to
voice her own thoughts first. She took the branch—its energy made her hand shake—and set it down between them. “But I don’t really understand. Why did you come
today
?”

“It was time,” Grandma said. “
Past
time. Your lovely notes helped me see it’s not my time to die. And Geneva wrote, too. I guess the world still needs me for something.”

Laurel hesitated. She didn’t want to inflict pain, but this might be the only time Grandma would answer. “But how could you burn your garden? I
loved
it.”

Grandma’s head drooped. “You can’t garden when you’re dead inside.”

Laurel shook her arm gently. “You’re not dead!”

“No.” Grandma almost smiled. “And neither is my garden. My bulbs, the deepest ones, came up this spring. The green shoots poked up through the cinders and ashes.”

Cinders and ashes, Laurel repeated in her mind as she looked at the raspberry branch between them. Warmer days would come soon, with sun enough to transform flowers into glossy fruit. She lifted the branch to her nose, and Grandma’s gift surged through her veins. Laurel squeezed her eyes against the muddy, churning depths of sorrow and regret. Her mouth twisted with an agony she never wanted to feel again.

Then Grandma’s hands enclosed Laurel’s, and the sadness slowly ebbed. She was beginning to understand why Grandma hadn’t come to her earlier.

“What flower is for forgiveness?” Laurel asked.

Grandma shook her head. “Forgiveness takes time, child.”

“Not always. Not if I understand.”

“A white tulip speaks forgiveness.”

Tulips were past blooming, but Laurel vowed to find some white ones. “You have to help me,” she said. “I want to use my gift. I want to be who I’m supposed to be.”

“Who you’re
supposed
to be,” Grandma echoed. “Mmm. Your mother was supposed to be one of the great ones, but she—”

Grandma’s voice caught, and Laurel sensed the weight of grief descending. Slipping to the ground, she knelt before Grandma and grabbed hold of her hands. The bluish veins were prominent, pulsing her fragile life.

“Do you know the story of Demeter and her daughter Persephone?” Laurel didn’t wait for an answer. “Demeter was the Greek goddess of the harvest, and she wanted to die when Persephone was kidnapped into the underworld, but she couldn’t. She had to make the world flower and grow again every time her daughter returned. There had to be food and trees and flowers. This world has to keep living and blooming no matter what.”

“Yes.” Grandma’s voice was husky with emotion.

“You
have
to teach me all about Flowerspeaking.” Laurel gently shook her hands. “I have to know everything about the gift and the magic.”

Grandma looked past her into the garden. “Whenever anyone gives anyone else flowers, there’s magic.”

“But mine are different,” Laurel insisted.

“Yes. From what Geneva has told me, your gift will be exceptional. Like Lily’s.” Grandma paused and raised her eyebrows. “She also mentioned the debacle last night.”

Laurel’s shoulders dropped. “Ugh—I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Of course not. All of us make mistakes,” said Grandma. “But it sounds like there was no permanent damage.”

Unless it’s with Justin, Laurel thought. “Will you help me use my gift? The right way, I mean?”

“We’ll
all
help you,” said Grandma. “There are Flowerspeakers in every country of the world, and each has a special mission.”

“Really?” said Laurel. “What’s mine?”

“That, my dear, you will have to discover yourself.”

A familiar laugh, high and musical, wafted toward them, and Laurel stood up quickly. The voices grew louder as the Featherstones turned a corner and came into view.

“Sheila?” Grandma’s eyes widened. “Sheila Spenser?”

A large white flower was perched above Mrs. Featherstone’s ear, and she held more blooms in the arm draped over the professor’s. “Cicely! I didn’t know you were here.” She took Grandma’s outstretched hands and kissed her cheek. “It’s been too long! What a surprise. I was just telling Luke a story about Great-grandma Gladys—but you haven’t met my husband, have you?”

“Your husband?” Grandma stood up to shake the professor’s hand. “My congratulations.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Featherstone. “Laurel made a beautiful flower girl at our wedding.”

Grandma tilted her head at Laurel. “I really do have to catch up.”

“Isn’t Gladys’s garden lovely today?” exclaimed Mrs. Featherstone. “If only she could see it now.”

The professor nodded. “This garden is one of my favorite spots on earth.”

“Mine, too,” Laurel said.

After the Featherstones walked on, Grandma sat back on the bench, a smile lighting her face. “Now
that
is something. Sheila has found love at last.”

“I gave her flowers,” Laurel said. “For happiness and romance. My very first tussie and a few other bouquets.”

“Really?” Grandma reached for Laurel’s hand again. “It’s a wonderful thing to coax love into this world. The ghost of Gladys is happy at last,” she said half to herself.

“What?” asked Laurel.

Grandma waved her hand. “It’s just something we used to say when I was a schoolgirl here. Whenever something strange or bad happened, we’d blame the ghost of Gladys. But your gift has brought happiness to her great-granddaughter at last, and her garden is alive and lovely. Gladys must be ecstatic.”

Tree leaves, young and green, billowed above her head while Laurel waited for Justin near the bus stop. Many of the spring blooms had withered, but it was too early for the fullness of summer. Laurel was going back and forth about what to tell him. She could say that her mom was dead, that their bond had been flowers—that the world had possibilities he hadn’t imagined. But he might not understand.

Grandma had gone out to dinner with Rose and Robbie, and Laurel had promised to meet them later. When Laurel had led her cousin to the bench where Grandma waited, Rose was truly astonished. Together they would keep Grandma from descending into melancholy again.

Laurel heard the bus before she saw it and was gripped
by doubts. He changed his mind. He’s not coming. When he stepped off, her insides seemed to cartwheel.

“Hey.” Laurel held her breath to slow her reckless heartbeat.

Justin was wearing an untucked red polo shirt, khaki shorts, and a ponytail. “Hey.” He stopped about three feet away and slipped his hands into his pockets.

“Want to take a walk before dinner? If you’re not starving now? The dining hall’s pretty crowded until later.” Laurel giggled nervously.

“Yeah. Sure.” Justin shrugged. “I haven’t seen a lot of Avondale.”

“It’s really beautiful,” Laurel said. An image of the gazebo and kissing couch flashed into her mind, but she dismissed it. That’s not me, she thought. She pointed beyond the conservatory toward the path she’d taken with Ms. Suarez to see the wild orchid. “There’s a great view of the mountains that way if you don’t mind a hike.”

“I like hikes,” said Justin.

“Great.” Laurel pointed out her dorm window as they walked across the quad.

“What’s that?” Justin asked when they emerged from the cedars.

“The conservatory,” said Laurel.

“Awesome architecture,” said Justin. “It looks like a cathedral.”

A cathedral for flowers. “See the gargoyles?” Laurel said. “Aren’t they cool?”

When they reached the uphill path, Justin walked at her side, occasionally electrifying her arm with an accidental touch, but he didn’t reach for her hand.

“When’s your first—” She stopped herself.
Geek alert!
She’d been about to ask for his exam schedule. “When’s your next cross-country meet?”

“Next Saturday,” he said.

“Is it home?”

“Yeah, but they’re pretty boring for spectators, except right at the finish line,” he said. “Not like soccer.”

“Maybe I’ll come,” Laurel said, hoping for an iota of encouragement. Her heartbeats were almost painful with aching to feel his touch, but she couldn’t take his hand. She’d hoped the daylight would throw everything into clarity, but it felt so different from the dance floor. I knew more about him in the dark, she thought.

They reached the crest of the hill, and Justin raised his hand to block the low sun. “Awesome view. Do you come here all the time?” he asked, his eyes roaming.

“I should . . . .” But Laurel turned a circle until she found the source of a fresh and energizing scent. Mountain laurel,
her
plant, had finally come into bloom. She broke off a cluster of the cup-shaped
flowers that looked like striped peppermint candies.