Where the Heart Is (8 page)

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 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.

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 rehearsed.

“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.”

“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, clustered 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 seashells, 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

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 scraping 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.

“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 glasses, 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 glass and touched it to Forney’s.

“Happy birthday, Novalee. Happy eighteenth birthday,” Forney said, exactly the way he had rehearsed 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 glass 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 Other Old Wives’ Lore.

“It’s beautiful,” she said as she brushed her fingers across the title. “And you don’t know how much I need some magic.”

“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.

“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 scraping metal, the clink of glass against glass, 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 embarrassed 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.

“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, ” 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?”

“Tournedos Wellington.”

“They look like fancy biscuits.”

“A pastry, with beef inside.”

“Beef!” She had to fight herself to keep from snatching food from the tray, tearing into it with her hands. To hell 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 anticipated 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. Glasses 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 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 glass. When Novalee stepped into the room, the smell of whiskey was so strong it stung her eyes, but there was something else, something she—