Forget-Her-Nots (23 page)

Scampering up some rocks, she found a spot with room enough for Justin, but he didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes traced the rise and fall of the blue-gray horizon. Soon the sun would slip down, releasing its arsenal of colors between the tatters of cloud.

“I’m really sorry you had to leave prom last night,” she started. “I had no idea that would happen.”

Justin turned to face her. “That’s just it. What happened? I remember dancing and catching some flower, but it’s kind of like a dream. Some guys are saying the punch was spiked. Did you have any?”

“No.” She tried another tack. “So, did Ms. Suarez say anything about that flower? On the way back?”

Justin shook his head. “Is she always that weird? She made me tie it up in a plastic bag and promise to wash my hands. I felt like I was five.”

“She’s certainly unique.” Laurel forced a laugh, even though her high hopes were crashing. Justin didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in touching or kissing her now. It was all the orchid. His feelings weren’t real.

He turned back to the view. “Did I tell you I’m going to New Zealand for the summer? My uncle’s there doing some research, and I’m going to hang out with him.”

“Cool.” Laurel hugged her knees to her chest. There was no point in starting a relationship now, with school ending in a few weeks and him headed to the other side of the world. She twirled the flowers between her fingers.
Mountain laurel for ambition
.

Small stones skittered down the mountainside as Justin sat on the edge of the rocks closer to her. “Yeah, he’s got a boat and . . .”

Justin talked on, but she lifted the mountain laurel to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled its vibrant aroma. She felt her spirit rise up and up, like a red-tailed hawk gliding, sailing on wind currents in the cloud-marbled sky, and crying out. I can do anything . . . .

“Laurel?” Justin’s voice summoned her back to earth. “Hey!” His hand pressed and gently shook her knee.

She blinked up at him.

“You still with me?” he asked. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry. I—um—daydream sometimes.”

“Me, too.” Justin shook his head. Strands of hair were falling out of his ponytail.

“Whaaat?” she said.

“You know, you’re kind of hard to read.”

Laurel smiled mischievously. “Lots of good poetry is.”

Grinning, Justin took the mountain laurel out of her hand and gently tucked it behind her ear. His hands were warm as he pulled her to standing, as his fingers twined
with hers. He was so close that every cell in her body pulsed . . . warm . . . waiting. He hesitated, his black eyes solemn and honest. So honest she wanted to stare into them always. He smelled of fresh grass and mint and possibility. His head tilted, and she closed her eyes to capture the sweet press of his lips.

W
inding
through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ms. Suarez’s compact car passed farms and fields turning rusty and gold with autumn. Laurel didn’t know where they were going, but she trusted Ms. Suarez. At the end of the summer, the teacher had welcomed her back like a dear friend. Avondale felt like home, but so did Grandma’s cottage, and so did her dad’s row house. If Laurel felt at home within herself, she was home everywhere.

“Cicely and I have a surprise for your birthday,” Ms. Suarez had said when she invited Laurel. This day, her fifteenth birthday, promised to be perfect in nearly every way that her fourteenth hadn’t been. At four o’clock she was meeting Justin for a hike. After months of e-mail-only contact from opposite sides of the world, they were
both a little shy. But between practices, papers, and tests, they were finding some time together, and Laurel was beginning to introduce her world of flowers to him.

So far, sophomore year was substantially better than freshman. Except for Tuesday afternoons when she met Ms. Suarez in the conservatory, she hung out with Kate and Ally, and sometimes Nicole and Tara. Three of them—Laurel, Kate, and Nicole—had called a truce and powwowed whenever Tara got up to her usual tricks. It wasn’t perfect, but Tara seemed to be trying, and Laurel didn’t feel like she was a lone target anymore.

Ms. Suarez’s car turned down a long driveway lined with symmetrical, red-leafed trees. They arrived at a brick, Federal-style house and circled around to the rear to park, but Laurel saw no signs of life at the manor.

“What
is
this place?” She closed her car door.

Ms. Suarez raised her eyebrows and handed Laurel an empty basket. “You’ll see.” Their path was lined with thick boxwood shrubs whose musty scent made Laurel think of antiques stacked in an attic. Tiny stones crunched under their footsteps. Over the summer break Laurel and her dad had toured five Virginia estates and their gardens. Her dad was attentive to the history and lineage of each place while Laurel didn’t miss an heirloom bloom. Madeleine came along twice, and Laurel was gradually accepting her as the woman her dad needed in his house, in his life.

The boxwoods ended, and the garden opened out against a backdrop of autumn mountains. Laurel and Ms. Suarez followed a straight promenade toward a stone fountain where water was sparkling high into the air. A white-haired woman sat at the edge of the fountain. Laurel dropped the basket and ran.

“Grandma!” Laurel threw her arms around her neck. Grandma had grown stronger over their summer month together, more substantial and firmly rooted in this life. By the end of their visit, the three of them—Rose, Robbie, and Laurel—had managed to replant much of her garden. It would take years, but her garden would be itself again.

Grandma held Laurel’s face between both hands and kissed each cheek.

Laurel felt giddy with anticipation. “Who lives here?”

“A friend.” Grandma patted the seat beside her, and Laurel sat down. Ms. Suarez placed the empty basket at their feet.

“First,” said Grandma. She took an envelope out of her purse. “I have kept this a secret, but it’s time to share. Your mother entrusted me with the letters she wrote to you. Happy birthday, Laurel.”

Laurel drew in a quick breath. “You sent her letter last year?”

“Yes, and there are many more. I have them all.”

Laurel turned the heavy paper over in her hands, but
she couldn’t open it now. She wanted to be alone. “I’ll read it later.” She tucked it into her jacket.

“Of course,” said Grandma.

Laurel looked around the garden. Symmetrical paths radiated from the central fountain like the sun’s rays. Lifting her nose, she recognized the scent of mums on the air and detected something more complex, too. “I’d love to explore,” she said.

Grandma stood and raised one arm. “Not yet,” she said. “Listen.”

Someone began to play a flute. The silvery music seemed old but familiar, like a song Laurel once heard in a dream. The notes journeyed through the octaves, singing of both heavy sorrows and fleet-footed joy. Everything and its opposite, Laurel thought, as her body hummed along.

Ms. Suarez handed Laurel the basket and motioned for her to stand. “You’ll need this now.”

A young woman with deep brown skin and braids was walking slowly, ceremonially, up one of the paths toward them. She held a small leafy branch in her hand, stopped in front of Laurel, and offered it to her. “Here’s mountain laurel for ambition.” Her large brown eyes smiled as she kissed Laurel on the cheek. “Welcome.”

“Thank you.” Laurel took the branch, and her hand tingled with its potency. The girl stepped aside, and
there was a chubby boy a few feet behind her who had red hair, freckles, and a Willowlawn jacket.

“A white chrysanthemum for truth,” he said with a lisp. He, too, kissed her once on the cheek. “Welcome, Laurel.”

She lifted the white flower to her face and glanced at Grandma. Grandma nodded, and Laurel breathed it in. I’ll be truthful, she promised.

Laurel glanced around before the next person reached her, and her mouth widened in wonder. Rows and rows of people were coming toward her from every direction of the radiant paths. Each person carried a single flower or a branch, a gift to her on her birthday. A gust of wind sprinkled fountain water on Laurel, and it felt like a baptism.

“Jasmine for amiability,” said a girl her age.

“Clematis virginiana for beauty of mind,” said an older guy.

“Parsley for the feast,” said another.

The line of kindred spirits seemed to be endless. She’d been surrounded by these people since her birth, she realized. Throughout her life her gift would be nurtured by their presence, sustained by their gifts. Together they had power in this world, the tremendous power to coax and nurture love.

Laurel beamed at the next person, at the next flower. She never wanted it to end.

F
orget-Her-Nots
is a dream come true. My friends and family members have offered encouragement and enthusiasm throughout the journey that was this novel. In particular, I want to thank my husband for putting up with me through the mood swings of writing and publication. My three kids—Ian, David, and Samantha—were curious, loving, and supportive throughout their mama’s drama. I can’t thank my agent, Steven Chudney, enough for being there just when I needed him and believing in the magic of this novel. I also want to thank Sarah Cloots, Virginia Duncan, Martha Mihalick, and Lois Adams for their insightful editing and guidance, Paul Zakris, for the loveliness of this book in your hands, and the whole Greenwillow family for general awesomeness.

Many others have been great readers and cheerleaders. My sisters—Elizabeth Brecount Norton, Julie Brecount
Patel, and Margaret Burleigh Brecount—offered their comments and persistent optimism. Thanks also to my brother, David Brecount, for his techie know-how. Special hugs and thanks to my great friends Barbara Kanninen, Carol Ritchie, Kathi Reidy, Carol Bernstein, Margit Nahra, Susan St. Ville, Anne Marie Pace, Pam Calvert, and Jan Callies Foster, who read, asked questions, and listened whenever I needed intelligence and kindness. I also want to thank Beth and Becky Andrews for a boost in the early stages. A special shout-out to my fab teen readers, Jenna Anders, Audrey Bowler, and Ian White, who give me hope. Thanks also to novelist Dennis Danvers, who offered excellent criticism of my earlier work and believed that I could do this. And thanks to my mom, Mary Brecount Bernhold, who didn’t get mad at me if I couldn’t talk because I was writing. Thanks to my dad, David Jacob “Jack” Brecount, who always loved words and a good prank. Lastly, I am grateful to God for the true wonder of flowers and for my own gift of writing.

Thanks to the Folger Shakespeare Library for allowing me to research Shakespeare and the language of flowers in those hallowed stacks, and sorry, I really thought my phone was on vibrate. Thanks also to the Botany and Horticulture Library at the Smithsonian Institution for sharing your holdings with me.

alyssum (
sweet
)
worth beyond beauty

amaranth (
globe
)
immortality, unfading love

azalea
temperance

basil
hatred

basil (
sweet
)
good wishes

bellflower (
white
)
gratitude

bluebell
constancy

bougainvillea
romance and fun (
according to Laurel
)

buttercup
ingratitude, childishness

cabbage rose
ambassador of love

camellia (
red
)
unpretending excellence

camellia (
white
)
perfected loveliness

candytuft
indifference

carnation (
striped
)
refusal