by Nancy Werlin
“Darling? I thought you were going to do some homework.” It was Catherine, in the doorway. Her voice was mild, inquiring.
Phoebe spun away from the window, not entirely unhappy to be interrupted. “I am. In a minute. It’s just that the water taxi came and I kind of got mesmerized, looking at the people.”
“I know.” Catherine came up beside her daughter and they looked out together. “Sometimes I think I would do better in an office with no windows,” Catherine said. “But other times, I love it here.” Together, they watched the water taxi load more passengers. It seemed mostly to be businesspeople, in suits even on the weekend, who were taking the water route to the airport. There was not one child or teenager among them.
Phoebe leaned against her mother’s shoulder and breathed in the comforting scent of her perfume. Catherine was a pragmatic woman without much in the way of personal vanity, but she had a signature French perfume. Its scent was light and barely perceptible, and yet once you had noticed it, it was wonderful. Phoebe was allergic to so many things, but she had never so much as sneezed at her mother’s perfume.
She leaned into her mother and put her arm around her waist, and felt Catherine do the same, hugging her close. And then Catherine said, “Phoebe? I was wondering if there was anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”
Yes! Phoebe thought. And then: No! No, I can’t.
Poor little Phoebe-bird, can’t even sing.
“No,” she said to her mother. She turned her gaze to the scene out the window.
“Are you sure? You know that sometimes when you have an attack, it’s because you’re worried about something. You might not even be aware you’re worried, but your body knows.”
What spring woodland were you wandering in?
“I don’t think I’m worried about anything,” Phoebe said. “I think the attack just happened because, well, it’s spring now. Allergens everywhere. What I need is to be more careful.”
“Well, but nothing is blooming yet. There was even snow on the day you had the attack, and—”
“Yes, but I’ve remembered now that I forgot to take my pill that morning. I might have forgotten to use my morning inhaler too. I’m not sure about that part.” The lie came out of Phoebe so smoothly, so easily, and so entirely without premeditation that she was shocked. “That’s what I meant about being more careful,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Phoebe—”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Mom. I promise, though, I won’t forget again.”
“Phoebe.” Catherine gathered her daughter in her arms. “Don’t you dare forget your pill again.”
“I won’t.” Phoebe hugged her mother back. How could she have told the truth, anyway? Maybe if she’d had the photos, she could have shown them to Catherine and said, I think I must have been allergic to something in this magical garden that was behind the door of Ryland’s bedroom.
Except she knew there was no possibility of her saying anything about the garden to either of her parents, and there never had been, photos or not. The garden—the garden—what had happened belonged to her and her alone. Even if she didn’t know what to do about it; even if it had caused one of the worst asthma attacks she’d had in years; even if she should never have gone into it—it was still hers.
Suppose she hadn’t gone in? Suppose she had seen that Mallory wasn’t home and had then simply said good-bye to Mrs. Tolliver and gone home? Then she wouldn’t know now that Ryland . . . thought about her. Her, or her family. It was the same thing, wasn’t it? Those books.
His eyes on hers.
The feel of his hand.
Suddenly, uncontrollably, Phoebe’s whole body quivered. She pushed herself away from her mother, ducked her head down, and picked up her backpack. “Well,” she said. “I suppose we both had better do work now.”
“I suppose so,” said Catherine. “We can talk later, over dinner. Just in case there is something bothering you.”
“Sure,” said Phoebe. “But there isn’t. I promise.”
chapter 15
Phoebe sent a text message to Ryland once she was home again that night. After considerable agonizing, she had decided on a simple invitation: “Coffee and a talk sometime soon? Just me. No Mallory.” She stared at the message for a long time—changed “me” to “us” and then back again—before she finally sent it. The next moment, she wished she could recall it.
But she couldn’t. It was sent. He would read it. He would know that she—that she—
She almost hoped he would wait for a day or two before getting back to her. But—as had happened the first time she texted him—her phone trilled the music for a message less than two minutes later.
Phoebe’s fingers were clumsy as she accessed it.
“Tomorrow at 3 at Natalie’s.”
Natalie’s, Phoebe thought. Brilliant.
Brilliant because—she suddenly realized, and it made her anxiety level skyrocket—she’d have to somehow ditch Mallory after school, and at least she could be sure that Mallory would not go to Natalie’s.
Natalie’s Café was not far from the high school. It was a small, colorful place with original—and usually bad—art for sale on the walls and casual food that cost a little more than it should. On weekday afternoons, the café attracted mothers with their babies in strollers instead of teens from the high school, and, to Phoebe’s mind, this was a good thing because you could usually get a table.
Mallory hated Natalie’s, however, because she had once almost crushed a live spider in her fruit salad. She had offered the spider a gentle finger and it had waved one leg delicately, as if in acceptance, before walking regally onto her hand for transport outside. Mallory had steadfastly refused to return to Natalie’s after that, even though Phoebe had pointed out that it wasn’t as if the spider had been found dead. This left Phoebe to sneak in alone sometimes in pursuit of a certain panini-style grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich had both cheddar and Swiss between thick slices of farmhouse bread, and the butter it had been grilled in came off on your fingers when you picked it up. Phoebe suspected it contained an entire day’s worth of calories, and it was, in her opinion, worth every last one.
Suddenly, painfully, Phoebe wished she were tall and willowy, like Mallory. If only she could lose ten pounds overnight. If only she routinely wanted the fruit salad, not the grilled cheese.
But still, Ryland had texted her back immediately. He wanted to see her. He could have blown her off, and he hadn’t. Unless he was just indulging her, being nice to his sister’s friend. No, no. That couldn’t be. She had the evidence of the books.
Of his hand in her hair.
Little Phoebe-bird.
Thank God for text messages. Thank God she didn’t have to speak to him.
“OK,” Phoebe texted back.
By tomorrow, she would have herself in hand. She would use the social graces she had learned. She would sound sensible and sane and cool and sophisticated and only a little curious, in a mature way. She would not sound like a stupid little teenage girl who was—because she had to admit it, if only to herself—
In love.
Obsessively, crazily in love with her best friend’s mysterious, fascinating—and magical?—older brother.
The next day, Phoebe arrived at Natalie’s Café fifteen minutes before three o’clock, and was almost blown inside by a strong spring wind that caught the restaurant’s storm door and threw it wide, while the string of bells on the inner door chimed out in tinny cacophony. She had to take a step back outside to grab the storm door in order to try to pull it closed. But as she was struggling, she felt Ryland come up behind her from inside the café. She knew it was him without even looking. Then Phoebe was inside the café and he had shut both the storm and regular doors behind her. He was standing two inches away from her.
The door bells were still clanking.
He had gotten to the café before her. She hadn’t expected that, and it rattled her. Still, Phoebe look
ed up at him straightforwardly. She was not going to behave like an idiot. But the impact of meeting Ryland’s gaze, green and cool and a little quizzical, dissolved her confidence. Though she finally managed to get the “hello” out, it sounded feeble and uncertain.
Her meticulous plans for what she was going to say to Ryland—how she would challenge him about the magic garden and about those Rothschild books—melted away to emptiness.
The problem was that Ryland just looked normal, in his jeans and a black-and-white long-sleeved henley shirt. Handsome, yes, and intriguing (Phoebe couldn’t help noticing that the girl behind the café’s counter was checking him out too), but not one single bit magical. He had even missed buttoning a button on his henley. Her fingers itched to fix it.
She tightened her hand on her bag.
All right. The wild thoughts she’d been thinking about the garden and what it might mean—thoughts fueled by the kind of romantic reading Mallory laughed at but Phoebe loved, about faeries and danger and magic and forbidden love—they were silly. And she was silly, and also pathetic, for having delusional adolescent fantasies about her friend’s older brother. He was just an ordinary, gorgeous, older man whose shirt buttons she desperately and inappropriately wanted to do. And undo.
She ought to leave. Make some excuse and leave.
“I’ve chosen a table toward the back,” Ryland said. “There’s more privacy there.”
Phoebe glanced around. Right now, along with the single employee behind the counter to take orders and prepare them, there were only two other customers in the café, women at a small table at the front who had tea and scones before them and were talking intensely, oblivious to the rest of the world. The table Ryland was nodding toward was farther back, in a nook just beyond the pastry case. Phoebe could see Ryland’s khaki-colored down vest slung over the back of one of the chairs.
Phoebe’s pulse sped up. She knew she was not leaving. She walked toward the table, aware of him behind her. She wondered how messy her hair was, but didn’t let herself put up a hand to smooth it.
Oh, God. She couldn’t even remember what normal behavior would be so that she could simulate it. Should she talk about Mallory? That was what they had in common. That was all they had in common.
“I told your sister I was coming here,” Phoebe blurted the second they were seated. She knew she was talking too fast. “I mean, I didn’t say anything about meeting you, but I told her I was going to Natalie’s. She’s staying over tonight and ordinarily we’d just have gone home after school and so I told her that I was craving this special thing they make here and that I’d just run over after school and have it and then go back and get her at the library later. She hates it here—I was thinking you must have known that? She mentioned it sometime? The spider incident? I’m a little concerned she’ll finish her homework at the library early and come here anyway to meet me, even though she does hate it.” Phoebe stopped talking only because she forced herself to. She was pretty sure she hadn’t even made any sense. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
Ryland shrugged. “Mallory can come if she wants. I was just respecting your wishes for a private talk.” His emphasis on your wishes was subtle but definite. She felt even more like a stupid girl with an inappropriate crush on a man who was being kind about it.
“Oh,” she said. “I guess there’s no problem then.”
There had to be a way to leave now, quickly, before she died of mortification.
Except she still didn’t want to go.
“Let me get you something.” Ryland stood up. “Coffee, of course. And what was that special thing you just mentioned that you wanted here?”
“Um.” Phoebe did not actually like coffee, but it felt immature to say so. “The panini grilled cheese. But I was just saying that. To, you know, to have an excuse for Mallory.”
“So it’s not good?” There was something about those green eyes and the way they fixed on her. He was laughing at her inside, the way he’d laugh at a child. She knew it.
Phoebe said miserably, “Well, you know. It’s got like a million calories.”
“I think you should have one. That way you won’t have lied to my sister about what you were doing here.” He paused, and then said: “Truth-telling is a science. There are . . . nuances.”
He smiled kindly. And then he was gone before Phoebe could react either to the smile or to what he’d said. She was left to stare at his back as he ordered at the counter.
Nuances? That was a creepy way to look at truth, surely. The plain fact was, she was lying to Mallory, because a lie by omission was still a lie, not a nuance. She was choosing to lie and ought to at least own it to herself.
But this was only a little lie, and one that she didn’t intend in any way to hurt Mallory. It was just that Phoebe’s business with Mallory’s brother was private . . . maybe especially from his sister.
Was that a nuance?
Phoebe watched Ryland as he talked with the girl behind the counter, watched that girl smile at him and be flirty, even though he was clearly with Phoebe. Maybe, Phoebe thought, it’s obvious that he’s older. She tried to estimate the age of the pretty girl behind the counter. Twenty-two, twenty-three? A more appropriate age for Ryland than Phoebe. She wondered if he liked the look of her. Was he flirting back?
Not that Phoebe was in a position to resent it.
Ryland returned with two coffees. Phoebe took a sip and found it hot and bitter. She wrapped her hands around the mug, which was warm. The gesture at least gave her something to do with her hands.
“Sugar?” said Ryland as he sat down across from her.
“No, thanks. I’ll just let it cool a little.” And there’s another lie for you, Phoebe thought. She sneaked a quick look at Ryland.
He reached and put his hands over Phoebe’s on the coffee mug. His touch was cool. He said quietly, “You went into my room the other day. That’s what you wanted to talk to me about. Yes?”
She’d have looked away if she could have, but there was no possibility of it. “I—I—yes.” Then, feebly, staring into his unreadable eyes: “I’m sorry.”
Ryland didn’t say anything, but he looked at her. And looked at her. She had no idea what he was thinking.
She was very conscious too that they were in a public place. She kept her voice low as she stumbled on. “I tried to tell myself I was imagining what I saw. Or having a hallucination—maybe because I was oxygen-deprived. But I don’t think I was. Was I?”
“What did you see?” He was still covering her hands, entrapping them, actually. Suddenly she wasn’t sure that hand-holding was always romantic.
“A garden,” she blurted. “I know it was real. Please don’t play games—” His hands tightened over hers. Somehow she knew it was a warning to stop talking, to be careful. And in the next moment the pretty counter-girl was standing beside the table.
“One grilled cheese panini.” She put it down on their table. Phoebe felt rather than saw her notice that Ryland’s hands were over hers, and in a dim place inside her, Phoebe felt a primal satisfaction, as if she had won a fight. The girl turned and walked away.
And by the next second, Phoebe had forgotten her. She made a motion to pull her hands away from Ryland’s. But he didn’t let her go.
“I know what I saw.” She stared straight at him.
Without rushing, in his own time, Ryland released her hands. “Drink your coffee, Phoebe.” He smiled, a crooked smile.
Phoebe still did not want the coffee, but she raised the mug to her lips and sipped at it anyway. It was as bitter as before. She said, her voice still very low, “Tell me I saw what I saw. Please don’t play games. Please.” Then she wished she had left off that last “please.”
Ryland pulled the plate with the grilled cheese on it toward him. It looked wonderfully cheesy and buttery and delicious, but Phoebe no longer felt any interest in it.
“I like games,” Ryland said mildly. “Just so you know.”
“But I—I
need—”
“Shut up, Phoebe,” said Ryland. But he said it in a tone that seemed instead to say, You’re delightful. The contrast between words and tone was both confusing and weirdly reassuring. Then he picked up the sandwich. It had been sliced into two. The insides oozed cheese in long reluctant strands as he pulled the two halves apart. He held one half out to Phoebe.
“For you, little Phoebe-bird,” he said.
And it was like the first time she’d seen him, that same feeling, like she’d been hit by a brick, like she was almost about to lose consciousness, like there was nothing else in the world anymore—
His voice was silky and caressing. “When you’ve finished your half, I’ll take you home with me for a little while. I’ll show you my room, since you’re asking about it. After that, you can go be with my sweet little sister. Who, by the way, thinks she owns you. But she doesn’t. Does she?”
“No,” said Phoebe, who hardly knew what she was saying. “We’re best friends. But that’s all.”
“I thought so,” said Ryland. “Now, eat up. Good girl.”
chapter 16
It was a very quiet Phoebe who picked up Mallory later that afternoon. She wanted to act normal in front of Mallory, but in the moments when she was able to wrench her mind back from thinking about Ryland, she couldn’t recall exactly what acting normal meant.
Who was Phoebe Rothschild? Was she usually chatty? Would she talk about school stuff? Was there anything she had meant to tell Mallory, or ask her? What had happened at school today, anyway? Phoebe couldn’t remember anything from before she had met Ryland at Natalie’s today.
And she couldn’t think about much besides what had happened after that.
Phoebe had gone home with Ryland for one stolen half hour. With her hand in Ryland’s as he pulled her along, she had tiptoed past Mrs. Tolliver, who was sleeping on the sofa with her afghan flung over her face. Phoebe had gone down the hall with Ryland, and—heart pounding—entered his bedroom with him.
Where there was of course no enchanted garden.
