First Frost

by Sarah Addison Allen

  Mariah shrugged. “She said she’s always been here.”

  Evanelle slapped her knee. “Nice one, Mary! You always could keep a secret.”

  Sydney leaned over and whispered to Claire, “And you were worried Mariah wasn’t a Waverley.”

  “She says don’t worry about the Karl journal,” Mariah said. “All she wrote in it was how much she loved him, and when she didn’t love him anymore, she crossed it out.”

  “Ask her to tell us which one of us is fig and which one is pepper,” Sydney said to Claire, still whispering, elbowing her.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Claire said to her sister, and they turned into bright, bickering little girls, right before Bay’s eyes. “She’s right here.”

  Sydney lifted her chin. “You’re just afraid she’s going to tell you that you’re pepper.”

  “I’m clearly fig.”

  Bay smiled and decided that it was enough that everyone else was settled and happy. She could wait. This was enough.

  “She’s gone now,” Mariah said. “She said there’s someone at the gate.”

  Evanelle nodded as if this made sense. “Mary always did run and hide when there was company.”

  The tree suddenly began to sway its limbs back and forth, creating a huge breeze that blew out the candles. A great gust of blossoms flew across the garden as if in a blizzard.

  Someone coughed at the garden gate and said, “Hello?”

  Bay immediately stood, recognizing the voice. No, it couldn’t be.

  But there he was. Josh Matteson walked forward, looking around the garden in awe. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and he was red with the cold, as if he had been standing outside for a while, working up enough nerve to come in. He looked beautiful here. Well, he looked beautiful everywhere, but he looked right here. There was no smoke curling off of him. Why had she never thought of this? Josh in the garden at first frost. It made perfect sense.

  “It’s even better than I imagined,” Josh said, still coughing. “But I think I just swallowed a blossom.”

  Bay shot over to him like she’d been aimed and fired at him. She almost hugged him, but then stopped herself, partly for Josh’s benefit, partly because the whole family was watching. She took his hands instead, drawing him closer to the table. “What are you doing here?” she asked happily.

  “Your mother invited me.”

  “She did?” Henry asked from where the men were standing. As Bay and Josh got closer, Henry put out his arm and stopped him. “Whoa, son.”

  Josh stopped automatically. Bay gave her father an exasperated look.

  “Men in this family, we learn quickly not to get too near the tree,” Henry said with a smile. “You think the blossoms are bad? Wait until it has apples.”

  “Hear, hear,” Tyler said, holding up his beer.

  “Stay on this side,” Henry told Josh. “It’s the best side to be on.”

  Josh smiled and looked at Bay. “I think you’re right.”

  Bay, in her T-shirt that read, MY LIFE IS BASED ON A TRUE STORY, looked up at the petals falling like snow and thought of her dream of Josh, how there were flurries around them in her dream, and it was just as she thought. She just had to wait.

  “Definitely right.”

  16

  Sydney let Josh take Bay home, and they were obviously taking the long way, because she and Henry made it back to the farmhouse before them. Henry had left the porch light on and they walked to the door in the cool darkness, their arms heavy with bags containing leftovers.

  When they entered, they only made it as far as the couch before they collapsed, setting the bags on the floor beside them.

  “We should put this food away,” Sydney said.

  “I’m so full I may never eat again,” Henry groaned.

  “You’re going to have to. I can’t eat all these leftovers alone.” She grinned at him. “We could work off some of this tonight.”

  Neither of them moved. “You first,” Henry said.

  “Come here,” she said, lifting a hand weakly.

  “No, you come here.”

  “I’m too full. This may take a while. Who needs sleep?”

  Henry laughed. “That reminds me of something my granddad once told me. He said that when my father was a baby, he kept my granddad and grandmother up all night so many times that my granddad would fall asleep in the fields in the mornings. He said the cows would roll him into the barn and milk themselves.”

  Sydney gave him a skeptical look. “The cows rolled him into the barn?”

  “That’s what he said. He’d wake up in the barn to find them milked and out in the fields again, as happy as, well, cows.”

  Sydney laughed, then snorted, which made Henry laugh, which made her laugh harder. She doubled over and slid off the couch to the floor. Henry went down with her.

  They sprawled out side by side on their backs and their laughter subsided. Sydney was lying on something hard, so she reached under her and realized she still had the small night-light Fred had given her in her coat pocket.

  She turned it on, and a circle of blue stars reflected on the ceiling.

  “Where did you get that?” Henry asked, scooting his head closer to hers as they stared at the ceiling.

  “Fred gave it to me.”

  “Why?” Henry asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said, the moment the doorbell rang. She sat up. “Did you lock the door? Bay must have forgotten her key.”

  “Maybe it’s late trick-or-treaters,” Henry said.

  “I don’t have any candy. Wait, maybe I have some gum.”

  “Gum will get the house egged for sure.” Henry stood and held out his hand to help Sydney stand. “I’ll take these to the kitchen,” he said, picking up the bags as Sydney went to the door and opened it, smiling as she put the night-light back in her pocket.

  But it wasn’t Bay, or a trick-or-treater. At least, not the obvious kind.

  Violet Turnbull was standing there in the glow of the porch light. Baby Charlie was asleep on her hip.

  “Can I come in?” Violet asked. Despite the cold, she was wearing cut-off shorts with cowboy boots. The sweater she’d put on seemed like an afterthought. Charlie, at least, was wearing a flannel onesie.

  Speechless, Sydney stepped back and let Violet enter.

  “I’m sorry about breaking into the salon,” Violet said. She looked around the living room, swaying back and forth jerkily, like nerves rather than trying to soothe Charlie. “Although, technically, it wasn’t really breaking in, because I had a key.”

  “Are you here to return the money?” Sydney asked levelly, putting her hands in her coat pockets to hide how clenched they were.

  “I already spent it. I told you, I needed the money to buy the Toyota.”

  “Then are you here to return the key?”

  “I lost the key. You changed the lock, anyway,” Violet said, not meeting her eyes.

  That raised warning flags she’d always ignored before when it came to Violet. “And how do you know that? Did you go back and try again?”

  Violet disregarded the question, because they both knew the answer. “I’m leaving tonight. I needed some money to travel with.”

  Sydney sighed. “I’ll give you what I have on me. It’s not much.”

  “I’m not here for money,” Violet said as Sydney turned to get her purse. “The heater doesn’t work in the Toyota, and Charlie and I were both cold.”

  Sydney hesitated. Was she really going to turn them away? Of course not. “You can stay here for the night. We’ll figure something out.”

  “You’re not listening to me!” Violet said, raising her voice. Sydney’s eyes went immediately to Charlie, who frowned in his sleep. “It doesn’t matter that the heater doesn’t work. I’m going south, where it’s warm. Charlie doesn’t have a winter coat, but I figured he didn’t need one if we went somewhere warm. But he’s growing out of his clothes, and I realized I’d have to buy more when we got there anyway.
And I don’t have the money.”

  “But you just said you’re not here for money.”

  Violet’s face twisted in anger. No, not anger. Anguish. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Just take him,” she said, handing over the sleeping baby.

  “What?” Sydney’s hands shot out of her coat pockets, dropping Fred’s night-light to the floor as she took Charlie. Violet gave her no choice. It was either take him or let him fall.

  Violet set the plastic tote bag she was carrying on the floor. “Some of his favorite toys are in there. The clothes that still fit him are there, too. And his birth certificate. I put some photos of me and him in there, so he doesn’t forget what I look like. And I wrote a letter.” Violet lifted the hem of her sweater and wiped her nose on it. “When I was nine, my mom left me with her friend Karen for almost a whole year when she went off with her boyfriend. I broke my arm, and Karen had a lot of trouble with DSS, because my mom, like, didn’t leave any kind of instructions about custody and stuff. So that’s in there. I want to be happy. And I want him to be happy, too. But we can’t do it at the same time, you know? You probably think I’m the worst mother in the world.”

  Sydney shook her head. Motherhood, true motherhood, was what went on when no one else could see. How could she judge her when she didn’t know the whole story?

  “Leave a night-light on for him when he sleeps, okay? He doesn’t like the dark.”

  Violet kissed his head, hiccuping with tears, then hurried out the door.

  Sydney turned to find Henry standing in the doorway to the kitchen behind her, looking as stunned as she was.

  * * *

  There was frost on the ground Monday morning as Bay walked down the driveway to the bus stop. Phin was already there, his hands stuffed into his yellow hoodie, a black knit cap on his head.

  He grinned when he saw her. “Welcome back to the bus stop, where the fun never ends. Not grounded anymore?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bay said as she approached. “There’s a baby in the house now, so I think my mom forgot about taking me to school. I just kind of … slipped out.”

  Phin nodded with approval. “Bay Waverley, rule breaker.”

  She stopped beside him and stared at him, brows raised, as if waiting for him to say something.

  “What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I finally watched the video everyone’s been talking about, the one someone recorded on their phone of the fight at the Halloween dance,” Bay said. “That blur of something that knocked the guy from Hamilton High off of Josh? In slow motion, it looked exactly like someone covered in a bedsheet.”

  Phin shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Huh. Is that so?”

  “A bedsheet with a rosebud pattern. It was you,” she said. “You sent him flying.”

  Phin didn’t say anything.

  She gave him a shove. He was still as bendy as a straw. “Turns out, you really are the strongest man in town, Phineus Young.”

  He waited a few seconds before acknowledging, “No one was more surprised than me. You knew my dad, before he died. He was a hulk. But then I got to thinking, my grandfather Phin was skinnier than me. He was in his nineties, and people were still asking him to dig wells and break through ice on Lunsford’s reservoir in the winter.”

  “Riva knows, I take it?” Bay asked with a smile. “Is that the reason she gave you that note on Friday?”

  He took the note out of his jeans pocket. “I haven’t read it yet. I’m savoring the possibilities.”

  Bay smiled at him. “Possibilities are good.”

  Phin tucked the note back in his pocket and they stood there, the world covered in a blanket of crystals, and waited for the bus to arrive.

  From the Waverley Kitchen Journal

  Fig and Pepper Bread

  Mary’s Note: Sometimes the two most improbable things make the best combination.

  Ingredients:

  2 cups whole grain spelt flour

  2 ½ cups unbleached all purpose flour

  1 ½ cup coarsely chopped figs

  2 tsp sea salt

  2 tbsp olive oil

  1 dry yeast packet

  1 ½ cups of warm water

  Whisk four, salt, pepper, and yeast until blended, by hand or with whisk attachment of mixer.

  Add olive oil and warm water. Knead for 10 minutes, or use dough hook attachment of mixer for 5 minutes, until dough is smooth and springy.

  Oil a large bowl, place dough inside, and cover bowl with a damp hand towel. Let sit in a warm place for approximately 1 hour, or until dough has doubled in size.

  Softly knead in the chopped figs and evenly distribute throughout the dough (lightly flouring your hands can make handling the dough easier), shape into an oval, then place on a baking sheet.

  Snip three shallow lines into top of the dough with scissors, then lightly dust the dough with flour.

  Let rise, uncovered, until dough swells a little more—10–15 mins, or longer if the kitchen isn’t warm.

  Play tray in 350° oven for 40–45 mins until crust is slightly brown and the load sounds hollow when tapped on the underside.

  Cool on a wire rack.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The year everything changed. I think we all have years like that, when our lives splinter in to very clear befores and afters. One of those years for me was when I wrote Garden Spells, the first Waverley Sisters book. It began as a simple story about two sisters reconnecting after many years. Then the apple tree started throwing apples and the story took on a life of its own, and my life hasn’t been the same since.

  For the befores and afters that made First Frost possible, many thanks to my mom, Louise; my Dad, Zack; Sydney Allen; Hanna Allen; Michelle Pittman; Heidi Caramack; Billy Swilling; the Loopy Duetters, for their support during the bone-dry writing years; Andrea Cirillo, Kelly Harms and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for taking a chance on a strange little garden book; Shauna Summers, Nita Taublib, Irwin Applebaum and everyone at Bantam, for feeding and watering it and making it grow; the amazing Jen Enderlin, for giving new life to a cranky old apple tree, and the whole team at St. Martin’s Press, for your good humor and creativity. Most of all, to my readers, for your unfaltering support and enthusiasm for Garden Spells, without which I never would have stopped and asked, What happened after?

  Lastly, I can’t think of a year everything changed more than in 2011, when I was diagnosed with cancer. My life before and my life after are so vastly different that sometimes I think they were lived by two separate people. Many of you have been with me on this journey from the beginning, many joined me in the middle, and many have come in after. To all of you, I want to say a special thanks for being a part of my life—before, after, and everywhere in between.

  I just celebrated my third year in remission.

  ALSO BY SARAH ADDISON ALLEN

  Lost Lake

  Garden Spells

  The Sugar Queen

  The Girl Who Chased the Moon

  The Peach Keeper

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SARAH ADDISON ALLEN is the New York Times bestselling author of Garden Spells, The Sugar Queen, The Girl Who Chased the Moon, The Peach Keeper, and Lost Lake. She was born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina.

  Visit her at www.sarahaddisonallen.com.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  FIRST FROST. Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Addison Allen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Olga Grlic

  Photo imaging by Angela Goddard

  Cover photographs © E+/Getty Images

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales
Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-01983-7 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-01984-4 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781250019844

  First Edition: January 2015