Bay slept late into Saturday morning at her aunt Claire’s house. When she woke up, she immediately knew Claire had been making her lavender candies that day. The scent spread through the house like a long, soft blanket, settling over everything, calming all worries.
The labels on all the honey-lavender candy jars read:
Lavender essence is for happiness,
with a touch of honey to raise your spirits.
A joyful attitude is ravenous
consuming everyone who is near it.
She got dressed and went downstairs to help. A day spent here, away from the world, would get her mind off the Halloween dance at school that night, wondering who Josh was going to bring. His group of friends included a lot of girls, but Bay couldn’t discern an attachment he had to any particular one.
Bay walked into the kitchen, shoving her long hair under a ball cap, prepared to put on an apron and get to work. Instead, she found the honey-filled lavender candies already on the counters, ready to be funneled into jars. It surprised her because the honey-lavender hard candies were the hardest to make and took the longest. Claire must have gotten up very early. The lavender candy had to be worked constantly, rolled into long strips after it was poured from the sugar pot, then threaded with local honey from the farmer’s market, rolled again, cooled, and cut by hand, instead of just using the molds like with the other two flavors, rose and lemon verbena. Claire used just the right amount of organic food coloring to make the candies the color of springtime. Today’s candies looked like purple flower buds.
There was a single plate on the stainless steel kitchen island and Claire turned from the stove and slid pancakes onto it from a skillet. “Breakfast is served,” Claire said. Once she’d put the oatmeal pancakes on the plate, she drizzled some syrup on them, then sprinkled the last of the yellow and orange calendula flowers she’d picked from the garden before it went dormant. It was from a stash she’d been saving in the refrigerator.
“You cooked!” Bay said.
“This was what my grandmother used to make for me and your mom on Saturday mornings.”
“I didn’t mean to sleep so late. Are you all done for the day?” Bay asked, pulling a stool up to the island. “I was going to help.”
“I got up early. Your mom wants me to drop you off at her shop as soon as you’re finished eating.”
Ah, now Bay understood. “She doesn’t want me working here today.” Thus the reason for the calendula flowers. They were supposed to remove negative energy. Claire didn’t want Bay mad at her mother.
“It’s a beautiful day,” Claire said, looking out the kitchen window. “You shouldn’t be cooped up here.” Bay studied her aunt’s profile while she ate. With her dark eyes, elegant nose and olive complexion, Claire looked timeless, old-worldly.
“What are you going to do today?” Bay asked.
Claire shrugged. “Tyler took Mariah to gymnastics, then she’s going to spend a few hours with him at his office. I have paperwork to catch up on, but I thought I’d pick up some things at the market while I’m out. I’m feeling cooped up, too.”
Now that was unusual. Claire never felt cooped up here. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Claire said.
“Do you actually like making candy?”
Claire hesitated, then said carefully, like it was rehearsed, like she’d been expecting someone to ask, “It’s a little monotonous, and it’s not what I imagined I would be doing when I started my catering business, but I’m good at it, and there’s a big demand for it right now. And it’s padding Mariah’s college fund.”
“I miss your cooking,” Bay said, looking at her plate, not wanting to finish, not wanting it to be gone. “Especially this time of year. Are you going to cook for first frost?”
“If I have time.”
Bay nodded, knowing that meant no.
Still, the tree was going to bloom, and that alone was always reason to celebrate, food or no food.
Bay looked at the kitchen wall calendar.
Still one week to go.
Bay hoped they all could make it until then without doing anything crazy.
* * *
After breakfast, Claire drove Bay downtown. When they got out of Claire’s van, Bay happened to look across the street to the green and saw Phineus Young there with some of his friends, sitting in a group in the grass, playing a complicated flip game of cards and dice.
It looked like she wasn’t the only teenager in town whose parents wanted her out of the house for some fresh air.
Claire started walking to the White Door, but Bay said she’d join her in a minute, and ran across the street to the green.
“Hey, Phin,” Bay said as she approached them, playing in the shade of Horace’s half-buried head. “What are you doing?”
Phin didn’t look up as he tossed another card onto the pile. “Losing.”
“Big-time,” Dickus Hartman said, throwing down his winning card and laughing. Dickus was fat and oily and crude but, truthfully, he belonged right here with these other boys. They were the only ones who would put up with him.
“Are you sure you’re not going to the dance tonight?” Bay asked, aware that she’d asked him before, but she had to make sure, even if it meant Phin’s friends would make fun of her. At this point, it wasn’t like she could make it any worse. She wanted an inside informant who would tell her on Monday who Josh took to the dance, what he wore, how he acted.
“No,” Phin said as Dickus snickered and dealt the cards again. “Are you?” Phin looked up at her, squinting his pale green eyes at the sunlight like a mole.
Bay shook her head.
“Then some people are going to win a lot of money tonight,” Dickus said.
“What are you talking about?” Bay demanded. Dickus just looked smug. Bay nudged Phin with her foot. “Phin?”
Phin looked embarrassed. “There’s a bet going around about whether or not you’re going to the dance to try to bewitch Josh,” Phin made twirling motions with his fingers, “and create some big drama.”
“A bet,” Bay repeated evenly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Phin said, playing a card. “They’re just being stupid.”
“Is Josh in on this bet?” Bay asked.
“He thinks you won’t come,” Dickus said.
“That’s just what he said,” Phin said, trying to soften the blow. “He’s not in on the bet.”
Why was Josh even talking about her? If he wanted her to go away, if he wanted all this teasing about her letter to go away, he should just let it go. He should tell her to her face that she was wrong and he didn’t want anything to do with her. He should stop acting so awkward around her, avoiding her like a bad smell. He certainly shouldn’t be chiming in on whether or not Bay would show up at a stupid dance to … do what, exactly? Cast a spell? Is that what he really thought of her? “Phin, be ready at six tonight,” she suddenly said.
“Why?” he asked.
She walked away, her hands fisted at her sides. So much for not doing anything crazy. “Because you’re taking me to the dance.”
* * *
Claire was standing at Sydney’s station, thinking about things that needed to be done at home, while Sydney gave Madison Elliott’s hair a blowout.
“Charlie said my name this morning, didn’t he?” Sydney said, yelling over the blast of the blow dryer. Baby Charlie was by Sydney’s station in a bouncy swing that Sydney had bought for him. He had a smile on his fat little face as he babbled to everyone who passed by. Charmer. He was already learning that the lone guy in a beauty salon is always the center of attention.
Violet Turnbull, skinny in a way that made her look like all points and knobs, looked up from where she was surfing the Internet at the reception desk. “I think it sounded more like ‘kidney’ than ‘Sydney,’” she said.
“Why would he say ‘kidney?’” Sydney asked, giving Charlie an affectionate look that made Claire feel scared for Sydney, scared she was going to get hurt, that she was too enamored of this baby. “Either way, he’s such a smart boy.”
“I need to go,” Claire said. “Do you want me to pick you up some lunch?”
“That would be great,” Sydney said, palming the brush and blow dryer in one hand, the dryer still going, and handing Claire some cash out of her hip apron. “Would you get me an olive sandwich and a caramel apple latte at the Brown Bag Café?”
“Anyone else?” Claire asked the other stylists.
One of them, pink-haired Janey, said, “A café americano.”
“I don’t have any money,” Violet said woefully from the reception desk.
“You got paid yesterday,” Janey said, clearly not Violet’s biggest fan.
“I’m saving,” Violet said.
“I’ll get it,” Sydney offered. “What do you want, Vi?”
Violet perked up and said, “A club sandwich, chips, extra pickles, and two cans of Coke.”
Janey gave Violet the stink eye from across the salon.
“What?” Violet said. “I didn’t have breakfast.”
Sydney nodded to the cash she’d just given Claire. “Would you get some bananas and Cheerios at Fred’s market, too? I usually keep some for Charlie in the break room, but I think Violet ate the last of them yesterday.” Claire must have given Sydney a look she’d seen before. “Don’t say it.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Claire said.
Sydney turned off the blow dryer. Madison Elliott hadn’t heard a thing. She looked up from the magazine she’d been reading and smiled. Her hair looked stunning. Sydney was always booked. She could do magical things with hair. When someone got a cut by Sydney, it was always a perfect day—DMV lines were always short, bosses gave raises, and kids made their own dinner and went to bed early. Claire felt a pinch of envy. Sydney never had to work very hard for her gift. She’d worked harder at denying it when they were younger. It seemed to come so easily to Sydney and Bay and their old cousin Evanelle. But Claire worked tirelessly. She always had. And it felt even more difficult lately.
Claire had just collected the money for the rest of the lunches when Bay walked into the salon. Her pale skin was shining, her cheeks pink, as if she’d swallowed something bright and it was now glowing from within. Everyone stopped what they were doing, knowing something was up.
“I’m going to the Halloween dance,” Bay announced.
Claire almost laughed at her sister’s reaction. Sydney’s arms fell to her sides, as if in defeat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No,” Bay said. “I’m not kidding.”
“You’ve known about this thing for weeks, and now you’re deciding to go? You don’t even have a costume!”
“I don’t need a costume.”
“Of course you need a costume!” Sydney said. “Girls, do any of you have a Halloween costume Bay could use tonight?”
“I have a slutty vampire costume,” Janey said.
“No.”
“Slutty nurse?” Janey said.
“No.”
“Slutty—”
“Nothing slutty,” Sydney interrupted. “Oh, God, this is a disaster. Come here. Maybe I can do something with your hair.” Sydney patted her chair as Madison Elliott left, and Bay walked over to her, head down, beyond embarrassed. She didn’t meet Claire’s eyes as she passed, and Claire suppressed a smile. Once Bay sat, Sydney whipped off her baseball cap and Bay’s long, dark hair cascaded down. Sydney ran her fingers through it, watching her daughter in the mirror.
Lined around the mirror in front of Sydney’s chair were photos of Bay. One when she was six, lying under the apple tree. One from her ninth birthday party when Claire had made her a blackberry cake. Another from when she was twelve, standing beside Phineus Young at the bus stop, the first time Sydney had let them wait alone. And now here Bay was in the middle of the mirror, fifteen and getting ready for her first dance.
Sydney seemed to sense the moment Bay was going to say something about her mother’s banjo eyes, so Sydney cleared her throat and called to her receptionist, “Violet, when Mrs. Chin comes in, have her wait a few minutes, then shampoo her for me.”
“But what about lunch?” Violet said.
“Claire hasn’t even gone for it yet. You’ll have time.”
Bay squirmed in the chair. “Mom, costumes are optional. This is not a big deal.”
“This is your first dance. It is a big deal. I will not let you go without a costume. Does anyone have any clothes from the eighties?” she asked her stylists. “I do excellent mall hair.”
Claire finally decided to throw Bay a rope. “Grandmother Mary had a few old dresses I kept. Long, filmy things, like party dresses from the 1920s. I think they might have belonged to her mother.”
Sydney smiled, as if remembering something she’d almost forgotten. “I used to think you were the only person in the family to ever throw parties in the garden, like your first frost parties, but now I remember that Grandmother Mary once told me about picnics she had in the garden. She would invite people in and dress like a garden nymph.”
“That’s what I’ll be, then,” Bay said quickly, definitively, wanting to put an end to this. “I’ll wear a Grandmother Mary dress and be a garden nymph.”
Claire and Sydney exchanged glances. This was a big step for Sydney, accepting this about her daughter. Bay was a Waverley who wanted to dress up like a Waverley, and not in jest, like the time when they were kids and Sydney dressed up as Claire one Halloween, wearing a long, black wig that covered her face and an apron that said KISS THE COOK, which she’d thought was funny, because no one had wanted to kiss weird Claire. Of all the things Bay could be, a Waverley is what she’d chosen. That’s who she was. It wasn’t really a costume at all. Sydney gave in, ultimately lured in by the possibilities of styling Bay’s hair. Bay had only let Sydney trim it for years.
“Fine,” Sydney said, pumping up the chair. “Claire, will you pick up some flowers at Fred’s so I can put them in her hair?”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Wait, get me some pie, too, will you?” Violet called as Claire passed the reception desk and walked out.
* * *
When Claire stepped outside, the autumn light was slanted and orange, like the noontime sun had fallen to the ground somewhere far away in the flat distance. The light at this time of year had a different feel to it, like a beacon slowly fading.
She was about to turn right, toward the café and Fred’s market, but to her left she caught the glint of something silver, and she turned to see two ladies standing outside of Maxine’s clothing store, speaking to an elderly man in a gray suit.
It was him. The old man she’d seen outside her house, twice. She hurried up the sidewalk toward them, bypassing a group of college students who had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take a group selfie, as if the act of walking on the sidewalk itself needed to be documented. Claire hedged around them, losing sight of the old man for a moment.
When she looked again, he was gone.
Puzzled, Claire approached the ladies. She knew them well. Claire used to cater all of Patrice’s anniversary and birthday parties. Patrice was with her sister, Tara, who often visited from Raleigh. Claire had gone to school with Patrice. Sydney put a lot of emphasis on her own high school years, how pivotal they were to her. And Sydney wanted so much for these years to be good for Bay. But Claire could honestly say she didn’t remember much of her own high school experience. She went, kept to herself and waited to go home in the afternoons so she could join her grandmother in the kitchen. It was, like most things in Claire’s experience, something she glossed over in favor of better memories. Sydney called it her revisionist history.
“Claire, we were just talking about you,” Patrice said. She was in her early forties and fighting it. Her hair was long, super-blond and shiny. Facial fillers kept her mouth from moving too wide, so she spoke with a slight fish-face expression. Her blue eyes were deeply rimmed in black eyeliner, a look she wasn’t young enough to pull off, and her pupils were always a little dilated from taking one too many anti-anxieties, though she thought no one noticed.
“That man, who was he?” Claire asked, trying not to sound like it was urgent, because it wasn’t really urgent. At least, she didn’t think so.
“What man?” Patrice said.
“There was an elderly man standing here a moment ago,” Claire said. “He had silver hair. He was wearing a silver suit.”
“There was no one here,” Tara said. Tara was older than Patrice and not fighting it as well, in large part because Tara didn’t have the kind of money Patrice married into. Her hair was darker, and she wore tunics covering a perfectly acceptable middle-aged belly, hiding it from her go-to-the-gym-every-day sister.
“He was right here,” Claire said, getting frustrated. “Right where I’m standing.”
“I’m sorry, Claire,” Patrice said. “We haven’t seen anyone like that.”
“You were talking to him,” Claire said, frowning.
“We were talking, but just to each other,” Tara said. “What was it we were saying?”
“I don’t remember,” Patrice said.
Tara laughed. “That’s funny, I don’t remember, either.”
“We came out of the store, and you walked up to us. I thought we’d been talking about you, but I suppose we hadn’t.” Patrice shrugged.
Claire said good-bye and walked away, leaving Patrice and Tara staring off into space, as if someone had put them in a trance.
Someone who smelled like smoke.