The Night Garden (32 page)

She felt Sam’s arms wrap around her from behind. They had not bothered with clothes since the silo door had shut behind them yesterday evening. The insides of his forearms, which curled around her midsection, were smooth and warm.

“What time do you think it is?” he asked.

“Evening,” she said. He kissed her shoulder and she sighed. She felt Sam’s stomach growl—felt it on her middle back where he was pressed against her—and she laughed for the joy of discovering that such a thing was possible. “You need to eat.”

“I’ll run out and get us something.”

She turned to him, with the window at her back. She laughed and kissed his sternum, then his clavicle, then his neck. He wrapped her tighter in his arms.

“Maybe it can wait,” he said. In bed, he rolled her beneath him and kissed her, and though she didn’t think it was possible for her body to rally the resources to respond to him again, the now-familiar pressure was already building everywhere he touched. She let him make love to her through a haze of blissful tiredness, gave herself completely without a single thought to the approaching return of real life.

She felt his breath hitch, knew he was close, and tipped up her hips a little more. When he collapsed against her, she felt a surge of feminine triumph that she was certain went all the way back to Eve. He lifted his head from her shoulder, panting.

“Now, dinner?” he said.

She laughed again.

Olivia was not in the silo bedroom when Sam woke the next morning. He showered, dreading his return to work and whatever new failures were in store for him, then went in search of her. He found her in her kitchen. The Pennywort farm was a patchwork of things borrowed, broken, and cobbled together—tractors and harrows that had long given up the will to live were coaxed into continued use through various jury-rigged contraptions. Repairs had to be made with or without the part that was needed for the repair. But Olivia’s kitchen was the exception to the Pennyworts’ natural frugality: It was as big and beautiful as a kitchen could be. Olivia would not spring for new clothes or order designer bedsheets, but her kitchen was modern and high-tech.
Why have a farm if you’re not going to enjoy your food?
she said.

But now, as Sam stood in the doorway of the kitchen, the work she did seemed more anxious than relaxing. She was shuttling glass jars from one counter to another, lifting silver lids to check boiling vats on her stove, banging and clanging and
thumping as she went. The air was as muggy as if a tropical storm had passed through the valley and left a thick, soupy humidity in its wake. Heaps of fruits and vegetables were piled on the counters or lumped in bowls. She wore a yellow tank top that was nearly threadbare, her hair piled high on her head and her face ruddy with heat and hard work.

Sam wanted to go to her. But he only stood and watched her strange and obsessive work that put him in mind of a lunatic scientist hell-bent on bending the laws of nature to his whim. When she finally did notice him standing there, she barely offered a nod. She continued on with her work—hyper and almost klutzy—as if he weren’t there.

“So … what is it you’re doing, exactly?” he asked.

“Canning,” she said. Then, after a moment. “Getting ready.”

“For what?”

“For winter.”

She continued to work in silence.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She didn’t answer immediately; she was slicing a carrot with such focused rage it appeared the tuber had personally offended her. He spoke softly. “I’m not great in the kitchen, but I know for a fact that I’ve got an exceptional talent for stirring things.”

“I’ve got it,” she said.

He sat down on one of the stools at the granite counter. He watched her fevered work as she removed one set of glass jars from a boiling pot, then carefully lowered other jars in.

“Do you do this every year?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“How many … jars do you make?”

“Enough,” she said.

He understood what she was doing—why she was sealing up the summer’s tomatoes and cucumbers beneath glass and tin.
The past few weeks had been the best of Sam’s life. If he could take them and stretch them out to fill all the years of his life, he knew he would never be in danger of unhappiness again. He too wanted to bottle up the moment, preserve it under wax or metal. He knew something that Olivia did not: It was coming to an end.

A rash had appeared on his belly this morning. It was just a nothing little hint of red, a faint wisp like a distant cloud. He told himself,
It could be anything,
and he tried to make himself believe it. But deep down, he knew.

The effects of his allergic reaction to the honey had only been temporary.

Olivia lifted another bunch of mason jars out of a boiling pot, then set them down on tea towels. She was sweating, and her skin glistened as if she’d spent a day at the beach. Sam knew they had a lot to discuss—not only the short-term effects of his reaction and his interest in trying to replicate the response again, but also they needed to talk about marriage. His feelings had not changed. Marrying her, sealing up their future together, seemed even more imperative than it had five days ago. But he would not be able to bring it up now—not when there was a more troubling problem at hand.

“Olivia.”

She didn’t slow down. She was frantic with the drive to work, spooning bright red preserves into glass jars.

“Olivia—
stop.
”

She glanced up, her eyebrows lifted. Her hair was curling and darkening in the humidity. She ran the back of her wrist across her forehead.
“What?”

“Can you stop doing that?”

She looked around the kitchen as if her pots and jars could offer him the reason she could not stop.

“Please?”

She put down her spoon and gave him her full attention. But to his surprise, her lower lip started to tremble.

“Olivia—”

She held up a hand, her shoulders curling, her face crumpling in sorrow. “I don’t want you to tell me.”

He was quiet.

“Once you say it out loud, it’s real.”

“You already know.”

She gestured vaguely to his midsection, her face reddening like her jam. “I saw the rash this morning. While you were asleep.”

“You’re angry.”

“Of
course
I’m angry. I’m angry! I’m so angry! But …” She wiped a tear. “Not at you. Don’t think I’m angry at you. I’m just—I’m sad. And I haven’t been in the Poison Garden for almost two days. It takes a toll.”

He went to her but did not take her hand. He felt a wall had been erected between them once again, and he reminded himself: He hadn’t
lost
anything. Not really. Being able to touch Olivia, for however brief the interlude, was a windfall, not a loss.

“The last two nights with you were an incredible gift,” he said.

She sniffed.

“I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Would you?”

“No. I just … For one second I was so happy. The way you looked at me—and touched me—I mean, I thought it would be good with us. But I didn’t know it would be like
that.
How am I supposed to come back from that, Sam? How are you?”

He touched her cheek; he didn’t care about rashes. “This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

“How can you say that? I don’t think there’s any way around the fact that it
does.
”

He stepped closer, needing to hold her.

“No, Sam.”

“It’s okay. It’s not that bad yet. Come here.” He gathered her close, felt the stiff resistance of her body softening as the fight went out of her. His immunity was vanishing, but his desire for her was not. He thought,
Just one more time.
He kissed her, then. And kissed her again, and again. But when he reached for the hem of her shirt, she pulled away from him abruptly, her hand over her mouth, a look of horror in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he said. But she was already panicking.

On the stove one of her pots had started to boil over; she ran to it and flipped the flame off, but the mess had already been made.

“Son of a—” She grabbed for a towel.

“Here. Let me help you—”

“Don’t you have to go?”

He pulled himself up straight.

When she spoke again, her tone had softened. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to go.”

“I know.”

“I want you to stay here forever.”

He smiled.

She touched her own mouth. “You know you should probably—”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “I know what to do.”

She turned and bent her head over the spilled water, and he knew she was crying again.

“I’m coming back tomorrow morning, after my shift.”

“That’s okay.”

“I love you,” he said. He was glad to hear her say it back. His heart cracked like ice in a glass. “We’ll continue this later,” he said.

*  *  *

As Sam crossed the barnyard and trailed wet footprints behind him in the mud, he was so lost in thought that his sixth sense failed to make him turn his head and notice that he was being watched. With no orders from Olivia and no visitors to occupy them, the Penny Loafers took up the pastime that all people in Green Valley engage in when summer afternoons get long: gossiping. And Sam Van Winkle’s morning trek across the barnyard was excellent lubrication for wagging tongues. The boarders speculated:
What was he doing up there that whole time?

Before the rain, Mei had the Penny Loafers quite convinced that Olivia Pennywort was as poisonous as poison ivy—impossible though it did sound. She’d had nearly all of the Penny Loafers comparing notes and swapping stories until they finally seemed to believe that—yes—Olivia Pennywort was toxic. Possibly.

But then Sam and Olivia had gone and spent a day and a half holed up together in the silo. And what could they have been doing in there for so long except having sex? Mei made the point that long hours in private did not automatically mean skin-on-skin contact, but the women of the barn remained unconvinced. Mei repeated old arguments, swore that Olivia
said
she was poisonous, and tried to convince the Penny Loafers that it wasn’t safe for them on the farm, that they needed to go somewhere else—until finally one of the other women offered the suggestion Mei was angling for all along: The only way to know if Olivia was poisonous was to ask her to prove that she
wasn’t.
If she wasn’t poisonous, she would surely relax her “no touching” rule for a moment just to put everyone at ease. The boarders, those who were convinced of Olivia’s ability as well as those who thought Mei was nuts, agreed that it was time to get all of the speculation out in the open—if only so they could put it behind them and go on with their lives.

It was noon when Olivia emerged from the silo, squinting
into the sun. She had whiled away a good part of the morning feeling sorry for herself, and when she walked out into the cooler air of afternoon, she felt as if she’d stepped into a different world. Everything was sparkling and cheery, the air clean and fresh. There would be a lot of work to do now that the rains had come. The plants that had been such sad little things would start growing fast even though it was nearly the end of the summer season, and she would have to be vigilant about harvesting just before the quick-swelling flesh of her fruits and vegetables caused their skins to split.

As she approached the garden maze, she saw that it too had gone wild with the joy of the rains. The smell of flowers was so thick it crossed the line from pleasant into nearly repulsive. Inside, Olivia wound through the turns and twists, admiring how rambunctious and joyful her maze seemed, as if it were spring instead of late summer. Morning glories the size of dinner plates stayed open all day long, and thickened beds of coreopsis gave off a mustardy glow. There was a slight breeze that carried the faintest scent of autumn, and far beneath that sweetness, the mineral scent of winter. Her Poison Garden was calling her; she felt its deep pull and promise. But for once, she felt no joy in having to visit her favorite plants and flowers. She hated the garden—hated it for everything it was. She wound her way toward it, ducking under garlands of wisteria and pushing aside sprigs of bright forsythia that had bloomed overnight. Each step and turn brought her closer and closer to the Poison Garden, her sanctuary and hell.

When she reached it, she saw she was not alone. The boarders had gathered in the alcove and they seemed to be waiting for her. A dozen pairs of eyes were turned to her, some women smiling sheepishly, some with gazes like steel. They blocked the way into her Poison Garden. Mei stood in front with her arms crossed above her belly and her black hair pulled up high on her head.

“We want to know what’s in there,” she said.

Olivia was momentarily stunned. “In where?”

“You know where,” Mei said. “Behind those walls.”

“Oh, it’s just … it’s nothing.” Olivia giggled falsely. “It’s a garden. A private space.”

“But what
is
it?”

One of the women beside Mei nudged her. “Ask her the real thing.”

“What’s the real thing?” Olivia asked.

“We want to know if you’re poisonous,” the woman said.

Olivia was too shocked to speak. Mei had told. She’d told. But—Olivia could see herself through this. It would be okay. “I don’t even know what you mean by
poisonous
,” she said. But her voice was trembling and she worried it gave her away.

“We mean,
poisonous.
Like, to touch,” Mei said. “I told them what happened. That you wouldn’t touch Sam. They know.”

Another woman spoke up. “So either you really are poisonous, or you wouldn’t save your own boyfriend when he needed you to. Which is it?”

“Neither,” Olivia said. And she was surprised to discover that she hated lying about herself. She’d always been able to get by with omissions and artful dodging. But she’d never had to outright lie before because she’d never been outright accused. She didn’t like the feeling of lying; it felt disrespectful toward herself. But there was no choice. “I don’t know what Mei here told you, but I’m not poisonous.”