The Garden of Eve Read online

  “When the apples grow, the two of you will have your hands full helping me pick them. We’ll make apple cider and apple pies, and you can bring your parents the first of the early Macs. Can you see it?”

  Evie’s eyes filled with tears. She watched Father’s hands, strong and steady, holding out the twig like a precious gift.

  Adam took the branch and held it between his fingers.

  “Alex loved apples,” he said solemnly. “They were his favorite food.”

  The laughter burst out of Evie like the pent-up wind had seemed to burst from the box.

  “Just like cookie dough and tacos and fried chicken and pizza . . .”

  Adam grinned, but Evie noticed how he clutched the twig tightly, the way someone might hold a secret treasure.

  Finally Father nudged them forward. “There will be plenty of time for eating later,” he said, “but for now we need to get Adam home to his parents.”

  “Do you think my folks will be mad?” Adam asked, but Father shook his head.

  “Nope,” he said, glancing at Evie. “I can guarantee you that mad will be the farthest thing from their minds.”

  Evie reached out for Father’s hand.

  “It’ll be good to be home,” she said.

  And she meant it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Final Gift

  Evie was sad to see Adam go. The whirlwind of activity had stopped and Adam’s parents had swept him up in a flurry of tears. Officer Daniels had come and gone, and for a while the old house had been full of noise. Now it was quiet again, and Evie thought there was something sad about an ending, even when it was a good one. Her breath caught as she waved good-bye from the front porch, but Father must have sensed what she was thinking.

  “I’m sure you’ll see Adam very soon,” he said, and Evie nodded.

  Together they walked back into the house to sit by the fireplace and finish their grilled cheese and hot chocolate. Maggie had even made warm butterscotch pudding on the stove, but Evie only pushed at hers with her spoon.

  “What’s the matter, hon?” Maggie asked.

  Evie looked up. “Oh . . . nothing,” she said. “It’s just I feel bad about your sister. I wonder what happened to her, and why she never came home . . .”

  Maggie put one hand on Evie’s knee.

  “I guess we’ll never know for sure,” she said.

  “Wouldn’t you have wanted to meet her?”

  “Oh yes,” Maggie said, “very much. But someday I will, and I’m willing to be patient.”

  Evie glanced at Father and she knew they were thinking the same thing. Patience would be difficult when it came to seeing Mom again, but now they would help each other wait.

  Father cleared his throat.

  “Snow’s letting up,” he said, looking at Maggie. “Should we make a run into town so you can get back to your place?”

  Maggie nodded. She pulled herself off the couch, and Father stood up after her.

  “You want to come with me to drive Maggie home?” he asked Evie, but she shook her head. She wasn’t ready to see Beaumont without the beautiful flowers.

  “I’ll only be a couple minutes,” Father said.

  Evie nodded as Father and Maggie pulled on coats and hats and boots, then Maggie walked over and kissed Evie on top of her head.

  “Rodney made a good choice giving the seed to you,” she whispered. “He must have known you’d be the one.”

  Evie wondered if Maggie was right. Why had Rodney given her the seed? She guessed there were some mysteries she’d never know the answer to. For the second time that evening, loneliness pressed in.

  “Mom,” Evie whispered after Father’s old truck had rumbled out of sight, “I wish you were here so I could tell you everything that happened.”

  She listened carefully, but she could hear only the howl of the wind, so she closed the door tight and went back into the living room to sit in front of the fireplace. She pulled her feet up under her and imagined how Mom would have listened to the story of Alex and Adam and Evie’s magical garden—how her face would have glowed and her eyes would have sparkled. Father and Maggie had asked a lot of questions, but Mom would have laughed or cried and maybe told a story about some time when she was a girl.

  “I really, really miss you,” Evie whispered.

  The fire crackled and the orange glow cast shadows against the wall. For just a moment the shadows looked like tree branches, and when Evie watched them her eyes were drawn to the mantel. Then she laughed, soft and quiet.

  There was Mom’s card, forgotten behind the candlesticks.

  Evie got up and took it down, then she tore open the envelope. The card had a single leaf pressed into the center, and the paper was mostly green but there were tiny bits of silver and gold mixed in. Evie held the card for a long time, then finally she opened it, studying Mom’s loopy handwriting.

  At last she read the words.

  My Dearest Evie,

  I fear by the time your birthday arrives I will no longer be with you and that makes me so sad. I imagine you opening your presents and wish I could see your face light up! This birthday is one I am especially sorry to miss. There’s nothing like an eleventh birthday. Ten is still very young, and twelve is already very old, but eleven—magical things can still happen at eleven.

  I suppose that’s why I’m finally passing along one final story. I told myself I would tell you when you were old enough to understand but still young enough to believe. It’s a story about how I chose your name.

  Once upon a time, I met an old man in a shriveled-up apple orchard. It’s true, Evie! All the trees looked dead. I was on my way to Claireville, NY, for an artists’ retreat, but as I was passing through the area, the orchard drew my attention. I found it so haunting and beautiful I simply had to get out of my car to see it. You can imagine my surprise when I ran into an old man in the middle of the trees.

  I think he was as surprised as I was, although when he learned I was pregnant with you he told me he was waiting for a girl to be born who would be strong and brave and wise to bring the trees back to life, and that if I believed my daughter would be each of those things, I should name her Eve.

  “Couldn’t she be strong and brave and wise if I named her Jennifer or Dawn or Amanda?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “but then she cannot be the one.”

  I laughed at the time and went on to my retreat. I never did tell your father about the old man, although I did tell the old man about your father. I told him maybe it wasn’t a little girl who would bring the orchard back to life but a grown man who would work very hard every day. I gave him our number just in case he ever wanted to sell the place.

  I have to tell you, Evie, I never stopped thinking about those haunting trees and that strange old man. When you were born your father and I planned to name you Grace after your grandma—a very practical name—but when the nurse brought you to me in the hospital and I held you in my arms, I thought, “She is the one. My one and only.”

  So I named you Eve.

  Father wasn’t too pleased that I’d changed my mind, but I told him the name made me think of a beautiful garden, so he agreed to it. I never went back to that orchard after you were born. I always meant to, but New York is a long way from Michigan. But I did paint a portrait of the old man, and I sent it to him with a note. I didn’t hear from him until last week when he called me out of the blue. He was sad to hear that I was ill, but when he asked how you were, I told him you were everything I knew you would be.

  I told him you were strong and brave and wise, and that I hoped you would have many adventures in your life even if I wasn’t here to share them with you.

  I do wish that, Evie.

  I hope you find magic around every turn, and that you and Father will share it together. Remember there are many kinds of magic—there’s the magic of trees that grow and birds that fly and there’s the magic of growing up and getting older, but mostly there’s the magic of love, w
hich cannot be contained, not even by death.

  I’ll always love you. Happy eleventh birthday.

  Mom

  Evie sat for a long time, completely still, then finally she got up. She walked out to the hallway and stood in front of the portrait of Rodney.

  His eyes were full of expectation, but something else as well.

  Adventure.

  They were eyes that Mom had painted. Evie reached out and touched the surface of the painting, then she leaned in close and studied the bottom right-hand corner.

  TLA—Talia Lauren Adler

  She stepped back and let out her breath.

  Magical things can still happen at eleven.

  Acknowledgments

  Many times I’ve heard authors thank their spouses in glowing terms, referring to their undying patience and support. I now know that what they say is true: Being married to a writer is a job for a saint. Fortunately, I’m married to one. Whether it’s putting up with the long hours and sacrificed weekends, being sympathetic to my fears and complaints, offering suggestions, or providing a listening ear, my husband has not failed me. I am so thankful for his presence in my life.

  I am also very grateful to my editor, Kathy Dawson, who has gone above and beyond for this book. She hasn’t merely edited (as if that isn’t enough!); she’s been a companion along the path, seeing potential at times when I could see none.

  My agent, Ginger Knowlton, is my rock, and I’m grateful for all that she does. Allyn Johnston, Tracy Marchini, Beth Barton, Gretchen Hirsch, and Robin Cruise all provided key feedback when I needed it most. Bruce Cantley and Jeff Crist were invaluable in researching the story. Emily Paulsen was a fabulous role model for Maggie, and, as always, my parents, William and Linda Going, have been a constant source of support and inspiration.

  I’d also like to offer my gratitude to God, source of all stories, creator of life, and hope for the future.

  About the Author

  K. L. GOING lives in Glen Spey, New York, where she writes for children of all ages. She is the author of Saint Iggy, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults; Fat Kid Rules the World, a Michael L. Printz Honor Book; and The Liberation of Gabriel King, her first book for middle-graders and a Children’s Book Sense Pick. She’s had many jobs, including assistant at a Manhattan literary agency and manager of an independent bookstore, but now she writes full-time.

  Visit K. L. Going at www.klgoing.com