she told me the secret of Pink apple pie. She whispered that the ingredient that made it so sweet was jam made from our own strawberries and raspberries, but she made me promise never to tell anyone other than my own daughter one day.
I left the summer kitchen while my mother was waiting for the last of the pies to finish baking. It was such a perfect July afternoon I couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than Sidwell. I loved the orchard that was filled with green shadows, and the gold light filtering through the woods. I didn’t remember too much about New York, although my brother had often described the great avenues and the silver buildings and our tiny apartment that overlooked the river.
I was thinking about New York City, how I’d like to visit there someday, just to experience it, and go to a theater and see a real play, not just one about the Witch of Sidwell, when I noticed something beside the porch. It was bundled up in burlap. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I could pick up the scent from a distance: the lemon-drop fragrance of the special roses from the garden center.
Mr. Rose had been to our house. I didn’t say anything about the gift he had left for my mother, but it made me like him even more. Other women would have preferred a box full of long-stemmed roses, but my mother liked more old-fashioned things, teacup-sized blooms she could grow for years to come. Mr. Rose seemed to know that about her.
In the morning I was surprised when I found the rosebush beside the trash barrel. Maybe Mr. Rose should have knocked on the door and given his gift directly to my mother, but I understood what it was like to be shy. I decided to take the rosebush with me to Julia’s, though I had to struggle to carry it. When we planted it in the witch’s garden the scent of the flowers was like lemons and cherry tarts and Pink apple pie all mixed together in one delicious breath.
“They’re perfect,” Julia said. And they were.
Summer was moving too quickly. It was already the end of July, time for me to have my cast taken off at the hospital. I was nervous, but it didn’t hurt. My cast arm was much paler and it was a bit stiff, but every day it felt a little stronger. It was so wonderful to have both of my arms again that I danced in the grass and climbed a tree, more carefully this time; then Julia and I celebrated by swimming in Last Lake. Swimming had never been as wonderful or as cold and refreshing. So far it had been an exceptionally good summer. I had a best friend and we had finished planting the herb garden and I had learned to make a piecrust and I knew the secret of Pink apple pies. But I still couldn’t sleep at night, not until I heard James come home. Sometimes he sat out on the roof. I wondered if anyone had ever felt as alone as he did. Flash, the little owl, had healed and had relearned how to fly. Now he went with my brother on his journeys into the woods. The little owl could have remained there, but he always returned when my brother did, at the hour when all the other birds were waking. Many of those James had saved came back to perch in the branches of the trees. It was heartwarming to see the trust they had in him.
James stayed out on the roof in the first rays of daylight. He was gazing north, into the treetops, toward the mountains, where he could be free. He didn’t have to tell me what he was planning. Sooner or later there would come a morning when he didn’t come back.
I knew how he felt about the peace that could be found in the woods. When I went there alone I always felt comforted by the sound of birdsongs and the deep greenery. I wanted to find the place where the saw-whet owls nested, but it was so deep in the woods and so hidden, I never could find that place my brother had taken me to. And then one day I saw blue letters spray-painted on a rock.
FOLLOW.
My heart thudded against my ribs.
I continued walking; then I realized I had entered the owl nesting
I left the summer kitchen while my mother was waiting for the last of the pies to finish baking. It was such a perfect July afternoon I couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than Sidwell. I loved the orchard that was filled with green shadows, and the gold light filtering through the woods. I didn’t remember too much about New York, although my brother had often described the great avenues and the silver buildings and our tiny apartment that overlooked the river.
I was thinking about New York City, how I’d like to visit there someday, just to experience it, and go to a theater and see a real play, not just one about the Witch of Sidwell, when I noticed something beside the porch. It was bundled up in burlap. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I could pick up the scent from a distance: the lemon-drop fragrance of the special roses from the garden center.
Mr. Rose had been to our house. I didn’t say anything about the gift he had left for my mother, but it made me like him even more. Other women would have preferred a box full of long-stemmed roses, but my mother liked more old-fashioned things, teacup-sized blooms she could grow for years to come. Mr. Rose seemed to know that about her.
In the morning I was surprised when I found the rosebush beside the trash barrel. Maybe Mr. Rose should have knocked on the door and given his gift directly to my mother, but I understood what it was like to be shy. I decided to take the rosebush with me to Julia’s, though I had to struggle to carry it. When we planted it in the witch’s garden the scent of the flowers was like lemons and cherry tarts and Pink apple pie all mixed together in one delicious breath.
“They’re perfect,” Julia said. And they were.
Summer was moving too quickly. It was already the end of July, time for me to have my cast taken off at the hospital. I was nervous, but it didn’t hurt. My cast arm was much paler and it was a bit stiff, but every day it felt a little stronger. It was so wonderful to have both of my arms again that I danced in the grass and climbed a tree, more carefully this time; then Julia and I celebrated by swimming in Last Lake. Swimming had never been as wonderful or as cold and refreshing. So far it had been an exceptionally good summer. I had a best friend and we had finished planting the herb garden and I had learned to make a piecrust and I knew the secret of Pink apple pies. But I still couldn’t sleep at night, not until I heard James come home. Sometimes he sat out on the roof. I wondered if anyone had ever felt as alone as he did. Flash, the little owl, had healed and had relearned how to fly. Now he went with my brother on his journeys into the woods. The little owl could have remained there, but he always returned when my brother did, at the hour when all the other birds were waking. Many of those James had saved came back to perch in the branches of the trees. It was heartwarming to see the trust they had in him.
James stayed out on the roof in the first rays of daylight. He was gazing north, into the treetops, toward the mountains, where he could be free. He didn’t have to tell me what he was planning. Sooner or later there would come a morning when he didn’t come back.
I knew how he felt about the peace that could be found in the woods. When I went there alone I always felt comforted by the sound of birdsongs and the deep greenery. I wanted to find the place where the saw-whet owls nested, but it was so deep in the woods and so hidden, I never could find that place my brother had taken me to. And then one day I saw blue letters spray-painted on a rock.
FOLLOW.
My heart thudded against my ribs.
I continued walking; then I realized I had entered the owl nesting
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