The Edge of Juniper by Lora Richardson Page A

it.  He had neat, block handwriting.  I turned it over.
     
    Vanilla hair, long and sweet
    Chocolate eyes, warm and kind
    Cherry mouth, bold and clever
    Skin spiced with cinnamon freckles
     
    Come to lunch?  Ice cream sundaes for dessert.
     
    I wadded up the napkin and stuffed it in my pocket.  My face felt hot, and I wanted to laugh out loud.  A poem.  For me.  A cheesy, silly, terrible poem.  This was unprecedented.  Malcolm had been brave enough to be goofy.  I’d always thought of myself as brave, too.  Freya’s words echoed through my head.  A summer could be anything.   Forget all the back and forth, I could make a real decision later.  For now, I was going to lunch.
     
     
    I had worried I’d have to find a way to shake off Celia.  But she hung up her apron and rushed out the back door with barely a good-bye.  She was meeting Ronan, I knew.  Now I stood leaning against the oak tree in Malcolm’s back yard, wondering if I’d work up the courage to go knock on the door.  Even if Celia found out, she wouldn’t tell her parents.  If word somehow got back to Uncle Todd, I didn’t think he would actually kick me out, nor did I think Celia could get in trouble for it.  He was loud and tended toward exaggeration, but it was all just a smoke screen, set up as a way to continually justify his anger.  He’d probably relish another chance to bask in it.
    I considered other things too.  I smelled like bacon, eggs, and lemon dish soap.  My hair was wound in a tight bun, required by Heidi.  Well, I thought, it hadn’t seemed to matter to Malcolm, had it?  He had written me a poem.
    The back door swung open, and Malcolm walked out onto the patio and smiled at me.  “Were you planning to come in?”
    “I haven’t decided yet.”  I took in his damp hair and clean plaid shirt.  “I’m leaning toward yes.”
    “You can stay out here if you want, and I’ll come to you.  We can have a picnic under that tree.”
    I watched him standing there, loose and patient, not a worry in the world.  “I’ll come in.” I figured we’d be away from any prying eyes if we were shut inside the house.  He held the door open for me as I walked into an extremely cluttered kitchen.  There was a mile-high stack of cookbooks on one counter, the windowsill was jammed with seashells, and the dining table was covered with scraps of fabric, boxes of yarn, and a sewing machine.  A woman stood at the stove, stirring something in a pan.  She was tall and willowy, with the same shade of brown hair as Malcolm.  She turned to us, and I saw she also had the same clear-eyed, cheerful expression on her face that so often graced Malcolm’s.
    “You must be Fay.”  Her voice was as willowy as her body.
    “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Dearing,” I said, and stuck my hand out for her to shake.
    She ignored my hand and pulled me into a hug.  “Call me Marigold.”
    “That’s a pretty name,” I said from inside her long, wavy hair.
    She pulled back to look at my face, but still held onto my shoulders.  “Thank you.  I chose it myself when I was three years old.”
    I blinked.  “Okay.”
    Her face broke into a smile and she laughed.  “Malcolm, she’s a gem.”  She gestured to the table.  “Sit.  I’ve made fajitas.”
    Malcolm went to the fridge and pulled out a block of cheese and a pitcher of lemonade.
    “Thank you.  It’s nice of you to feed me; it smells delicious,” I said, as I pulled out a chair and sat.  I noticed that each of the chairs around the table was unique.  I watched as Malcolm found a grater and set to work shredding the cheese.  He seemed at home in the kitchen.  “Malcolm, do you cook?”
    “I’m the sous-chef.  Since I could stand on a chair without tipping over, Mom has had me helping her cook.”
    I watched as Marigold waved a lit candle over the top of the pot.
    She must have seen the question on my face, because she said, “Something I invented when Lyle and I