The Turning by Francine Prose Page B

take a plant walk. I said that was fine with me.
    I always like our plant walks. I know it sounds corny, but Flora is like a little butterfly, and it’s enjoyable to walk behind the butterfly skipping from flower to flower. Except that this little butterfly has a serious knowledge of botany. This butterfly knows the Latin names for everything that grows around here.
    Every time we go out, Flora makes a bouquet of all the wildflowers she finds. They’re always straggly, scrawny collections of buds and blossoms, and to tell the truth, I sometimes wonder why a kid who supposedly loves plants so much would want to tear their heads off and bunch them together and bring them back to the house, where she leaves them around so we’re always finding them in the most unexpected places. On the toilet tank in the downstairs bathroom, on the windowsill in the library.
    Once we came to breakfast and discovered one of her creations sprouting from the sugar bowl. She hadn’t thought to dump out the sugar before she added water for her flowers, so by the time Linda found them, they were wilting in several inches of syrupy sludge. Flora always gets upset when Linda throws her bouquets out, so Linda waits until they’re pretty far over the edge into smelly, limp vegetation, and then she discreetly tosses them away.
    Anyhow, that’s what Flora was doing on this perfect day I was describing: making one of her flower collections to bring inside. She was wearing a bright orange T-shirt and orange shorts—with a butterfly print, believe it or not—and she looked like a monarch fluttering, running ahead, calling me to follow. She’s always so proud of herself when she knows a Latin name, and since I don’t, I can only smile encouragingly and say how amazing it is that a girl her age can rattle off eight-syllable, three-word names for every weed and every rush that grows by the side of the lake.
    That’s what we were doing, walking around the lake. Flora was shouting the Latin names, and I was smiling and being impressed.
    Then I looked across the lake.
    A woman was standing near the boathouse, staring at us from the other shore. But she was really looking at Flora, just like the man on the tower had been looking at Miles.
    Though the weather was warm, she was wearing a long black dress beneath a hooded cloak. She was hugging herself, and she looked cold. Beneath the hood, her face was pale, and even from a distance I could tell that she was unhappy. And she was beautiful.
    The hood slipped down to her shoulders. I saw that her hair was red. And suddenly I knew where I’d seen her before. On the ferry to the island. She was the one who’d been weeping on deck, the one who came downstairs and played cards with the older guy.
    And now I knew where I’d seen him. First on the ferry and then at the library window. Standing in the tower. Could the couple have gotten off behind me and sneaked onto the island? Or returned to the island on the next ferry for some mysterious purpose of their own?
    The beautiful red-haired woman remained there, staring at Flora.
    Flora didn’t notice. She kept running from plant to plant as if she were visiting old friends. She acted as if we were the only ones there. As if she was the only person there—just Flora and the plants.
    I opened my mouth to yell at the woman, to ask her what she was doing on private property. Then I stopped. I needed to know if Flora saw what I saw.
    I said, “Flora, what’s the pretty flower over there? Between the edge of the lake and the boathouse?” I pointed toward the woman. The woman saw me point. She looked at me, questioningly, but only for a moment. Then she looked back at Flora.
    The woman didn’t care if I was pointing. She looked through me, just as she had on the deck of the ferry. How had she gotten here, and what did she want from me and the children? Of course I thought of Norris and Lucy. I had to find out what they looked like.
    All this seemed to take forever.