Free Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts Page A

bowls. Candles and roses crowded onto planters and stands, clustered on desks, arranged in windowsills. Candles glowed on thick marble and polished wood, sending ripples through shadows that danced on the ceiling and floor.
    And in the center of it all, Forney had prepared a table for Novalee’s birthday dinner—a round table covered with ivory damask, set with crystal goblets, white china and pink tea roses in a ruby red vase.
    “Oh, Forney. It’s so wonderful,” Novalee whispered. Then she began to circle the room, marveling over everything she touched—a fragile pink vase shaped like a Chinese fan, a pair of silver candlesticks engraved with bows of ribbon, a green ceramic bowl painted with seashells, a candleholder made of dark, carved wood.
    Forney watched her moving slowly around the room, candle-glow lighting her face as she traced the design of a candlestick, then put the palm of her hand over the flame, feeling its heat. When she found a fallen yellow rosebud, she put it in her hair. Forney couldn’t see it Where the Heart Is
    from where he stood, but he knew the tiny scar at the corner of her mouth was silver-white in the candlelight.
    “I feel like we’re in a movie, Forney. Like we’re the stars. Velvet curtains open up and there we are, up on the screen, smoking cigarettes in silver holders and—”
    “I don’t have any cigarettes, but I could go get some.”
    “No, we don’t need cigarettes. This is perfect, just the way it is.”
    Novalee picked up a vase painted with blue dragons. “Where did you get all this, Forney? All these vases?”
    “They belonged to my mother. She kept flowers in every room.”
    “It’s hard for me to imagine this place as a house. I mean, it’s so big.”
    “Oh, it’s changed a lot now. Walls have been knocked out. Doors sealed up. See, this room was originally three rooms—a parlor, a dining room and my father’s study. The kitchen is back there and the bedrooms are upstairs.”
    “You were a rich kid.”
    “Well, my grandfather was rich. And my father inherited from him.
    Yeah, I guess we were rich. A long time ago.”
    “It must be neat to live in a library, to have all these books to read and—”
    A scraping sound from upstairs caused Novalee to look up, to glance toward the ceiling, but Forney didn’t move. She might have thought he hadn’t heard it except for the tightening of the muscles in his jaw.
    Suddenly, he crossed the room to the table and pulled out a chair.
    “Let’s sit down.”
    Novalee followed him to the table, then settled into the chair he had pulled out for her. She felt awkward as he scooted it up to the table.
    “Do you like wine?” he asked.
    “You mean Mogen David?”
    “Well, something like that.”
    “Sure.”
    Forney brought a full decanter to the table and filled their glasses, then he raised his and held it across the table toward her.
    Novalee smiled and said, “Don’t tell me this isn’t a movie.” Then she picked up her glass and touched it to Forney’s.
    “Happy birthday, Novalee. Happy eighteenth birthday,” Forney said, exactly the way he had rehearsed it.
    When Novalee took a drink of the wine, she tried not to make a face, but she shivered with the effort.
    “It’s too dry for you, isn’t it?” Forney asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s . . . not sweet.”
    “Dry wine is sour, you mean?”
    “I’ll get you something else to drink.”
    “No! It’s wonderful. I love dry wine . . . always have.” She pretended to take another sip from the elegant glass that felt so good in her hand.
    Forney reached under the table then, came up with a package wrapped in yellow paper and handed it to Novalee.
    “Oh, Forney . . .”
    “Open it, Novalee.”
    She began to unwrap the package, being careful not to tear the paper or crush the ribbon. Inside, she found a book bound in dark leather with gold lettering across the front: Gardener’s Magic and Other Old Wives’ Lore.
    “It’s beautiful,” she