The Sparrow Sisters by Ellen Herrick Page A

snapped at him. He was eager to see if he was right, to learn if, when he stood in her space, surrounded by her things, he might understand why he wanted her so. He needed to know if what he felt was ridiculous or returned.
    Henry pressed his hands against the dashboard of the oldtruck as Patience took a corner on what felt like two wheels. His right foot pushed reflexively at a phantom brake pedal.
    â€œIs it far?” he asked. He hadn’t been carsick since he stopped riding in military jeeps. He swallowed several times.
    â€œAlmost there.” Patience steered one-handed, her left arm out the window, her fingers spread in the breeze. She looked at Henry. “Are you all right?”
    â€œFine,” Henry said and swallowed again. “You have a very personal driving style.”
    â€œYeah, my sisters taught me.” She made a sharp left. “We’re here.”
    They bumped down the road and pulled up in a slide of sand. Simon Mayo’s car was parked in front of the office, and Patience decided she’d box him in so he’d have to ask her to be able to leave. Sorrel’s right, I am a bitch, she thought.
    Henry climbed out and was hit with such a wall of scent that he staggered, his bad leg giving under him. He felt transported, empty and full at the same time, as the smell of clover and rue, peony and Russian sage fell over him. He didn’t know the names of all the smells, or why they made him feel so unsteady. He was embarrassed by his graceless lurch and kept his head down, hoping that Patience was already in the little barn. Henry didn’t want her to see him like that, defined by his weakness.
    But Patience had seen. She’d turned her head at the sound of the truck door and caught Henry’s stumble. She winced with him and whispered, “Poppy, valerian, St. John’s wort.”
    Henry followed Patience into the barn. The sun was beginning to set a hot orange behind the building, and when he stepped inside, it was dark and cool. If anything, the smells were even more intense. He looked around. It was a peaceful place: the long soapstone sink—clean now—Patience’s table covered with at least a dozen small bottles, a stack of labels and an open notebook, the deep drift of petals, leaves, and stems on the floor. The tableau was as close and compelling as a Dutch still life.
    Sorrel was standing at the high counter, the arrangement in front of her just as Charlotte had requested, only more beautiful than she could ever imagine. Simon stood on the other side, and neither of them could see the other through the flowers. Patience came up behind him.
    â€œWow, Sorrel.”
    Simon turned around and saw Henry at the door.
    â€œDoctor,” he said, smiling.
    â€œLawyer,” Henry said, smiling back.
    â€œIndian Chief,” the Sisters finished.
    It took Henry a second to get the joke. Standing just behind Patience in the shadowy room had disoriented him. He wasn’t sure if he was smelling Patience, her hair curling up at the nape of her neck, dirt and sand sprayed up the back of her calves, or only the flowers. Henry had seen how Patience’s back straightened when she saw Simon Mayo, and he was reminded of how Simon’s voice had flattened when he asked Henry about his house call to the Sisters. He was sure that Simon Mayo wasmarried; he was certain the party invitation he’d received had come from Simon and his wife. Then, when he saw how Simon’s eyes searched for Sorrel, Henry was ashamed at his relief. He didn’t know what he’d do if this blond charmer looked at Patience that way. All these thoughts and ludicrous mental gyrations ran through Henry in the time it took him to laugh at a lame joke.
    â€œSo, Simon,” Patience said, “you going to fit that in the back of the Merc?”
    When Patience pulled up, Henry had been in the throes of minor terror and nausea, but he now realized that the silver blur on