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the fat koi in the Rock Garden, and if he didn’t know better, they seemed to remember him, coming to the surface and wagging their bodies in greeting. He passed by the Promise Garden and did not dare to look inside for fear of encountering the ghost of his old, smitten, stupid teenage self within it, still standing there, still clueless and hopeful, still utterly ignorant about the many ways life could and would disappoint a man as he went along.
    People had told wonderful tales that had filled Sam’s head with magic when he was a child. They’d said the maze was magical—that it could help a person better know him- or herself. That each room of the garden had its own particular kind of magical workings, magic that couldn’t be explained except to say that all of Green Valley had seemed enchanted since the Concert had come through in 1969. Sam had spent enough time in the garden to believe that strange things could happen there; Olivia’s blooming lady’s slipper was proof enough for him that Green Valley was special. And he’d seen people go through the garden maze and come out the other side claiming to be changed. It was, in part, the idiosyncrasies of the Green Valley that had driven him away. He’d wanted to go where flowers bloomed only when they were supposed to, and wild goats did not look at you as if they understood English when you spoke to them, and nobody had ever heard of the Van Winkles.
    But—here he was. Back again.
    It wasn’t until he was standing at the padlocked wooden door surrounded by rusted warning signs that Olivia Pennywort caught up with him. He heard her footstep before he saw her. He prepared himself, then turned around.
    “Can I help you?” she said.
    The outdated black radio clipped to his belt went off, and he looked down at it quickly to lower the volume. The frisson of shock he’d felt at seeing her was gone by the time he looked up again. “Olivia.”
    “Yes?”
    She stared at him blankly and he realized: She no longer recognized him.
    “Can I help you?” she said again.
    She was as beautiful as she’d ever been, or more beautiful, since he remembered her as a flighty, giggling teen—all elbows and teeth and knees—and she had grown into a woman of muscleand curves. She stood with her work boots slightly apart beneath the dusty hem of her yellow skirt. Her white tank top was dirt-smudged, threadbare, and torn at a spot near the bottom. Her hands were on her hips and her wide shoulders were squared as if she were readying for a battle. And yet, in spite of all of this, she was the most breathtaking, staggering, punch-in-the-throat-beautiful sight he’d seen in a long time.
    He didn’t know what to say. Would it be easier, he wondered, if she didn’t recognize him—for the moment at least? Should he wait for her to recognize him, just to see how long it took? He cleared his throat. “This is a heck of a garden.”
    She didn’t exactly smile. “Thank you.”
    “It’s very green.”
    “I have a green thumb,” she said.
    “Maybe a little too green. We got a report that you’re watering. Illegally.”
    She crossed her brown, bare arms. “Well, I’m not.”
    “It sure looks like you’re watering. There’s one green patch in the valley, and it’s right here.” His voice sounded harsher than he’d meant it to. But he’d expected to find she was at least a little glad to see him.
    “I only water once a week. I swear. There’s a brook that runs through the center of the gardens—I can show you. I borrow a little water from it from time to time. But I’m not doing anything wrong.”
    “You’ll get a fine if you’re caught watering illegally.”
    “Thanks for looking out for me,” she said not impolitely. “But if you don’t mind, if you’re not going to fine me or write me a summons, then I’d like to get back to work.”
    The shock of her hard words was a wake-up call. At one time, Olivia had been as close to him as one child could be to another,