My Very Best Friend (12 page)

I don’t do things like that. I am quiet and reserved. I mind my own business. I like to be alone with my cats and physics books.

It must be something in the Scottish air, that dash of salt, a hint of mint tea.

Olive took off her inebriated frog scarf and hop-hopped in front of the choir, swinging it above her head. She said later it was her “froggy dance.” She was in her cups.

Rowena introduced a new song, which I led the choir in three rounds, with a high soprano closing. The words were, “The Arse has no dick/Why did I marry/such a limp prick?”

We Garden Ladies stumbled by a long, wide vacant lot, after the constables politely asked us to disperse as forty people singing Scottish drinking songs in three-part harmony in the center of town was too noisy. I saw Chief Constable Ben Harris, tall and sharp in his uniform, speaking with Gitanjali, smiling.

“The old Zimmerman Factory,” Kenna said. “Burned to the ground. Gas leak led to an explosion. Boom and boom boom. City doesn’t know what to do with it now, but perhaps if they drank whiskey it would help.” She burped. “Whoops. Like me.”

“Ugly,” I said, leaning on Kenna. “Ugly like my cottage that smelled like corpse and farts. Drunk mice in there, too. I know it.”

“This ugly place need spices,” Gitanjali slurred. She patted my shoulder. “I think I have too many liquid spice tonight in my glass, new garden lady, Charlotte.”

“Gitanjali,” I said to her. “Chief Constable Harris is a good man. I forgot to tell you that.”

“Good man,” Gitanjali echoed, her steps crooked. “I think I sing a song from India right now.”

“Gitanjali has the voice of a mermaid,” I said, as the notes sailed around the stars. “A swimming mermaid.” I felt the need to clarify. “Not a land mermaid.”

“I want a merman in my bed,” Rowena said, then burped. “Whoops.”

“I am so glad I’m not operating on anyone tomorrow.” Kenna slung an arm around my neck. “I might cut off the wrong limb. Wait! I could operate on Rowena’s husband!”

“Kenna.” Rowena put a hand on Kenna’s arm. “Would you?”

They both burped.

“Sometimes I miss my dead chickens.” Olive’s voice was sad. She flapped her wings. “But they are tasty.” She burst into tears. Then she hop-hop-hopped. Sappy drunk.

“I could bury The Slut here, too,” Rowena shouted. “Right here, right here!” She pointed to the middle of the rubble. “Don’t tell anyone. Shush!” She put a finger to her lips.

“You bet!” I gave Rowena my pink flowered hat. “Have a flower hat. It’s not as drunk as the mice.”

Gitanjali sang Indian songs. Olive hop-hopped, her frog scarf now wrapped around her head. Rowena hummed The Arse/ prick song. Kenna said, “I do want to dress in black leather for Tom Selleck. I do.” She mimicked whipping him.

My head split with a cranium jangling headache the next morning.

Tequila’s curse.

I laughed.

Silver Cat peered through my bedroom door and meowed at me, then snuggled up and went to sleep on my chest. She was a huggy thing.

The next afternoon I found a note in my mailbox at my house.

Dearest Charlotte,

It was a joy to see you late last night dancing and singing with your ladies garden group. You are a gifted choir director.

I was sorry to interrupt you all, and I wanted to make that clear today in my note to you. The singing was melodious, robust, but as a large group from the pubs had joined you, and it was one o’clock in the morning, Officer Telloso and I felt that we had to ask you to engage in whisper-singing.

I apologize to you for any offense taken.

I am partial though, from my university days, to the drinking songs you sang. Especially “The Stable Boy” and “The Cobbler’s Daughter,” and also the song “Mermaid Love,” about the mermaid who swam away from the sailor, breaking his heart forever.

I’m afraid I do have a romantic heart, which those songs sang to. Your father did, too, Charlotte. Tough as nails he was, and I saw him knock flat more than a few men who deserved it, but his love for his wife and you was true.

I must say I was impressed at how you were able to get people to sing in rounds as the choir director. It added texture and depth to the music. I was particularly impressed by Gitanjali’s voice, rich and deep. I bought six more pounds of spices from her recently: turmeric, saffron, basil. She gave me a new recipe and I have filed it in Gitanjali’s Recipe Box.

I was pleased that Toran and Kenna’s husband were eager and willing to come and get all of you and drive you safely home.

I am having a difficult time with my roses, last season was not as bloom-filled as I would have preferred, and I was wondering if you had any suggestions for a successful season. Roses can be so picky.

Yours,

Chief Constable Ben Harris

A friend of your parents, may the angels of heaven fill your father’s heart with joy and exuberance.

Dear Chief Constable Harris,

I apologize for the ruckus we caused in the square last night. I could blame it on the tequila but one must take responsibility for oneself. I had too much to drink after Gab and Gobbling Gardens Group. That might not be the correct name, I shall note that here.

We did enjoy the drinking songs, but did not realize that the men and women from the bars would be so eager to join in. It became a more resounding choir than expected.

I’m afraid I have missed Scottish music, especially “Tuck the Man Down,” which we managed in three-part harmony. I am not sure if you were there at the time.

I will be more circumspect with my behavior in future.

As for the roses. Have you used a granular fertilizer? I always do, every three and a half weeks. I also use two tablespoons of Epsom salts per bush. I use my fall leaves, from my compost pile, around the base of the rose and add some lawn remnants. My mother also taught me to put two pennies in the soil on either side of the rose. Says her mother did the same in Georgia.

Thank you for what you said about my father. I know he valued your friendship—and respected your impressive skills in the Scottish game competitions—tremendously. I heard many stories about the trouble you two engaged in when you were boys. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about your shenanigans.

Yours,

Charlotte

PS I did put in a word for you with Gitanjali.

“Would you like to go for a ride in the tractor, Queen Charlotte?” Toran asked me the next day.

Oh boy. Tractor riding with Toran. Bumpity bump bump bump! “I love tractors.”

“I know. I remember. Let’s give it a go.”

From his tractor—growl, rumble, roar—I saw part of Bridget’s Haven Farms. We didn’t go and see it all as it was enormous. It looked like an organic land quilt, beiges, greens, blues, with a red barn here and there. It was farm heaven, and so much more than what his father had done. More land, better crops, incredible beauty. It was organized, thriving, and efficient.

He had bought land from our neighbors and let the owners stay in their homes. Most of them were elderly and wanted the cash, but not the work anymore. When they died, the homes would go to Toran. It was a fine deal for all.

Toran had called my mother years ago and she’d sold off part of our land to him, too. It paid off the loan she took out, without my knowledge, to put me through college. She thought it was a lucky gift. I wanted to write a letter to thank him, but he was married and I had this shattered feeling in my chest about him, so I didn’t. I couldn’t.

He told me that his blueberries, potatoes, and apples went out to grocery stores across Great Britain and overseas, and he said he donated to families in town who were struggling. “We put it on their front porch and leave. I know what it’s like to be poor, and the last thing I’d have wanted was to thank someone for helping me.”

“Toran,” I told him later as we walked through a line of his blueberry bushes, my nether-private region still reeling from the unexpected eroticism of a bumpy tractor ride beside the Scottish Warrior, “you must be proud. All of this is yours.”

I counted ten tractors, of all sizes, four with wheels taller than me. He had pilers, harvesters, windrowers, spring tine harrows, potato ridgers, grubbers, rollers, rototillers, and reversible ploughs. There were backhoes and forklifts, mammoth-sized trucks, a mechanic’s shop, and behemoth pieces of equipment I didn’t recognize that took up half a warehouse.

Three long greenhouse tunnels, Toran told me, extended the growing season.

Another set of tunnels, 175 feet long and 51 feet wide, made with concrete floors and galvanized steel, held all the potatoes they harvested. The roof was twenty-five feet high. He called it the cellar. Part of it was underground to keep it cool, but they also had air tunnels, ten feet wide and ten feet high, on the sides, for additional cooling.

“We get mountains of potatoes here, Charlotte. They go to the roof. There’s enough storage here for one hundred twenty-five thousand sacks of potatoes, forty-five kilograms each. We harvested seven thousand tons last year.”

“That’s a lot of potatoes.”

“Enough to feed a slice of Scotland, luv.”

“I’m looking forward to eating your potatoes.” I closed my eyes.
Why did I say that? It sounded carnal.

“I’ll cook them for you tonight.”

“Thank you.” I focused my attention on the blueberries. It is not always comfortable to have a vivid imagination.

“I’ll cut them up into cubes, and cook them in olive oil, parsley, and salt.”

I tried to turn off that vivid, graphic imagination by reviewing the periodic table.

“They’re delicious, cooked simply.”

“I’m sure they will be.” Next I tried to list all the elements in my head.

“I eat them three or four times a week.”

Iron. Cobalt. Nickel. Copper.
“What about the blueberries?”

“We harvested 725,747 kilograms last year.” He grinned. “Now for the American in you, that would be one point six million pounds last year.”

“I get it.” I tried to stop thinking about his potatoes.

“I know you do, smart Charlotte.” He winked.

My heart actually fluttered.
Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen.

There were different outbuildings for brushing and cleaning the apples, blueberries, and potatoes with a dizzying array of belts and conveyers, two cooling areas about the size of Nebraska, three different packing and distribution areas, and stacks of crates and boxes with Bridget’s Haven Farms stamped on them. There were six semi-trucks, also stamped with Bridget’s Haven Farms.

Toran also had two longhouses, clean and neat, with bunk beds for the seasonal staff, a living area in the middle, and a kitchen. Another building, between the longhouses, had a full kitchen and four women cooking the meals for the workers. They smiled, shook my hand, welcomed me to Bridget’s Haven Farms.

“All of my workers are paid almost double what I’m required to pay them. They work hard. Most of them have been with me for more than ten years. I have parents and their children working here. They quit only when they get pregnant and want to stay home with their babies or when they die.”

I wasn’t surprised. Toran would be an outstanding boss.

There was a separate building, painted yellow, with a long room with a wall of windows, comfortable furniture for the employees, and offices on the second story. Toran’s office was spacious, in the corner, and had a view of his patchwork quilt. There was paperwork spread all over his desk and on two tables.

I like to organize, so my instinctive reaction was to start in on the mess, categorizing, labeling, making new folders, and filing, but I restrained myself.

“I’m so impressed, Toran. Bridget’s Haven is incredible. You built all this.”

“Thank you. Aye, it’s all mine, and Bridget’s. But it’s only me here. I love this land. Despite my father, I love it. It’s been in my family, all the way back, two hundred years. It’s my responsibility. But I am alone out here. Who do I leave this to? Who is it for? Bridget doesn’t want it.”

I wanted to shout, “I will have our babies. We will keep the land for them. You want four kids? I can squish out four. Five? Sure thing. Six? Pushing it, but okay, baby.”

“There’s no . . .” I wanted to say the words
stupid, irritating woman,
but I didn’t. “There’s no woman in your life?”

“No, there’s not. I was married once, when I was twenty-three. I think Bridget told you? We dated for six months. Not long enough. It did not work out. We were living in London, but I had to come home after my parents’ deaths to run the farm.

“Carissa didn’t want to live the rest of her life in the country. I understood. It had not been our plan, and I changed the rules after we were married, as I felt I had to move home. She said it wasn’t fair for me to ask her to do so, and I think she was right. You marry someone and you are agreeing to the life that you will give each other. When that changes, some people don’t want to make that change. Country life, the village, it was too small for her. She moved back to London, and I commuted back and forth on weekends unless we were in the middle of a harvest.

“I was different after my parents’ deaths. I worked all the time. Bridget was in rehab again, then left, and I couldn’t find her, so I was constantly worried. I blame myself in many ways for the breakdown of my marriage. I was not attentive enough during that time of my life to Carissa. We started arguing. She met someone else. When she told me, we divorced.”