Rising Heat (55 page)

I kept repeating that mantra over and over in my head as the taxi shot down the double lane asphalt highway toward Jackson Hole. While I had been on my laptop, I’d done a quick study of Jackson Hole, the county seat of Teton County. I had been surprised to read that in its off-season, it had a regular population of only ten thousand people. Nevertheless, during the summer and winter, tourists converged on the town thanks to its proximity to Snow King Mountain to the southeast, the Snake River to the west and the gorgeous views of the Tetons rising in the distance. It was a mecca getaway for not only the rich and famous, but for those looking for skiing or mountain adventures on a less extravagant budget.

I sighed and glanced out the window. Once in town, the driver turned a few times before we ended up on a relatively untraveled and unpopulated street. Looking out the windshield of the cab, I saw the nursery in the distance.

It was huge, encompassing at least a dozen acres from what I could tell. A number of small pickup trucks were parked in the dirt parking lot out front. The nursery was obviously a favorite with local landscapers, as their truck signs proclaimed them to be. As well it should be, considering the stock.

I paid and thanked the taxi driver, leaving him a nice tip as I climbed out of the car, closing the door softly behind me and looking around. The car drove off, leaving a small cloud of dust to settle. Trees everywhere, some in huge wooden slat baskets or whatever they were called, all different sizes, all different types. I was able to recognize a few; the quaking aspens, the birch, and even some red maples.

Shrubs of all sizes, shapes, some flowering some not, organized in long rows that extended into the distance. Employees wearing olive drab trousers and shirts busily took care of customers, watered the plants, and unloaded stock from a large trailer truck pulled up to the side of the nursery building.

Everything looked well-kept and well-maintained. The building itself was a converted ranch-style house, or so it looked. Fresh buttercup yellow paint, dark green trim and window shutters. Off to the side was a greenhouse, the light green tent-like cover in excellent shape, which bespoke of an owner who obviously took great pride in the property and how it looked.

As I headed for the building, I got a whiff of begonia, jasmine, and lavender from the tables set up near the front office, nearly overflowing with the latest arrivals in indoor as well as outdoor garden flowers in a variety of pots, flats, and containers. A wooden screen door opened into the nursery building proper. It creaked loudly as I pulled it open, along with a delicate tinkle of a bell over the door announcing my entry.

“Welcome to Precious Greens!” a woman behind the counter looked up from checking out a customer. “I’ll be right with you. Feel free to look around. Holler if you need any help.”

I smiled at the woman and wandered around the interior. Across from the checkout desk was a little cubby filled with soaps, salt scrubs, and other delectable and aromatic gifts. As I lifted a few items and looked at the labels on the products, I realized that they were all local and handmade. I wished I had some spending money as I was tempted to pick up a few.

“Don’t they smell yummy?” I turned and saw the cashier approaching with a smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said, exuding every bit of confidence I could muster. “Is Eileen here today?”

“Yes, she is,” the cashier smiled. “She’s in the greenhouse. You can get there from here,” she said pointing. “Just go to the end of the aisle, hang a right, and it’ll take you into the outdoor area. Go through the little gate to the greenhouse.”

“Thank you,” I said, then moved away from the cashier before she could ask any questions.

Nerves twanged through my system as I walked through the nursery, idly eyeing gardening rakes, hose nozzles, pots, fertilizer, and all the indoor plants spread on tables to the left of the aisle as I located and headed for the door to the outside part of the nursery. From the doorway I saw the greenhouse a short distance away through an open gate. As I walked, I felt the butterflies erupt in my stomach. I really had no idea what to expect.

Was Eileen in there alone? I hoped so, because I clearly didn’t want to broach any questions around anyone else. Maybe I could just introduce myself, ask for an appointment to see her at a more convenient time. The problem with that was I didn’t know how long I would be in Jackson Hole. If I was going to do this, I had to do it within the next few hours.

Would she be standoffish, or would she surprise me like her son? I entered the greenhouse, immediately sensing the difference in ambient temperature. It was very warm and humid inside, and heady with the scent of a myriad of greenhouse flowers. I didn’t see anyone right away but heard some noise at the far side of the greenhouse, toward the back.

I walked slowly down the aisle between the tables laden with hibiscus shoots in a variety of apricot, red, orange, pink, and yellow blossoms. I saw a few different types of African violets with tiny purple, lavender, and bi-colored blossoms. I had to pause and admire a plant I didn’t recognize — about two feet tall with blackish green leaves and white lily blossoms on a tall flower stalk. I looked at the tab stuck inside the pot. Amazon Lily. It smelled absolutely wonderful. I realized I was stalling.

I heard the noise again from the back of the greenhouse. It sounded like a hand trowel tapping against the side of a clay pot. I took a deep breath and decided I’d better announce myself. “Hello?”

“Back here, honey,” a voice replied.

Well, whoever had answered sounded friendly enough. I stepped past the last table and found myself in front of a workstation of sorts, assailed with the aroma of potting soil, flowers, and fertilizer. A woman was hunched down behind the counter. As I approached, I introduced myself.

“My name is Misty Rankin,” I said. “I’m looking for Eileen Masters.”

The woman straightened. I stared, startled, but then managed a weak smile even while my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach.

“You found her,” the middle-aged woman replied, smiling, one hand holding onto a trowel, the other bearing a small clay pot filled to the brim with potting soil. “What can I do you for?”

Oh God. I was momentarily rendered speechless. The woman standing behind the worktable resembled a walking skeleton. Her facial features were thin and drawn, despite the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. Her eyebrows were just about gone, and from what I could tell, she was also bald. She wore a brightly patterned red and yellow scarf over her head. I instantly recognized the signs of cancer.

I swallowed my dismay and tried to sound normal as I spoke. “I’m so sorry to intrude, it looks like you’re busy.”

The woman offered a laugh. “I’m certainly trying to stay that way, on my good days anyway.” She placed the pot and the trowel down on the table and wiped her hands on the dark green bib she wore, then rounded the table and extended her hand toward me.

“Very pleased to meet you,” I said, taking the woman’s hand gently in mine. I was afraid to squeeze too hard, she seemed so dainty and frail.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re not going to break me,” she laughed. “I haven’t seen you around these parts before. You new in town?”

“Actually, I arrived in town this morning. With your son, Blake.” The woman’s expression transformed into one of pure joy. It touched my heart.

“Blake’s here?” Eileen exclaimed. “He called last night, said he would be arriving in the next day or two.” She eyed me for several seconds, her gaze contemplating, then gestured toward the doorway behind the workbench. “Come on, let’s sit down. I’m a little winded.”

I nodded and followed. The older woman walked slowly and carefully, and I wondered if she was in the middle of chemo or radiation treatments. My heart pounded. I knew what I was
supposed
to do, but knew in my heart I couldn’t. I didn’t have the heart to cause this woman any stress. She was sick. She had enough problems without me coming along and dredging up an unpleasant past. It was obvious that she loved her son deeply and probably wouldn’t appreciate any nosy questions asked by a stranger about him.

Eileen gestured to two plastic patio chairs pushed into a corner of what obviously served as a storeroom. The air was heavy with the scent of fertilizer, soil amendment, and underneath it all, a vague, chemical smell.

“Take a load off, young lady,” she said. “And tell me how you know my son.”

Eileen sat down in one of the chairs and I followed suit. I decided I might as well just get it over with. I didn’t want to waste the woman’s time or give her any stress. If she didn’t want to answer any questions, I wasn’t going to push.

“Actually, I just met him a few days ago. You see, I work for a magazine in San Francisco…” I paused, waiting for some kind of reaction from Eileen. She didn’t give any. I continued. “I’m supposed to be doing an exposé on your son.” I grinned and shrugged. “I don’t think I have to tell you that he’s an extremely private man, do I?”

Eileen smiled, tilted her head back, and laughed, a dainty sound. “Oh, heavens no, Misty,” she said. “He’s always been a man who keeps his innermost thoughts and emotions to himself. What are you writing about?”

“His properties,” I replied honestly. “I’ve been to the Rocking J in southern Oregon, and we just arrived here in Jackson Hole so that he can check up on some things at the Camp Robber.”

“I see,” Eileen said.

I felt her direct gaze. I didn’t have to ask. “I’ll be honest, Mrs. Masters—”

“Eileen,” she interrupted.

“Eileen.” I smiled. “To be honest, I’m supposed to… well, I’m supposed to be… I’m sure you’re more than aware of the troubles your son has had lately with the rumors being spread by his ex-wife.” Eileen said nothing, but offered a short nod. “I’m also supposed to…”

“Talk about his father’s death,” Eileen finished.

“Yes ma’am,” I said softly, feeling definitely uncomfortable. “But I want you to know that I — I feel hesitant to even broach the topic with him. It’s such a private matter.”

Eileen stared at me a moment and then offered me another smile. “You’re not like the other reporters.”

“You’ve met some?”

“Oh heavens yes,” she said. “Some of them can be quite bothersome. And rude.”

I moved to stand. “I’m so sorry I bothered you, Mrs…. Eileen. I should let you get back to your work.”

Eileen reached out a hand and placed it on my arm. “Sit.”

I did, gazing at the older woman with curiosity. She didn’t look much like Blake, or Blake didn’t look much like her, but then again she was sick. I had no doubt that Blake was as protective of his mother as he was of his past. Once again, I felt the weight of guilt pressing down on my shoulders for sneaking around behind his back and arranging this meeting with his mother without his knowledge.

“You like him, don’t you?”

The question came out of left field and I experienced the shock of surprise. Was it that obvious? What could I say? The pulse in my neck picked up speed, and I felt the heat of a blush rise in my cheeks, giving the woman her answer. Well, I had been honest so far; I might as well just blurt it out. “Yes, Eileen, I do. Very much. He’s not at all what I expected.”

At that moment, I realized that I more than just liked Blake. But how could my feelings for someone I barely knew develop so quickly? Not only that, but how did Blake feel about me? Did it mean anything? At the same time, I also came to another realization. I looked at Blake’s mother and smiled. I had made my decision.

“You’re a lucky woman, Eileen, to have a son like Blake. In spite of his penchant for silence, I think I’ve learned more about him in the last couple of days than I think any exposé could’ve revealed. He surprises me.”

I slowly rose. When Eileen moved to stand, I gestured for her to remain seated. I turned to leave the storeroom, then paused by the doorjamb. “I’m glad I had the opportunity to meet you,” I said, meaning it. These few minutes with Blake’s mother had brought everything — well, a lot of things — into greater clarity. “I’ll be going now so that you can get back to your beautiful flowers. I just want you to know… I have no intention of digging into your son’s past, or yours. It’s none of my business, and frankly, as far as I’m concerned, it’s nobody else’s business either.”

With a last smile, I turned and walked quickly out of the greenhouse, my heart thumping with uncertainty. Well, that was that. I knew what else I needed to do. I would go back to the cabin, make a couple of phone calls, and make arrangements to get back to San Francisco. This had gone far enough and I was done. I realized as soon as I saw Blake’s cancer-stricken mother that I didn’t have the heart to dig into the woman’s past. I wasn’t the bulldog journalist, the type to get the story no matter what. I didn’t have the come-hell-or-high-water attitude that many of my fellow journalists possessed.

Disappointed in myself yet relieved at the same time, I walked quickly through the nursery and out to the front, pulling my cell phone from my pocket, prepared to dial the taxi service again. But first, I had one call to make.

My heart thumped. With every second, I grew angrier. I dialed, my mouth dry, my stomach tied up in knots regarding my sudden decision. But I knew, deep down, that it was the right one.

“Sweet Success,” the receptionist answered.

“Heidi, this is Misty Rankin. Is Angela in?”

“Yes, let me connect you.”

I knew I was doing the right thing, and although I had no idea what I would do next, when or where I would find another job, I needed to get this over with. I heard the connection going through. Seconds later, Angela’s sharp voice. “Misty, how’s the interview going?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that I would be leaving town with Mr. Masters?” I asked. I didn’t wait for her to answer. “I just want you to know that I don’t appreciate it.”

“What did you say?” Angela asked, her voice harsh and surprised.

“You heard me,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, I quit.”

I disconnected the call. Well, that was that. My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding, but I knew I’d done the right thing. I would find another job, I knew that. Even if I had to go back home to Texas.
Sweet Success
wasn’t the only magazine out there. And I could certainly do better, couldn’t I?