The Bluebonnet Betrayal (4 page)

“Thanks to last month's speaker, we all now have a greater appreciation for the trees, shrubs, and flowers that grow in Calgary. Travel opens a gardener's eyes. Will you share your love of your favorite place?”

The President Speaks, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

“Didn't come? Twyla didn't come?” Pru repeated the words hoping that would help her understand their meaning, which refused to sink in. “What do you mean? She has to be here—this is her garden. You said it was her idea—the Chelsea Flower Show—that she was excited, that she planned it all, that she would be in charge. What do you mean, she didn't come?”

Without realizing it, Pru had clamped her hand onto Ivory's arm and was squeezing. Ivory patted the hand before pulling it off and patting it again.

“No, don't worry, honey. She'll be here.” Ivory shook her head and laughed, and the frozen group broke into smiles of their own. “Twyla would not miss this for the world—would she? She's our president, after all.”

The group laughed and nodded, and Pru thought she heard someone murmur, “President for life.”

“But why isn't she here now?” Pru asked in a little voice. “You promised she would be here.” Her dream of stepping into the background of garden construction faded before her eyes, replaced by the image of one arm being tugged by Roddy MacWeeks and the other pulled on by Forde Thomas Forde.

“Something came up, that's all—isn't that right, ladies?” Ivory asked.

“And Ivory's vice president—she's next in line.” “Lotta good that'll do her.” Those remarks came from the younger women, but by the time Pru looked to see who said what, both had clamped their mouths shut under a severe look from Rosette. “Sorry, Ivory,” the blonde—KayAnn? Nell?—said hastily. “We didn't mean anything by it.”

“That's all right, honey,” Ivory said, now patting the blonde's arm while still looking at Pru. “Twyla had some business to attend to and so she stayed back another day or two. But she'll be here before you know it, and in the meantime, we're here. Put us to work!”

Pru nodded. “Yes, right, of course. Well, let's get going.” She nudged the women along, down to the train that took them to Paddington Station. During the fifteen-minute journey, she saw more than one chin sink to a chest, only to bolt upright again. She had thought the last leg of their journey could be on the Tube—their first London adventure—but as they struggled to swing carry-ons over their shoulders, and pushed their wheeled bags along as if they were filled with bricks, she took pity and ushered them to the taxi rank. Instead of relinquishing her responsibilities for the ARGS garden, it was now all too clear she had assumed even more.

Lamont Road in Chelsea would not be a bad place to spend a month, Pru decided as they pulled up to the Austin women's temporary home, a large, corner house along the brown-brick terrace. Pru had lived in Chelsea her first year in England, not too far away, and she knew the neighborhood. If the women could stay awake long enough, she would take them to the Cat and Cask, her old local.

Rosette had the key, and once in the door, the five women dispersed to look round, choose a bedroom, find the loo. Pru could hear them upstairs exclaiming about bedding and paint colors. She stood in the entry for a moment, and noticed boxes against the wall with boots, high-vis vests, and work passes. All sorted, then—at least Twyla had done that much. Pru wandered through the sitting room and into the kitchen and looked out the window at a tiny back garden with patio and barbecue.

“This is fabulous,” she said to Ivory, who walked into the kitchen and opened cupboards until she found a glass. “How did you find it? Oh, don't tell me—Twyla arranged it.”

“Damien. He's covered the rent, too.” Ivory turned on the tap and stuck a finger under the running water.

“Well, whoever Damien is, he must have deep pockets. Is he from GlobalSynergy?”

“Ten thousand pounds for the month—that's how much it cost,” Ivory replied. “Whatever that is in real money.”

Pru's eyes widened. “It's a
lot
.”

“Are we supposed to go to sleep now or what?” Sweetie asked, standing in the doorway, already wearing fuzzy slippers.

“Too early for that,” Pru replied. “You should try to stay up until a regular bedtime—it'll be easier for you to adjust to the time change. I thought we could go down to the pub. Why don't you get everyone together.”

Sweetie padded obediently back up the stairs, and Pru turned to Ivory. “Is her name really Sweetie?” she asked in a whisper.

Ivory shrugged. “If she has another one, she's never told us.”

Pru led the way to the pub, but had to retrace her steps several times as the five women stretched themselves out behind her in a stringy parade, KayAnn and Nell bringing up the distant rear. When they got to the end of Lamont Road, the women stopped.

“How many blocks is it?” Rosette asked.

“We don't really have blocks here,” Pru replied. “But it isn't far—six or seven minutes. Truly.” Possibly. She got behind KayAnn and Nell to nip at their heels. “I'm sure you all could do with a drink.”
I certainly could
.

Down two more streets and round the corner. They walked under gray skies, but on dry pavement while Pru kept up a lively, albeit one-sided, conversation about London and what they might like to do in their free time—not that she expected them to have much of it. Next, she described the Chelsea Flower Show, which none of them had ever attended, and mentioned the occasional sighting of a celebrity or royal. At those last words, KayAnn and Nell scooted closer, but Rosette just shook her head and said, “You sound like Twyla.”

Pru pulled up in front of the Cat and Cask, and the women gathered behind her. Begonias, trailing lobelia, and multitudes of small violas erupted from hanging baskets and window boxes, standing out against the dark green walls. Her first year in London, Pru had been a jobbing gardener—pruning here, planting there—and tended the potted plants at this very pub. It seemed an age ago, and although she could get misty-eyed thinking about those days, she was ever so grateful they were in her past.

She stopped under the painted pub sign swinging above the door. It showed a gray tabby balanced atop a wooden beer cask that lay on its side. The cat, with its tail curled round its haunches, leaned over and batted at the cork.

“Here we are now,” she said, pointing up to the sign. “Your first English pub. What do you think?”

“I think I need to sit down,” Ivory said.

“I took them to the Cat and Cask when they arrived,” Pru told Christopher later on the phone.

“Did you have a meal there?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She had bought a round of drinks—Chardonnay for KayAnn and Nell, vodka and tonics for Ivory, Rosette, and Sweetie, and a pint of bitter for herself. No one admitted to being hungry, but when six side orders of chips—thick potato wedges twice-cooked in duck fat—arrived at the table, the women set upon them until the plates were picked clean. Fueled by alcohol and fried food, their conversation had gathered an upward momentum with talk of who was looking after husbands and boyfriends back home until it spiked with a burst of laughter, followed by a precipitous drop in energy, which left the Austin women nearly comatose.

“They should be all tucked up in bed by now,” Pru told Christopher, heading that way herself. “I'm collecting them at seven in the morning—I hope one of them remembers to set an alarm, otherwise I'll be standing on the pavement ringing them.” She retraced her steps to look into her vast canvas bag, confirming she had the list of phone numbers for the women. They were all using their U.S. cellphones while in England, but had said they would call home online.

“And Twyla?” Christopher asked.

“Yes, in a day or two. Or so I'm told.” At that moment, Pru was growing quite weary of the promised coming of Twyla Woodford.

Blue skies greeted the women of the Austin Rock Garden Society when they opened their door the next morning.

“I thought it rained here all the time,” Sweetie said, blinking into the sunshine.

Pru had seen the forecast for the afternoon, but decided not to share it. They walked to the Chelsea grounds.

“Taxis would take longer in the morning traffic,” she explained. “Really—it isn't far.” Each of the women lugged a large day bag stuffed with their gear. “Can I give any of you a hand?”

“No, we're okay, honey,” Ivory said.

At the London gate, they paused to pull on high-vis vests, work passes, and boots before clomping down the roadway. At the top of Main Avenue, Pru turned to give a few words of introduction to the show, and saw that they had somehow lost KayAnn and Nell. The two women had stopped just inside the gate and cuddled up to one of the Chelsea pensioners who wore his formal scarlet coat and tricorne hat—they were taking selfies. Pru waved until she caught their attention, and waited for them to catch up.

Down the avenue they all trailed, following Pru, who gave up on a tour when the noise from construction kept interrupting her narrative. Twice more, she discovered KayAnn and Nell lagging as they chatted with crewmembers at other gardens. Each time, mother hen Pru backtracked to collect them.

They drew up at the Rock Garden Bank, and Pru spread her arms wide. “Right, here we are.” The women lined up on one side of the boundary rope along the road, and on the other side, Chiv, Iris, and Teddy stood with spades in hand. Roddy lounged near the excavator. Both his and Chiv's eyes darted among the women's faces.

“This is it,” Ivory said in a whisper, and followed it with a shout. “This is IT, ladies. Yes!” All five women put fists in the air, whooped and hollered, and broke out into a chorus of “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You,” causing the Aussies next door to stop work and watch.

The women dropped their day bags and dragged out bright blue hooded sweatshirts emblazoned with
ARGS—AUSTIN ROCKS!
across the back and front. They tore off their vests and pulled on the sweatshirts, after which they produced more from their bags and handed them out. During the commotion, Chiv nodded Pru over. Roddy stepped closer.

“Where's Twyla?” Chiv asked Pru.

She sighed. Behind them, she heard Ivory say to Teddy, “Don't worry, honey, we've got extras. We'll find one with long enough arms.”

“Delayed,” Pru said to Chiv.

“She's supposed to…”

“Yes, I know. But if she isn't here, she isn't here.” Pru shrugged. “Something came up. She'll be here in a day or two.” She repeated Ivory's words, but with less conviction.

To her astonishment, Chiv threw the spade against a pallet of stones. It hit hard, sparked, and a spray of rock fragments flew through the air. He stabbed a finger at Roddy. “This is your fault!” he shouted.

“My fault?” Roddy shouted back. “You think I'm the reason she's afraid to show her face round here?”

“You've done everything you could to undermine this project.” Chiv grabbed rolled-up plans out of his pocket and pointed them at Roddy like a saber.

“You're off your nut if you think I'd spoil this for her!”

Iris joined the shouting match. “Listen to the two of you. She's got you wrapped round her little finger—always has!”

“There!” Roddy pointed at Iris. “You want to know why she isn't here, ask your little bulldog! Twyla probably fears for her life.”

Silence fell, as if all the diggers and cranes and forklifts on the entire hospital grounds ceased at once. Pru, along with the Austin women, stood staring.

“Good morning,” said a chipper voice, and Pru turned to see Forde. “Where's Ms. Woodford?”

“How to Make a Successful Garden: Prioritize your tasks, have everything at the ready, stay hydrated, and above all, do not bite off more than you can chew!”

Tips and Trends, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

It seemed as if every time Pru left the women at a task for five minutes, both minds and bodies wandered. They hadn't been in the country twenty-four hours—Pru reminded both herself and Chiv that jet lag could be a lingering problem. Forde, a gnat no one seemed willing to swat away, took turns chatting with each of the Austin women while Pru tried to get them to work. “I'm sure I don't need to tell you how important those bluebonnets are to me in my negotiations with GlobalSynergy. They are a symbol of my unique method of transference to create a worldwide energy source with only minimal changes to the structure. Each crop sown will provide…”

“Crop?” Rosette cut in. “We don't sow crops of bluebonnets—they reseed themselves into the native landscape where we've been able to reestablish them. We let nature have its way.”

Pru walked away as Forde sputtered a reply.

“We'll need to check the contour and elevation of the soil at the back here,” she told KayAnn and Nell, who only a moment before had been behind her, but now had migrated to the rope boundary of the garden site, where they stood side by side, staring up Main Avenue. Pru saw one of them rummage in a pocket and draw something small out and hold it in front of her, while the other peered through a set of opera glasses.

“Oh, um,” Pru began, but once again Rosette cut in.

“KayAnn and Nell, get back here.”

“Yes, ma'am,” they chorused, and scampered back to business.

Pru counted their numbers—still missing one. She glanced round and spotted Sweetie leaning up against a forklift at the next garden, talking to a tall Aussie. He said something, and Sweetie laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Chiv noticed, too. “Oi, Skippy!” he called. “Hands off—she's ours.”

Skippy smiled. Sweetie blushed and returned to work.

Only Ivory and Rosette kept their noses to the grindstone—half the morning with Forde at their elbows telling them stories of chemical compounds. Roddy had departed for Leicester not long after learning of Twyla's no-show.

“Can any of you run one of those things?” Chiv asked, nodding to the excavator.

“I can,” Ivory answered. “I made myself a bulldozer garden when we moved into our house about fifteen years ago. Got a little earthmover and had the time of my life changing contours. It sure does beat a shovel.”

“Good,” Chiv said. “I'll get you on that trench at the back soon.”

He unrolled garden plans and stood off to the side studying them. Rosette peered over his shoulder, and after a minute, she pointed to the drawing and said, “What's this?”

“MacWeeks wants to change the old petrol pump out for a rusted fruit machine,” Chiv said.

“What's a fruit machine?” Ivory asked.

“It's a slot machine,” Pru said. “It's called a fruit machine here because the reels have pictures of fruit on them.” She spun her finger in a circle to demonstrate. “But that's ridiculous—a fruit machine in the middle of the bluebonnets?”

“It doesn't make any sense,” Ivory insisted. “We're not putting a slot machine in the garden. Twyla won't stand for it.”

Chiv shrugged. Pru heard a voice behind her say, “Frau Woodford,” and another voice said,
“Jawohl!”
followed by giggling. She turned round in time to see Rosette throw KayAnn and Nell a look. The two women cast their gazes down to their steel-toed boots.

In the afternoon, Chiv gave them a short course on wall construction, the different shapes and sizes of rocks and their purposes. He set them to sorting the first pallet, and after an hour, he graded their work. Pru wished she'd had the chance to remind him that the Austin Rock Garden Society was mostly about plants that grew in rock gardens, not the rocks themselves. No one received a high score until Chiv kicked a toe at a rock that Sweetie had set aside.

“And this one—well, that's a top stone, isn't it?”

“That's why I put it there—I knew it was different from the others,” she said, pulling off a work glove to tuck hair behind her ear. “I used to help my daddy do this very thing. Daddy loved rocks. On weekends, just for fun, he used to drive out in the country and find old homesteads with tumbled-down walls and rebuild them. I always went with him.”

Chiv grinned at her. “Good to know one of you can see straight when it comes to stones. You're…er…”

“Sweetie.”

Chiv cleared his throat, as if working up the nerve to call her by her chosen name.

“I could use some help here,” Iris called over. “I'm going for tea.”

“I'll come along,” Chiv said.

“No, you stay,” Iris said, turning to the women. “Would you mind lending a hand? Sweetie, is it?”

“Sure thing.” Sweetie got up, brushed herself off, and left with Iris. Pru wondered how long it would take for Sweetie to be set straight about Iris and Chiv's relationship.

“Right, you lot—” Chiv pointed, and Pru filled in with “KayAnn and Nell.” “Right, you can start again after tea.” Dismissed, KayAnn and Nell jumped up and scurried over to the edge of the garden. There they stood side by side staring up Main Avenue.

“Which one is which?” Chiv asked Pru quietly.

“I've no idea.”

The rain began after tea, and with every drip, drip, drip, the women's energy and attention washed farther away. When Pru looked objectively at what they had accomplished for the day, it wasn't much. She suggested to Chiv that they be let go early. He shrugged, and Pru thanked him, noting how quickly she'd learned to interpret his silent answers.

Once dismissed, the women seemed to discover a new reserve of energy, shaking rain off the hoods of their waterproofs. Heading for the gate, they chattered about the Whole Foods they'd spotted near their house. Pru turned to Chiv.

“It'll be better tomorrow.”

But not much. And Monday evening during their bedtime chat, Pru couldn't even speak of the garden with Christopher. On one hand, she wished she could give Twyla Woodford a piece of her mind for putting this fiasco in motion and abandoning them to it, and on the other hand, she half-hoped the woman would cancel her appearance completely and let them get on with it.

“Why don't you come home?” Christopher asked. “You've done what you could.”

“No, I can't. We'll get it done one way or another.” He didn't press, and only said he'd see her soon.

She rang off and looked at the empty pillow next to her. Christopher would drive up on Wednesday—two days away, not too far off. They'd be further along and she would have only good things to tell him about the garden. She closed her eyes, weary, muscles sore, longing for sleep. It did not come. Instead, thoughts and images crowded into her mind—rain, pallets of stone, the trench a muddy river.

Her eyes popped open, her teeth clenched. She felt her heart racing. Christopher was right—what good was she doing here?

A deep breath and slow exhalation. No, it would be fine. She would see it through—it couldn't last long, after all. Twyla would arrive soon. The rain would stop. They would build a garden. Pru forced her eyes shut. Still, it was an hour before sleep finally won the battle.

“These aren't Texas madrones,” Rosette said the next morning, mouth set in a hard line as she read over a revised plant list.

“No,” Pru said. “Sadly, they don't do well enough here, and so we'll have
Arbutus unedo
—a really fabulous multistemmed madrone. European, but a close relative—same lovely evergreen foliage, same red bark. I know you'll like it.” That statement cost Pru a fair amount of optimism—Rosette hadn't liked much of anything so far.

“English plants in a Texas landscape,” Rosette replied. “Doesn't it just figure?”

“Not English,” Pru said, her face heating up. “It's native to the Mediterranean. And Ireland.” She muttered that last part. “And anyway, we'll have a sea of bluebonnets—the real thing,
Lupinus texensis
. It'll be breathtaking, won't it, Roddy?” The designer had made a rare appearance, and she turned to him now for backup.

“We need to focus on the impact this garden will make on Chelsea visitors,” Roddy said, pumping his fist as if he were giving his team a pep talk. “Look at it as a grand art installation—would you care what brand of paint was used?”

Pru tried to make sense of this but gave up, deciding it must have to do with art theory. Rosette shook her head and turned away.

“Ms. Parke?”

Arthur Nottle, assistant show director, stood at the curb of the roadway, his suit protected by an unbuttoned raincoat that flapped in the breeze. He had a pleasant smile on his face. He had been courteous during the meeting Pru had attended on Saturday. But she knew a pleasant attitude could go only so far.

“Mr. Nottle,” Pru said. She looked round—she stood alone with the women. Roddy, with his sixth sense for avoiding responsibility, had disappeared. Chiv as well—Pru saw the door of the shed closing. “Let me introduce you to the members of the Austin Rock Garden Society.” She named off the women, who responded with nods and hellos.

“Well, ladies, you're very welcome to the Chelsea Flower Show,” Nottle said with a quick scan of the group. “And now, how many does this make you?”

The answer was “not enough,” but Pru couldn't speak it, because that would cast aspersions on the women, on Austin, ARGS, and Chiv. Roddy, too, Pru supposed, but she wasn't sure if she cared as much about him. “We'll be adding to our numbers, of course,” she said. “As needed.” They needed them
now
.

“Mr. Chiverton?” Nottle called back to the contractor.

Chiv emerged from the shed and feigned surprise. “Didn't see you arrive,” he lied.

“Perhaps you and I could take a moment to review the schedule,” Nottle said.

Chiv hesitated. His eyes darted toward Pru—only for a second, but long enough for her to see the plea.

All right, all right. “Mr. Nottle, can I help? I'd hate to take Chiv away right at this moment.”

“Of course, Ms. Parke, that's very good of you.”

They walked away from the garden and stood near the construction site for the gift shop.

“And how are things progressing?” he asked. “I'm sure you remember that in a very few days, heavy equipment will need to be off the site. I'm afraid there can be no exceptions. And, of course, planting should be completed immediately thereafter.”

Pru reminded herself that Arthur Nottle was only the messenger and he had every right to check on them. She glanced over his shoulder at the ARGS site. Bare earth, pallets of stone—most of them untouched as yet—a trench for the wall but very little wall, and a shed.

“Great,” she replied, smiling broadly. “Really great.”

Arthur Nottle smiled.

“We are keeping an eye on the calendar, of course,” Pru continued, succumbing to the silence, yet wishing people understood a conversation was a two-way event, and one should not leave it to the other to dig herself into and then out of an enormous hole. “But actually, everything is going along just as it should be. You'll be amazed when you see the finished product.”

Arthur Nottle's silent, stoic countenance seemed to say,
I'll be amazed
if
it's finished
.

“Have you been to Texas before, Mr. Nottle?”

The brief appearance of surprise on his face told Pru she'd broken his concentration. Faced with a direct question, he seemed to realize he had no alternative but to answer. “I have not, Ms. Parke.”

Pru seized on the opportunity to describe the hill country landscape to him. “Other ecologically sensitive environments have been on the world's stage here at Chelsea, and we are ever so grateful for our chance. I look on this as the hallmark for horticultural education—as are so many of the large gardens here in Britain. Did you know that I studied briefly at Wisley when I first arrived in the country?”

He nibbled at her bait, and they entered into a brief discussion of the perennial meadow behind the glasshouse at Wisley, the garden where she had interned her first month in London. When she saw him glance at his watch, she said, “Well, I certainly don't want to keep you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your time,” Nottle said. “I haven't been able to connect with Mr. MacWeeks lately, and it's always good to stay in touch. May I consider you the liaison for the garden?”

“Of course you may,” she said. That is, until Twyla arrived, upon which time Pru would dump the entire business in her lap.