“Nan-bee.” George was back, having failed to move the politicians off the hosta bed. “Look who’s here.” It was Shirelle and a guest. Shirelle beamed. Her guest stretched her curled, sneering lips into a faint smile.
“Mrs. Fremont, I’d like you to meet Dr. Brockheimer, from the horticultural department at the university. She’s my academic adviser and one of my teachers.”
Nan thrust out a shaking hand, as her float sloshed wildly in the other.
“Excuse my shakes,” she said as George and Shirelle jerked back, startled, from the spilling root beer froth. “I’ve just had a bit of a shock. Nothing serious.”
“I’ve heard so much about you, Nan,” said Dr. Brockheimer, grasping her proffered hand firmly. “And your husband, too. May I call you Nan? Shirelle speaks so highly of you.”
George smiled. “Shirelle’s our secret weapon,” he said. “She really helped us design our front yard this year.”
“That’s true,” said Nan, becalmed to the point of displaying only an occasional facial tic. “Without Shirelle, we would have been hopeless trying to figure out a new design.”
“I really doubt that,” Shirelle said, blushing. “Anyone who’s taken the right classes can design a garden. It takes true genius to make what’s on paper come alive the way you have. The front yard is unbelievable. I never dreamed even you guys could make it so good. And the backyard? Same old story. Amazing!”
“Shirelle’s being too humble,” Nan said. “She and our daughter, Mary, actually did most of the front yard work.”
Dr. Brockheimer smiled in a way Nan interpreted as patronizing.
“They do look good,” she said. “There are some things I would change, but, yes, not bad for neighborhood gardeners.”
Nan blinked rapidly, and swallowed back a rude remark before it could get past her gullet.
“We have sandwiches, chips, and root beer floats over there, Dr. Brockheimer, if you’d care to avail yourself.” Dr. Brockheimer stared at Nan with eyes intent on shrinking her down to plant size.
“No, thank you, Nan; I ate a big lunch. I’m here because Shirelle tells me you talk to plants. I’d like to learn more about it.”
Nan shook her head, then smiled.
“This is not something easily explained to strangers,” she said. “I consider it a form of cross-cultural communication.”
Dr. Brockheimer tilted her head in a quizzically condescending manner.
“But you can probably imagine why it’s so hard to talk about. To our friends, yes. But even they’re skeptical and think we’re off our rockers. We aren’t off our rockers, are we, George?”
“Certainly not,” said George, having tossed back the remnants of his float with a massive and, Nan thought, rather indelicate, sigh. “But two floats from now, I certainly might be.”
“Well,” Dr. Brockheimer said. “It sounds like I’d better sample one of these concoctions. Then, Nan, can we talk some more about your efforts at ‘cross-cultural communication’?”
Nan didn’t like this Dr. Brockheimer’s attitude or tone, but figured maybe after a root beer float worked its magic on her they could have a nice little off-the-record chat about what it was like to be a plant whisperer.
By this time, most of the visitors had settled into their little clots of conversation, broken only by return visits to the food and beverage tables. Here and there, and where the crowds would allow, individuals or groups of two or three walked the entire backyard inspecting the Fremonts’ new summer bounty.
A respectable number had even wandered around the north and south ends of the house to the front yard. A few strangers attracted by the Burdick’s sign had parked their cars right there in the intersection and walked up the slope to take photos. Nan and George briefly worried that the front yard gardens might be in danger from all these visitors, either through malevolence or unintended carelessness. Cullen, Ellis, and a few of their friends were out front, but a fat lot of good they would do. At least, Mary, Shirelle, and that Dr. Brockheimer were out there. Weren’t they?
Just to be sure, and with her third root beer float in hand, Nan marched off to the front yard. Clearing the northwest corner of the house, she was amazed to see thirty to forty people—most of them, strangers—scattered around, and, Lord help her, a couple of children rolling around in the Walker’s Low catmint. Nan was just about to spring into action when a figure emerged as a running blur out of her peripheral vision. This figure, now identifiable as a slender and youngish woman, carefully picked its way through the catmint and its bordering lilies, grabbed the offending children firmly, and guided them out of the flower beds.
“Whose offspring are these?” barked Dr. Brockheimer. A young couple who had been taking pictures of the hybrid teas responded to the summons, and stood before her at meek attention.
“These brats have been ruining these beautiful flowers,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “Either keep them under control or get out!”
The couple quickly herded their children back down the slope toward their parked car as Dr. Brockheimer watched them go, her chest heaving and her face reddened with ire.
Nan walked over to Dr. Brockheimer, who, with her arms akimbo, still seemed poised for confrontation. Gazing down across the expanse of the catmint, Nan couldn’t see much to worry about. A few plants beaten down; they’d probably bounce back within a day. No real damage done.
“Well, Dr. Brockheimer.”
Dr. Brockheimer wheeled around to face this new threat.
“Thanks for helping us police our gardens. I’m sure the children meant no harm. I doubt there’ll be any lasting damage.”
Dr. Brockheimer huffed.
“Nan, you must take more care of your gardens if you want them to truly flourish. For a gathering such as this, I would have posted a guard.”
“That’s usually not necessary for FremontFest.”
“With children running around it is. And Shirelle has told me all about what happened last year. I’d have thought you’d have learned a lesson as a result.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Brockheimer, but we can’t afford a guard. Neither would we want one. FremontFest is open to all comers. We haven’t really had any problems before. Besides, this an open and welcoming event, not a museum tour. Still, we do appreciate you protecting our flower beds. We might even need you to help out with the hosta in the backyard. Those politicians just don’t seem to think about where they’re standing. And George . . .”
“He’s pretty worthless, isn’t he?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“He’s not much help with the gardening, is he? I can tell. Just another feckless male. I know. I’m married to one. Soon to be my ex, I might add. Ha-ha!” Nan felt her jaw tighten and the hand clutching the root beer float cup quiver.
“How dare you talk about my husband in that manner!” she said. “George has been my true partner for seven years of hard gardening toil, much more actual work than you’ve ever done, Miss-Fancy-Pants PhD. I’ve dealt with people like you before, Dr. Brockheimer, and one thing I’ve discovered is that you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about and you’ve got corncobs shoved so far up your rear ends that no implement or machine yet invented could extract them. If you don’t like George, or me, or what we’re doing here, then either shut up about it, or take your little snot-nosed gardening high falutin’ rectitude and get off my . . . our . . . property!”
Nan chugged the dregs of her root beer float and threw the plastic cup at Dr. Brockheimer’s feet.
“If you don’t mind, Dr. Brockheimer, could you please pick that up and throw it away for us. The garbage is in the back, right next to the patio.”
Both women were shaking as Nan stalked off in a rage, ignoring first a greeting from the Hausers, and then the Mar-tensens. Another root beer float was exactly what she needed now, she thought, her head held high as triumph and regret mingled together and vied for dominance of her emotions. As she plopped a couple of scoops of the softening
ice cream into a new cup, a disquieting thought suddenly intruded itself upon the welcome return of her equanimity.
Oh, my gosh, she thought, I hope this doesn’t damage Shirelle’s academic standing!
At the nearby float stand, George scooped himself out three giant hunks of coffee/vanilla ice cream, then kept lathering them with root beer until the foam started cascading over the side of his cup. He opted for the Honey Calm flavor in the hopes it would ease his troubled mind. What was especially troubling George lately were the latest tuition hike notices from both Cullen’s and Ellis’s expensive colleges. Then, there were the credit card bills, the prohibitive cost of insurance, and the small matter of keeping the family fed and clothed.
At least the mortgage was paid, but that was just the first mortgage. George had taken out a second, and thank God Nan was such a trusting soul and had signed off on it. Borrowing money was such a mystery to her. It was almost as if she saw it as a gift to be paid back at leisure, or maybe even not at all. And, as always, God would provide.
Banish these thoughts! And these thoughts were now being rather easily banished by the root beer float, which had a Novocain-like power of deadening his every trouble.
George moved through the gate, then toward the fence so he could keep a discrete watch on the angel’s trumpets. It simply would not do to have children wandering around back there, testing out the pretty flowers and seeds and ending up wandering around in psychotropic trances. Of course, he had forgotten to post DO NOT TOUCH signs on the plants.
What’s this? he thought, his attention drawn to activity far beyond the angel’s trumpets and at the very edge of the woods. Who the heck was that checking out the white oak? Why, what an unpleasant surprise; it was Miss Price. What was it with that tree that seemed to attract her like iron filings to a magnet?
As George approached the tree, he noticed, shocked, that it had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Not a single crinkled leaf remained on its branches, which now had appeared to wither and blacken. Even the trunk itself appeared charred black, as if it had just been cooked in a forest fire.
“My God!” cried George, his eyes lifted to behold the spectacle of a tree dying before his eyes. “Look at it! Ah, and look who’s here. It’s Miss Price. You decided to come back for some more tree gazing. Why is that, Miss Price?”
“The tree must come down,” Miss Price said portentously.
“Huh?”
“I said you must have this tree cut down.”
“Well, yes, Miss Price, but you’ve already told us that. What business is it of yours?”
“The welfare of all trees in this community is my business, Mr. Fremont. As I’ve told you, I grew up right here, almost exactly on this spot. I knew this tree quite well. I do not want to see it in misery. Put it out of its misery, Mr. Fremont.”
“Uh, sure, sure. I’m sure Nan and I plan to do that. It’s just that I didn’t realize its condition was so far advanced. I mean, wow, look at it!”
“So far advanced that in the matter of weeks, maybe even days, it will fall. When it falls, it will probably wreck either this nice privacy fence, or worse, as far as your wife is concerned, her beautiful flower beds over there, to say nothing of your little shed.”
George gulped. He certainly didn’t want that. But the cost! Where would they get the money to do that?
“You’re thinking about the cost, aren’t you, Mr. Fremont?”
George stared at Miss Price, astonished.
“How’d you know that? Well, I’m not sure my thoughts are a matter for you to concern yourself with, Miss Price.”
“I know how you can get that tree cut down, get the stump taken care of, and the site cleaned up, and have it carted away, dirt cheap,” Miss Price said. “I know someone who’s just getting into the business and needs to get the word out. What better place to start but here?”
George frowned. He was torn between the appealing prospect of paying virtually nothing to clear up a backyard problem and the nagging suspicion that there was a huge catch lurking somewhere in Miss Price’s offer.
“Well, we’d want references,” he said. “We don’t want just anybody learning on the job with a big tree like this. We’d want somebody who’s experienced, with references.”
“Sure,” Miss Price said. “And those kinds of people cost a lot. But I must repeat myself. You must cut down this tree, Mr. Fremont. Don’t let the poor thing suffer.”
George bit his lip. He fought back an urge to throttle Miss Price.
“Can I help you to your car, Miss Price? Or you’re certainly welcome to stay for a root beer float. But you’d better hurry because the ice cream’s melting fast.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fremont, but I’m quite capable of making it back to my car on my own.... And, please, don’t do anything to that tree without contacting me first.”
Before George could warn her never to return, Miss Price bounded across the north end of the yard and down the hill with an agility that would have put him to shame.
“George!” It was Nan, whose voice he could barely hear above the cacophony of the root beer-enlivened crowd. “George! What are you doing over there?”
George sauntered back toward the patio as Nan threaded her way toward him through the knots of guests. She regarded him with concern.
“Why are you being so antisocial, George? And could that have possibly been Miss Price you were talking to?”
“It was. She wants us to cut the tree down.”
“What is the deal with her anyway? I want to cut the tree down, too. But what’s her big stake in all this is what I want to know.”
George shrugged.
“She knows the tree from when she lived here,” he said. “She wants it put out of its misery. She said she knows someone who’ll cut down the tree, remove the stump, the whole kit and caboodle for dirt cheap.”
“That so?” said Nan. “Well, I’m getting sick and tired of all these busybodies trying to tell us what to do with our property. Why, you should have seen that awful Dr. Brockheimer! George, she—”
George made bug eyes at Nan and gestured with a quick nod to a point over her right shoulder. She turned to see Shirelle and Dr. Brockheimer standing rigidly behind her. Shirelle looked pale and sheepish. Dr. Brockheimer had obviously been crying; she daubed at her eyes and puffy cheeks with a wadded-up Kleenex.
“Time for us to go, Nan and George,” Shirelle said. “Dr. Brockheimer wanted to say something to you first. Dr. Brockheimer?”
After some more daubing and a few false starts at making what was obviously a little mini-speech she had been preparing, Dr. Brockheimer finally spoke.
“Nan, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have treated you and your gardens so cavalierly.” Here, Dr. Brockheimer paused to sniffle and apply the Kleenex to her misting eyes. “I was very rude to you and to your husband.” She turned to face George with a meek, solicitous smile. George smiled forgivingly while having no idea what she was talking about. “In absentia, of course. I hope you both will forgive me. No one’s ever stood up to me like that, Nan . . . and . . . I admire that. I truly do. I’d like to consider you my friend.”
Dr. Brockheimer stretched out her arms toward Nan. Nan, moved to tears herself, opened her arms to enfold the smaller woman.
Watching this act of repentance and forgiveness unfold, Shirelle found herself transformed. An hour ago, she was a shame-faced apologist for Dr. Brockheimer, seeking to ingratiate her with the Fremonts, yet mortified by her arrogant and boorish behavior. Watching the two women embrace, she became a cherubic angel of hope. The sun appeared to have gotten the message. It chose that very moment to peek out of the clouds and cast a beam directly onto her rosy, freckled cheeks. She started to cry.
George was taken aback by this showy manifestation of womanly emotions. His first impulse was to about-face and hightail it back to the root beer stand, or maybe it was time for another pulled pork sandwich. But George was bigger than his base prejudices. In a bu
rst of genuinely inspired yet artificial goodwill he, too, thrust out his arms for a hug from Dr. Brockheimer. By then, though, Dr. Brockheimer and Nan had unclasped, and Dr. Brockheimer had turned to head down the steps to the driveway. That left George embracing millions of air molecules that had come within the range of his grasp. He sheepishly drew his arms back in and dropped them limply to his sides. Dr. Brockheimer wheeled around to face Nan.
“I’m sorry we had our differences today,” she said, her voice having lost its tremor and regained its bite. “Maybe I came on a little strong. I do that sometimes. I still want to talk to you about plant whispering. I also want to see you in action. This could be big for me and for you! When can we do it?”
Nan recoiled briefly, then perched her fingertips delicately on her sternum, a sign of what everyone there except Dr. Brockheimer knew to be of temporary confusion and speechlessness.
“Well,” said Dr. Brockheimer, “you’ll hear from me later, probably through Shirelle.”
Dr. Brockheimer wheeled to her right with military precision, then loped clumsily down the steps, kicking up pea gravel with every footfall. Shirelle, still misty-eyed, hugged George and Nan.
“Thanks for the wonderful time, Mr. and Mrs. Fremont,” she said. “The food was great and the floats were dreamy. See you next week.”
She had to quick-step it to catch up with Dr. Brockheimer, who was already striding purposefully down the driveway and toward the street.
“Well, that woman is quite the enigma,” Nan said. “One minute she’s coming on like a freight train and the next she’s a blubbering puddle of helplessness. Then, back again. How am I supposed to teach her how to talk to flowers? Or why should I even try?”
“We don’t need to worry about that now,” said George, extending his arms to embrace her. “Our guests are leaving. Let’s be good hosts and bid them all adieu with smiles on our faces and laughter in our hearts.... By the way, what happened to you right before Shirelle and Dr. Brockheimer arrived? You had the shakes pretty bad there for a minute.”
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