Miss Price’s attorney also drew up papers transferring ownership of the chest, with all its contents, to the Fremonts. Miss Price figured the chalice and cross, accounting for their antiquity, their rarity, and their connection to a seminal figure in the history of Wales, to say nothing of the fact that they were fashioned of solid gold, would go for at least $1 million at auction and probably much more. The chest might fetch a few hundred thousand. The clasp and inscribed stone, well, that would probably be substantially less. There was a proviso: The Fremonts would make a full presentation of the contents to the appropriate authorities, allowing them to take whatever documents and journals they might want to preserve and display for the public, and make sure the record was set straight. Finally, Miss Price offered the Fremonts $300,000 to settle their lawsuit. It was an offer they couldn’t refuse.
And Miss Price had not forgotten Dr. Lick, who hadn’t carried through on his threat to sue her, but had made good on paying his $30,000 debt to the Fremonts. Miss Price covered the debt, and gave him $100,000 for whatever pecuniary interest he might have had in the chest’s contents. To further comfort him, Miss Price began to call on Dr. Lick at his office. Dr. Lick enjoyed her visits. He found Miss Price to be a kindred spirit similarly interested in the early, undocumented exploration of America by Welsh, Portuguese, Viking, and even Chinese navigators whose names had been lost to the mists of time.
“I almost expect to walk up my steps and see bleeding hearts and hosta and columbine poking up through the ground,” Nan said wistfully. “Now, it’s nothing but dirt, and the steps aren’t there anymore.”
George smiled and nodded. It was still hard to believe they were looking at their old property with no new life ready to burst forth from a hundred different points.
“Hey, Fremonts.”
George and Nan turned to shake hands with Roland Ready, their favorite newshound and editor of the St. Anthony Gardener. He had strolled up behind them from Payne Avenue, a press badge clipped to the lapel of his sport coat, and a pen and pad in hand. He looked to be bursting with new information that would have to be disgorged before causing internal injuries.
“Why, Mr. Ready,” said Nan. “It was almost exactly at this spot a year ago last August that we were talking about that other news story involving us. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” Roland said. “Quite a different story this year, isn’t it?”
It was Roland who had trumpeted to the St. Anthony metro and Des Plaines region news of the discovery with a story in the St. Anthony Inquirer. That was, in part, the Fremonts’ doing. When it appeared as though the contents of the chest would become a finding of some local significance, and the Livia city folks had delicately suggested contacts with the press, George and Nan agreed, though with one stipulation.
“We know a guy who can handle the story right,” George said. “He’s been good to us in the past. We want him to be able to break the story, or, at least, get first crack at it.”
So, Roland got the call. Though he no longer worked at the Inquirer, his old boss liked the sound of the story he proposed, and let him freelance it. The other editors were so enthusiastic about it, that they ran it on 1A, top of the fold, Sunday.
George and Nan were scrupulous about giving credit to Miss Price and they steered Roland to her and Jim, whom they decided to recognize for his part in the discovery with 20 percent of the take from the sale of the chest and its contents, and for whom all the attention and the significance of the discovery served as a semi-permanent salve to balm his wounded heart.
Coverage of the historical find under the Fremonts’ backyard didn’t stop at the Inquirer. The interracial love story that matched Indian and European, the tragic deaths, and the lifelong crusade of Miss Price to set the historical record straight, to say nothing of the excavated chest chock full of personal treasures, was an irresistible yarn, and it struck a chord. Reporters came from all over the country to tell the tale of Livia and Caradoc Morgan, and their great-great-granddaughter, Gwendolyn Price.
Miss Price basked in the attention and the opportunity to tell the world that she was probably the only person alive able to trace her lineage all the way back to Hywel Dda and God knows how far back into the dim beginnings of a great Indian nation.
Her purpose having been served, Miss Price disappeared from public view after the first big burst of publicity subsided. The state Historical Society, which had by now taken over the project, was happy to oblige her in her wish to inter Caradoc’s and Livia’s remains, which she had not, as it turned out, disposed of at all, on the site, and even placed a special marker at the new burial site.
The Fremonts wondered if the Scroggit brothers would show up for the dedication, set for a year from June.
The Scroggits, it turned out, had wound up in court—in several courts, in fact—after officers responding to the gas line rupture called up their outstanding warrants.
Then, there had been a stunning reversal of fortune. Guilty pleas and shows of great contrition apparently got them off with no prison time, but hefty fines, which they had managed to pay. They had also settled with their creditors and paid all their back taxes.
Somehow, the resources had become available for the Scroggits to close their two failing local stores and donate them to a couple of local charities, then open a state-of-the-art “Scroggit Brothers Artifacts” store in the heart of Civil War country itself—Spotsylvania County, Virginia.
“Did you hear, they’re probably going to name the new visitor center after Miss Price?” Roland said.
“Visitor center?” cried Nan. “They’re going to have a visitor center?”
“Yes, it’s on the drawing boards. And a parking lot. Probably even a concessions building. It’s history that’s been rewritten right here in Livia. The state’s going to pony up matching money for the development and maybe more. Private foundations are chipping in, too. It’ll turn into a bigger deal than Miss Price would have ever guessed. They’re going to buy up some more homes, you know.”
“Yes, we had heard something to that effect. Some of our old neighbors aren’t talking to us anymore. We felt badly about that. But that was completely out of our hands. We had no idea it was going to be this big. We’ve been sort of out of the loop here, Mr. Ready. We’re got an entire new property to deal with, and more than an acre of gardens to map out and plant.”
“They were talking about taking some of the properties under eminent domain.”
“That’s too bad!” said George.
“No, it’s not. As it turned out, they might not have to, and I’m guessing you’ll be back on speaking terms with your former neighbors before long. They’re offering to pay top dollar for the properties, not to mention moving costs and relocation help. They might have willing sellers. Besides, Miss Price owned the property next to you anyway and donated it. That saved them some money right there. The idea here is to have a ten-acre site, at minimum.”
“Wow!” said George and Nan.
“Oh, Mr. Ready,” blurted Nan. “I wanted to tell you about a book I have in the works, a book about cross-cultural communication with plants.”
“Ah.”
“I’ve been working on it with Dr. Hilda Brockheimer of the horticultural department over at the university. We’re looking for a publisher even as we speak.”
“Just let me know. One thing I almost forgot—the state architects want to construct an arbor just like the one you guys had. Same spot. The crab apples and paper birches are still there.”
“Gosh!” Nan cried. “I would have thought all our digging would have damaged their roots beyond repair.”
“Excellent idea,” said George. “For those tourists who need a little time to contemplate.”
“And they’re naming it after you. ‘The George and Nan Fremont Arbor.’”
“With that in mind, we’ll probably have to come over here and sit some, won’t we, Nan-bee?” said George.
“Yes, and absorb some more
magical powers,” said Nan, winking at Roland. “Lord only knows what we might be capable of after a few such meditations.”
“You probably won’t mind checking in on you know who, would you, George?”
“I’m way ahead of you, Nan-bee,” said George, who was already on a route that would take them to the Breckwood neighborhood. Nan’s smartphone went off. She had just made this concession to twenty-first-century technology, and already it seemed magnetically attached to her ear and thumbs. George, who was still holding out against the smartphone onslaught, grimaced; he hated that faux-wind-chime tone.
“It’s Shirelle!” chirped Nan after she hung up. “She’s doing fine in her new job and wants to come by and stay with us for a few days next month. Maybe even check out the new grounds. Maybe even help out planning some gardens.” Off went the sickening approximation of that sublime tinkling again.
“That’s Mary. She’s at Mertons’. Wants to know how many more bottles of Sagelands we need. So?”
“We don’t need any. We’ve got scads of them. Even for us, it’d take years to get through our current stock.”
“I know, but we’ve made a new convert in Edith. She said no one could have conjured up anything as delectable as our 2007 vintage merlot. We need to help her spread the gospel. We also need to give her all the customer support we can so she won’t have to take out any more loans our resident lending predator can gobble up. Wasn’t it wonderful that she was able to take care of all her payments last summer with that one big lump sum? What an angel Marta was, lending her all that money, interest-free, and with all the Rose Maidens chipping in. I can’t believe Dr. Sproot was charging her twenty-five percent interest! Why, that’s usury!”
“I can believe it. And speaking of which.” George slowed to a crawl, pulled over to the curb, and craned his neck to see if Dr. Sproot was lurking anywhere in her front yard.
“Careful, George,” said Nan. “Remember what Marta said. Dr. Sproot owns a fully loaded BB gun, and she’s not afraid to use it. She also said no one’s seen her for ages. It’s as if she fell off the edge of the earth.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said George.
There was no sign of Dr. Sproot. Neither was there any sign of her ruthless gardening energy, which should have been in evidence by now. Normally, she’d be amending the soil and fertilizing like nobody’s business around this time of year.
“Maybe she’s finally gotten the message,” said Nan. “A few months in the loony bin must have straightened her out. My gosh, George, look!” As George inched his way along the curb, they came up to a FOR SALE sign hammered into the ground.
“Well, that should solve that problem,” Nan said. “Unless she just picked up and moved somewhere else in Livia.”
“She did not spend several months in the loony bin. She got sprung the next day. Remember? And Miss Price’s ancestors whisked her off to either Las Vegas or hell, we couldn’t figure out which. How could you forget?”
“Nonsense. George, are you still on that flower Armageddon kick? I might have to have you committed if you keep this up.”
“Just keep your eyes on the weeds this year. I bet we don’t have any. The sales of weed killer at Burdick’s will drop to zero. That’s because we vanquished the weeds from Livia just like Saint Patrick vanquished the snakes from Ireland.”
“Yes, well, we’ll get the scoop on the good doctor when Marta comes over. My gosh, it has been ages since we’ve seen her. Where does the time go? It’s that hard winter we had. Kept people indoors and out of sight. And maybe you’ll want to put a lid on all this good-versus-evil talk, if you don’t mind, please, George. Ah, speak of the devil.” Off went the wind chimes again. Nan stared intently at the text message on her smartphone, then put her thumbs in motion.
“Marta wonders when the best time to come would be,” said Nan. “I told her around three.”
The chimes jangled again.
“Good grief, who is it now?” said George.
“It’s Jim. He can’t make it. And guess what else?”
“He wants to do a sweep of our new yard before we start planting.”
“Of course.”
Back at the new place, George inched the Avalon into the spacious garage, next to where Cullen’s new Honda Accord and Ellis’s new Chevy Malibu would also be parked when the boys were home from college. They’d gone back for the last quarter a few weeks ago, after spring break ended.
Mary, still out running her errands, was home for the weekend after driving over the night before from Sap City. Having matriculated at Stanford, she soon discovered that her heart was in neither the marching band nor Palo Alto; she’d transferred to Headwaters State, intending to be the first student there to major in both jazz trombone and floriculture.
George was a little abashed at the size of the five-car garage. That would have been an almost unthinkable extravagance at the old place, in a neighborhood dominated by one-car tuck-unders and two-car detached garages. Nan had convinced him that they should splurge, but he had held out for a house size of no more than 2,700 square feet, the same size as the old place. She had countered by coming up with a wish list that specified new kitchen, walk-in closets, formal dining room, mudroom, and at least one bathroom with a Jacuzzi, to go along with the garage. She hadn’t had to do much arm twisting to get George to agree. To accommodate all that, the house size had to expand to 4,500 square feet. They were lucky to find a home also furnished with a wine cellar big enough to accommodate their one thousand bottles of 2005, 2007, and now, 2010 Sagelands merlot.
Nan had not forsaken the out of doors. She had already bought a new set of furniture for a patio that came equipped with a built-in brick fireplace, bilevel deck, and even a built-in grill recessed into a freestanding brick column. George was happy to see that she had bought the furniture set on sale, and for 50 percent off, no less!
“We’ve got quite a job ahead of us, dear,” said Nan, as they waited for their guests. George filled her glass to the brim, then gave the bottle that no-spill little wrist turn he could do as deftly as any maître d’ worth his salt in a four-star restaurant.
“Wouldn’t mind if you cranked up some Tull, dear. Can’t beat that Songs from the Wood.” George retreated inside the deck’s sliding French doors, and seconds later, the waterproof speakers mounted under the roof eaves were booming “The Whistler.”
“Not that loud!” shouted Nan over Martin Barre’s guitar and Ian Anderson’s penny whistle. “Turn it down!” The volume adjusted to an acceptable level, George returned to his chair with that stealthy quickness that was so characteristic of him.
“Look at this yard. Why, it’s all grass and trees. What were they thinking? Oh, and we need to get all the bird feeders up today. And the wren houses. They’ll be scouting out locations in a few weeks, you know.”
“Will do,” said George. “Don’t you worry, Nan-bee, I’m sure we’ll be up to the task.”
Nan gazed disdainfully at the stump carving of Miguel de Cervantes, which, against her wishes, George had dug out of its spot in the old backyard and placed far too close to the deck, to Nan’s way of thinking. A car pulled into the spacious driveway.
“First guest,” said Nan. “Look sharp there with the Sagelands, George.”
“Never a problem, Nan-bee.” Dr. Brockheimer was bounding down the sidewalk looking radiant and happy. She climbed up the wooden steps to the first level of the deck and plopped down in one of the Fremonts’ new chairs, designed and manufactured by Scandinavians for the optimum in ergonomic comfort and well-being.
“Wow, Hilda! You look happy,” said Nan. “Glass of merlot?”
“Of course! Of course! And, George and Nan, refill yours, because we’re going to have a couple of toasts.” George filled all their glasses and they lifted them up.
“And here’s to . . .” began George.
“The first toast is for Ferd. He’s off on a tremendous research project to determine once and for all which explorers got here before
Columbus. China, Wales, England, France, Portugal, Scandinavia. World-class accommodations. It’s a two-year project, for heaven’s sake. He’s in hog heaven.” The three of them clinked their glasses.
“Wonderful that the university will let him do this,” said Nan.
“University nothing,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “He’s not getting any grant money either. It’s all coming from some private investor who apparently has unlimited resources and an obsessive interest in the same subject.”
“We’re so happy that you and Dr. Lick have reconciled,” Nan chirped. “Are you going along?”
Dr. Brockheimer laughed.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Our divorce went through. It was quite amicable. And Ferd has a new friend. It’s his investor. He calls her his ‘sugar mama.’ She’s going along with him as his research partner. A woman, I’m told, who’s been frequenting his office lately. Rumor has it she’s come into a great deal of money recently. Inheritance, I suppose.”
George and Nan looked at each other and smiled.
“Well, there’s the last of our mysteries unraveled,” said Nan.
“Pardon?” wondered Dr. Brockheimer.
“Oh, nothing, Hilda,” Nan said. “We’re just glad to have all this buried-treasure business over and done with. And to be sitting here in this beautiful new location with full wineglasses in front of us and a vast palette of wonderful new gardening possibilities spread out before us.”
“Hear, hear,” said Dr. Brockheimer, raising her glass.
Front Yard Page 31