Seeds of Deception

by Sheila Connolly

  “In a way,” she told him. “Being married, and staying married, meant something to them. Just being unhappy wasn’t enough reason to break up a couple, because they’d made a commitment. If you don’t mind my asking, what did you expect when you married Nancy?” She wasn’t sure it was appropriate to bring up Seth’s first wife over breakfast three days after their wedding, but she wanted to get everything out in the open sooner rather than later.

  “Ask away, Meg. We’re not supposed to have secrets. At least, I don’t want to. Nancy and I got married almost ten years ago. We were in love, or we believed we were. As I’ve told you before, she had expectations about where our lives would lead, and she felt I kind of let her down by taking over the family business. She assumed I’d be a hotshot academic. She didn’t plan to live with a plumber. The problem was, we’d never really laid out those expectations, on either side.”

  “Would it have made a difference, talking about it all, if she had really loved you?”

  Seth sat back in his chair and met her gaze. “Meg, I can’t say. I was a different person then. I think she and I started out on the same page, but then my father died and things changed. I had to think about my family, and paying the bills, because my father never did manage to save any money. I did what I thought I had to do, but Nancy didn’t like the way things went. And that was that.”

  Based on what few comments Lydia Chapin had let slip, and what Seth said now and then, for years Seth had watched his mother put up with a man who was not particularly successful and resented it, and who might have taken his anger out on his wife and children. Not a pretty picture. “Seth, please don’t think I’m judging. I don’t have a great track record with relationships myself, not that I’ve walked away from any significant ones.” Probably because I was too afraid to get into one in the first place. The only model I’ve ever really known was my parents’, and you’ve seen them together. I think they have a good marriage, and it’s lasted, but there is a certain formality between them, and there always has been. There are things they don’t discuss, and certainly didn’t in front of me. It’s worked fine for them, so I guess you could say they were on the same page. But if you have a problem, with me or anything else, I want to know about it. Good or bad. Is that all right with you?”

  “Of course it is. No secrets. We talk things out—together. If we can stay awake long enough.”

  “Well, we’re awake now. Plus we have several hundred miles of driving ahead of us, and that makes you a captive audience.”

  “Is that a threat?” Seth asked, his smile back.

  “Or a promise. And of course you can ask anything about me.”

  “Deal. Let’s start with what we’re doing today, though, can we?”

  “Of course. You wanted to get as far as Delaware, maybe, before stopping? Do we have a place for the night?”

  “We do, but it’s a surprise. The drive to Wilmington, Delaware, should take between four and five hours, depending on what kind of traffic we run into. And about the same from Wilmington to Charlottesville. Any stops or detours you want to make along the way? We did veto Philadelphia, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, for the city,” Meg said firmly. “No cities. I like cities, but not right now. But I do have a request.”

  Seth quirked one eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “Remember I told you about Bartram’s Garden? It’s south of the city, and not far from the interstate and the airport, so we’d go right by it on the way to Wilmington.”

  “Refresh my memory: what is it?”

  “Aha! I’ve stumped you. It is both historic and agricultural. John Bartram was the colony’s first botanist, and he was a dedicated collector. He explored the wilderness in this country and gathered seeds, and he sent a lot of them back to England. That became his business, and it extended over three generations of Bartrams. He developed one of the first seed catalogs, both handwritten and printed as circulars. The 1785 catalog, from the third generation to manage the business, is one of the earliest botanical lists of North American plants. His 1760 greenhouse survives on the site, one of what became many. Actually a few years ago the place started selling plants again, but it’s not practical for us to get any if we’re traveling. I’ve read that there’s some replanting of the orchard going on. Although I don’t think he sold a lot of apple trees. He was much more interested in the seeds.”

  “All right, you’ve sold me,” Seth said. “Just tell me where we’re going.”

  “Take Interstate 95 past Philadelphia—as I said, it’s near the airport.”

  They managed to avoid most Monday morning traffic around New York and Philadelphia. Meg already knew that Seth was a steady and competent driver—so unlike her impatient father!—so she could relax and enjoy the scenery. Following Interstate 95 was not necessarily the prettiest route, but it was the most efficient; they were facing a drive of four hours to their destination, and they wanted to allow a little daylight time to see what remained of the historic garden. They didn’t talk much, but the silence was not uncomfortable. There was something soothing about the hum of tires on the road, the steady flow of changing landscape to look at going by—inlets, houses, patches of trees, cities of varying size that grew as they approached, then trickled away behind them. Meg could feel her tension unwinding. Maybe she should take more road trips. With Seth, of course.

  They arrived at Bartram’s Garden shortly after one. When she had said it was close to the airport, she hadn’t realized that it was practically in the airport. It took only a few turns once they’d passed the airport exit and they were there. Meg looked at the parking lot dubiously. “There doesn’t seem to be much happening here,” she said.

  “On the plus side, it doesn’t look like Disneyland,” Seth said cheerfully. “Oh, by the way, how do you feel about zoos?”

  “Zoos?” Meg laughed. “I’ve seen a few. I always feel bad about the captive animals, and then I have to think that if they weren’t in the zoos, they wouldn’t survive at all. So I guess I have mixed feelings. Were we planning to visit a zoo?”

  “No. Just checking, for future reference. Are we going in?”

  “Well, we’re here. I gather that the Welcome Center is closed today, but since it’s December there’s not much to see in the way of plants, or at least, I wouldn’t recognize them without leaves. I really wanted to get a sense of the history of the place.”

  They followed a well-marked path, leaving the near-empty parking lot behind. Once they were on the property, Meg could see the Delaware River in the distance. “The Bartram family owned over a hundred acres, down to the river there, and lived in the midst of it. As I was telling you, at their peak they had ten greenhouses, and literally thousands of species of native and exotic plants. This place is a landmark in horticultural history.”

  “I’m impressed, Meg.” Seth came up behind her and put his arms around her shoulders. “Seriously. Two years ago you were a financial analyst who happened to inherit an orchard. You probably couldn’t have named more than ten apple varieties, the ones that you’d seen in grocery stores. Look at how far you’ve come.”

  “I was planning to walk away . . .” Meg said, almost to herself. Then in a stronger voice she added, “But then I figured, if I was going to stay, I was going to do it right. I knew I had a lot to learn.”

  Seth sighed melodramatically. “And here I thought it was my charms that kept you in Granford.”

  She turned and punched his shoulder. “That came later, remember? All my life, I’d been the good girl—worked hard, got high grades, went to a good college, found a relatively stable job. When the nice safe path I’d chosen suddenly crumbled beneath my feet, I figured maybe the universe was trying to send me a message. So instead of sulking, I embraced the change. And here we are.”

  “Well, if there’s a god of random events, I’d like to send an offering to him.”

  “Why do you t
hink it’s a he?”

  “Because women are more organized than men. I’ll give you a goddess of order if you want.”

  “That works for me,” Meg said cheerfully. “Shall we see what there is to see before it gets dark?”

  “Lead the way. You don’t happen to have a map of the place do you?”

  “Nope. But as I pointed out earlier, most of the vegetation is dead, so it’s no great loss if we miss it. Nice view of the city.” Meg pointed toward the skyline of Philadelphia, visible in the distance.

  “Just remember it wouldn’t have looked like that in your John Bartram’s day.”

  “Yes and no,” Meg countered. “He might have seen the smoke of cooking fires and such, maybe some ships headed for the city port. The city, or at least the waterfront, predates this place. And I have now just about exhausted everything I know about this region, so I’ll shut up.”

  They wandered through the grounds, admiring the solid stone house, the layout, the views, and what few plants they could identify. Meg was glad she had brought a down jacket along, because the wind from the river was biting. That was probably what had discouraged many sightseers, although there were a few intrepid walkers and bikers who passed them quickly.

  “Seen enough?” Seth asked after a while.

  “I guess so. I told you, there isn’t much to see. It’s the principle of the thing. I wonder if John Chapman and one or another of the Bartrams ever crossed paths? They were in the same business, sort of, and Johnny Appleseed did spend some time in Pennsylvania, although not around here, from what I’ve read. Of course, one of the Bartrams could have run across him in their plant collecting expeditions.”

  “Could be. I gather there were limited roads back in the day, so if they were on the move, they didn’t have a lot of choices. Let’s head back to the car.”

  “All right. How far are we from our mysterious destination?”

  “Under half an hour. Speak now if there’s anything else in this neighborhood that you want to see. I understand there are other significant historic sites, although a lot of them seem to be battlefields.”

  “I’ll pass. I’m getting cold, and the light is going. We can think about it for the trip back.”

  “Then we will move on to our next stop.”

  “Which is?”

  “The nicest hotel in Wilmington, the Hotel du Pont. I figured we deserved one splurge.”

  “Ooh, lovely! Maybe they’ll have a high tea.”

  “They do. We have a reservation.”

  Meg hugged him. “Another reason why I love you.”

  6

  By the time they left the Garden’s grounds, the sun was halfway down the sky. The wind hadn’t dropped off, and Meg was getting cold. When they got into the car, Seth turned on the heat while they sat for a bit.

  “Do you know where you’re going from here?” Meg asked.

  “Near enough,” he said. “Wilmington’s not that big a city, but it is the next one near this highway.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Only passing through by train. I took myself off to Washington once, a long time ago, because I thought I should see the place.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It was interesting. A bit unreal, almost stagy, if you know what I mean. But that’s what it was supposed to be—designed to impress the rest of the world. I didn’t have the time to explore the museums or the rest of the area. Mostly I walked around. You’ve seen it?”

  “Yes, on a high school field trip, a long time ago. How well do you know Boston?”

  “Not very. Sure, I’ve been there, but it’s not the same as knowing a place. Same with New York. I could say something corny like, ‘I’m a country boy at heart.’”

  “A country boy with an education from one of the best small liberal arts colleges in the country,” Meg shot back. “So you’re not exactly ignorant of the rest of the country, or the world. Did you ever want to go to Europe?”

  “It crossed my mind, but I couldn’t leave the business that long, even if I’d had the money. You?”

  “I took a trip with a friend the summer after I graduated from college. We didn’t have a plan, or a lot of money—mostly we went where we felt like it and stayed in places we could afford. We spent some time in London and Paris, and then we rented a car and saw some of the countryside. It seems a long time ago now. Can we put it on our bucket list for some future date?”

  “Sure. As long as it isn’t during growing season.”

  “Good point. But there’d be fewer tourists in winter, and it can’t be any colder there than in Massachusetts. Should we start an official bucket list?”

  “Like, in writing? Why not?” Seth said. “Ready to go?”

  “I am. I can feel my toes again.”

  As Seth had promised, it was a short drive to downtown Wilmington. Apparently the hotel was one of the larger buildings in the city, and rather impossible to miss. When they reached the entrance, Meg was already feeling tongue-tied. “Oh, my. Can we afford this?”

  “It’s our honeymoon, Meg. We should have a few experiences worth remembering, shouldn’t we? This is our well-deserved indulgence.”

  “Well, I love it. It’s gorgeous.”

  She sat back and let Seth manage things: valet parking, and a liveried doorman to collect their luggage and escort them to the front door, in case they were incapable of finding it on their own. The lobby was everything she would have imagined: high ceilinged, with gilt everywhere. The reception staff was efficient and courteous, and within a couple of minutes they found themselves in a spacious room—where there was no gilt. Meg suppressed a giggle—again—wondering where they could have added gold to a standard hotel room. Maybe the toilet seat . . .

  “Tea awaits us. If you’re willing,” Seth reminded her.

  “I’d hate to waste the reservation. Will there be finger sandwiches? Petits fours?”

  “I’m supposed to know?” Seth replied. “Why don’t we go find out?”

  They descended once again in the opulent elevator, and were directed to the Green Room. It was laid out for a small army of tea-drinkers, although there were not many people in the room, and Meg and Seth had their choice of seats. Meg picked up a small menu, which on one side was printed the entire history of afternoon tea, with notes on etiquette. “Good grief, I’ve blown it already. My purse is supposed to go on my lap—obviously they’ve never seen my purse. The rest of the formal details I think I can manage. Oh joy, there are tea sandwiches and pastries! Wait—are we supposed to eat dinner tonight?”

  “We can eat late, if you stuff yourself now,” Seth said, smiling.

  “That’s rude. I shall limit myself to only one of everything. Unless it’s really, really good.”

  High tea in an elegant room in an historic hotel. Was this how she had envisioned her honeymoon? In truth, she’d never given it much thought. She’d never been close to marriage with anyone. At times she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her, but mostly she’d been comfortable with her life—her job, her friends, her activities. She hadn’t been actively seeking a man, and she was ashamed to admit that at an earlier time in her life she wouldn’t have looked twice at Seth Chapin. They hadn’t “met cute.” In fact, they’d met ugly, if there was such a thing. She’d been thrust into the middle of his life under unpleasant circumstances, and as she had said more than once, she had always planned to leave Granford as soon as she had dealt with her mother’s house, even without some unexpected complications. Like a murder. And now, less than two years later, here she was, sitting in Delaware with her new husband. She realized that Seth was watching her—how long had she been silent? “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “How unlikely it is that we would be sitting here like this. Married,” Seth replied.

  “Funny—that’s exactly what I was
thinking. Apparently planning your life is highly overrated. Things only got interesting after I stopped trying.”

  “I agree. Who was it who said, life is what happens when you’re making plans?”

  “The revered American philosopher Sheryl Crow, among others.” Meg looked around the room. “I don’t know if I brought anything fancy enough for dinner in this place.”

  “Well, there’s always room service.”

  “There is that,” Meg agreed. “But if this is just the room where they serve tea, I’d really like to see the main dining room.”

  “Up to you. More tea?”

  “No, my kidneys are floating. And I could use a nap.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  In the end they did settle for room service, which was a treat in itself. The fabulous tea had been marvelous, but Meg could feel her frugal New England ancestors glaring their disapproval at her over the centuries at the idea of eating another self-indulgent meal in the lap of luxury—on the same day! Maybe there’d be something to splurge on in Virginia. Like a tree. No, that wouldn’t work—it was too late to plant one this year, since the ground was frozen, and besides, they’d be hauling it around the countryside for days. She had to laugh at the idea of dragging a small tree with them, and carefully bringing it in each night so it wouldn’t freeze. Almost like a pet. With some regret Meg gave up the idea of having one of Thomas Jefferson’s trees—well, at least one he would have approved of—on her own property. But then, she could probably order one by mail. Would Thomas Jefferson be satisfied with that?

  They both woke early the next morning, after retiring before ten the night before, and took advantage of the lavish breakfast, having in a moment of weakness agreed that ordering room service again was a good idea.

  “How far to Monticello?” Meg asked, enjoying some excellent French toast.

  “I thought you were the navigator. Anyway, it’s about four hours, door to door.”