by Janis Lane
“But, Cher!” His grin disappeared while his face segued into a true study in consternation. She hid a smile at the expression on his wicked, albeit too handsome, pirate face. He curled his hand around the battered and scentless roses as she turned to leave the room.
“Cher. Don’t you even have a hug for me for old time’s sake?”
She turned and pointed at a stack of business cards in a holder sitting on the counter.
“I’m in the book. Not that you’ll ever need to discuss how to improve your backyard, but that’s my business.” With that parting shot, she disappeared into the back of the shop leaving him standing with his giant, plant-killer mouth hanging wide open.
Contrast this with a fellow who is spending his retirement years working in his two-acre yard. From early morning he can be found in his perennial garden, which covers a goodly portion of his acreage. Groups asked for tours, and garden clubs haunted him for names of plants until he wrote discreet labels. His life is gardening. He is content and intends to spend the rest of his life doing exactly what he did the year before, working laboriously in his garden. You start to see my point?
These two examples and everything in-between is the “right way” to garden. If you like it, it makes you happy, and the neighbors aren’t too upset, then it’s the right way to garden. Personality tests are not necessary before I recommend a planting design, but I do insist we sit chatting for a bit. It is my belief a successful garden means the plants fit the person’s lifestyle and personality and vice versa. A happy customer in a thriving garden is the measure of my success. Happy Gardening,
Cheryl
Cheryl snapped the top of her laptop closed. “Whew. Finally finished for the week.” She paused before leaving the garden to hear banging and the alarming sound of metal on metal penetrating through the hedge from next door. She tilted her chin up on her way inside, refusing to allow her peace to be disturbed by a shallow, albeit Rhett Butler handsome, beast of a destroyer of delicate things. Oh, if only he had the manners of a southern gentleman. She was certain Scarlet never had to put up with such Neanderthal tactics.
Her cell rang. When she flipped it open and recognized the number, she snapped it shut again. An ex-fiancé was not on her list of need-to-tend-to today. Men were beginning to be not on her list of important items, if it came to that.
David Larkin was enough of a disturbance in her life without adding the nuisance of an ex-boyfriend, doctor or not. Her parents, no, her mother, still held out hope she would change her mind about Gordon Moore, but Cheryl knew there was no chance she would. She had broken the engagement over a year ago. Why he kept calling, she could not understand. By now he must realize how serious she was about her occupation. She had settled into her new life and obviously he was upset that it didn’t include him. What he wanted with a lady who was happiest when she had soil underneath her fingernails, she couldn’t imagine.
Those long idyllic days spent in her grandmother’s presence had had a profound influence on a young Cheryl. She still owned her first pair of gardening gloves and trowel given her by that sweet lady. Side by side, they dug and planted in the languid summer days and long twilights, turning the yard into a blazing place of color and fragrance, alive with bees, birds, and butterflies. Cheryl loved the peace and contentment she found there and the sweet memory of a wonderful grandmother who had time for her.
Her mother had been and still was a busy woman filling her days with charity work and country club activities. Leaving Cheryl with her grandmother had been both a convenience and a delight to a lonely child. First peeking through the hedge with curiosity and spying a noisy boy, Cheryl had found herself astounded at his rowdy behavior. He became a fascination. She had followed him around, eyes wide with delight and amazement in the excitement he created. Her grandmother frowned and said he needed the seat of his pants warmed but added that he might be interesting in a few years if he managed to grow up. Judging from the fate of her prized lily, Cheryl wondered if David had managed that task yet. He was much too old to have the seat of his pants warmed, wasn’t he?
Chapter 2
Notes and Ideas for future columns:
Gardening is a work in progress. There’s no such thing as perfect and complete. Perfectly completed gardens might be made from silk.
Flat out B) desirable C) least desirable D) Politically correct E) compromise
How to eat your—green—way through your flowerbed and still pick bouquets in the morning.
A) Parsley border B) salad greens in the corner C) blueberry bushes turn red, beans on a trellis D) tea garden to share with the bees and butterflies.
Get this emailed off to Beverly Hampton soon. Do not delay.
Cheryl unlocked the front door of her shop and stood happily sniffing a mild breeze which fluttered the petals in her front garden, now in colorful mid-summer riot. Bees buzzed working each plant seriously for nectar, while sulfur-yellow butterflies flitted from flower to flower sipping delicately, then dashing away to find another blossom. She loved how they flew in zigzagging patterns around the yard. Probably an innate tactic to avoid capture, but it always made Cheryl smile.
She gazed up and down the street spotting neither car nor person. It was usually quiet on this side street which was slowly changing from residential to business. The town of Hubbard, New York, which started out as an independent community had grown and grown until it was now considered a bedroom village to a larger city. It still contained the remains of a native population, the offspring of the original settlers, who determined to keep the village atmosphere intact.
Usually a safe and pleasant address to own, Cheryl was pleased to call it home. Her grandmother’s modest cottage was loved and familiar, providing her both a home and a place for her budding business. She laughed at her accidental pun.
She could have joined her father in business. She had an impressive degree which proclaimed she was imminently qualified. Almost. Something nudged her into entering school once more and, in spite of her mother’s objection, she obtained a degree in horticulture and landscaping.
Her bewildered father attempted to be supportive when she took the deed from her grandmother and opened her little shop. To give him credit, he had never chastised her for her decision not to join him, although she guessed how disappointed he must be. Regretful for upsetting her parents, she was nevertheless surprised but pleased at just how sublimely happy she was. It had been a tough decision, not to mention a bit scary, but it was done, and she was grateful it seemed to be the right one.
A healthy trust fund from her parents and this cottage left to her from her beloved grandmother allowed her to operate a business doing what she loved best. Fortunately, she snagged extra money writing a garden column suggested by her friend, Beverly Hampton, editor of the local newspaper. Would she have time to complete a manuscript on her version of gardening? She hoped so. It was in her long-range plans, and Beverly had encouraged her to work on it.
Cheryl hadn’t had anything in her budget for advertising. Mostly her clients were recommended to her by word of mouth. A satisfied customer is always the best advertisement, she thought happily as the phone rang inside the shop.
She made an appointment later in the day to discuss what could turn out to be a highly lucrative job. Hands on work was not her plan. She wouldn’t do the work herself. No, she would interview the client, scope out the garden, and then make recommendations. Often she merely helped a new gardener identify the plants already growing in the yard of an older home, guiding young couples who were at loss when confronted by a yard full of established plants. Soon, hopefully, they would feel comfortable enough to branch out and make it their own. It was one of her most favorite tasks in this business of gardening. Her goal was to instill a love for plants to all who sought her work.
Sam Toledo. Where had she heard that name before? She wrote
his name in her appointment book before sitting down to do a bit of work. Deeply absorbed in acquainting herself with the growing habits of a new variety of Echinacea, she was startled when the little bell on the shop door dinged, the light dimmed, and she looked up once more into the dark-brown eyes of her next-door neighbor. The fragrance of his spicy shaving lotion tickled her nose as she frowned at him.
The parrot squawked, “Naughty Boy,” and paced back and forth on his perch.
Larkin grinned and saluted the bird.
“I brought you an éclair, little Cher,” he announced, pulling a chair closer, sitting down and thrusting a paper bag onto her desktop.
Darn, why must he remember her weakness? At least it wasn’t more commercial flower bouquets. Perhaps he was finally remembering her actual identity. Probably not though. That would require more sensitivity than David Larkin could produce in one day.
“Don’t you work for a living?” she asked, trying in vain to resist opening the bag, gave up, and reached greedily for the chocolate-covered, calorie-laden pastry. She took a huge bite and sighed with pleasure as the rich vanilla pudding squished inside her mouth with sinful goodness.
“I’m on a case. You haven’t yet appreciated that I’m now a full-fledged detective. That’s an important position in the police department, I’ll have you know. You should show me more respect. Hubbard is still a little town, but it’s growing and, fortunately for me, they’ve decided to hire more policemen.” He thrust both shoes on the edge of her desk and tilted back in his chair.
“Oh, sure. What are you investigating? Éclairs? Tell the truth. You’ve come to destroy another of my plants. Confess. You’ll feel much better when you admit to your sins.” The last word became garbled on a huge bite of the éclair and she almost choked. He jumped to pound her on the back while she waved her hands to stop him. Gasping, she glared at him, even more furious when she spotted that predatory gleam in his eye.
“I’m sorry about your posy, honey. You know I’d never hurt anything of yours unless it was an accident.”
It was such an outrageous lie she could only stare at the man who had given her grief since she was ten years old.
“You know all those other times were pure accidents,” he continued with perfect composure, reaching over to tweak a curl that had fallen over her forehead. “Cute haircut, but I liked it better when it was in braids.”
She opened her mouth to argue.
“Come on, Cher. Let’s be friends,” he said, a soft, sultry change slipping easily into his voice.
She assigned the Italian part of David to this voice. Naming off various countries he could claim as a partial birthright, he had called his heritage as jumbled as a junkyard dog. Cheryl had assigned personality traits to each one. Sexy was Italian.
“Grandma left me the house and I guess yours did too. Neighbors again. Did you miss me all these years?” He gazed around him at the tidy little shop. “I see you inherited Polly parrot. How old is she now?” He eyed a monitor in the corner which was flipping colorful gardening scenes one after another.
“This is nice,” he said. “When did you decide to open a shop? I thought you were off getting another degree in something or other.” He turned back to her with a friendly half-smile masquerading this time as a normal American next-door neighbor. It was here that Cheryl was most susceptible. She sat up with a wary eye, swallowed, and resisted another bite.
“I finished my degrees a few years ago when you were off playing soldier. Time has passed you by, David. You should have visited your grandmother more often. She would have kept you up on all the doings of the Esterbrooks.” Cheryl leaned over and shut the ornate birdcage, hoping the parrot would stay quiet. There was a clear animosity between David Larkin and the bird, whose memory documented well-deserved and long-held grievances.
“I know,” David agreed, ruffling his hair restlessly. “I meant to, but life got complicated and I kept putting it off. I’m sorry now. I miss her and feel guilty every time I think about how long it was since I visited.” He gazed out the window at the hedge separating the two dwellings.
“I was shocked when she left me the house, you know.” She guessed from the tone of his voice he was serious. He really meant it. Was this the Scot or the Irish piece he used to express his guilt?
“She used to talk about you all the time. She kept up with your doings over the years, although she didn’t care much for your lady friends.” Cheryl glanced at him from underneath her eyelashes.
His eyes twinkled but his face transformed into inscrutably bland nothingness. She snorted, and he flashed a broad grin. She struggled to maintain her composure albeit recognizing the memorial power of that smile. There was history between the two of them. For a moment, the years dropped away, and two naughty children sat together plotting their next wicked escapade.
Abruptly, he dropped his feet and jerked a buzzing cell from his pocket. As he barked his name into the receiver, she watched, fascinated, while he completed a metamorphosis from her old nemeses into a cop. Hard planes appeared on his cheeks, his lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed then went flat. Belatedly she noticed the butt of a gun riding in a shoulder hostler underneath his loose jacket. His conversation consisted of one-word answers, grunts, and short questions. Cheryl could draw no conclusions, but her curiosity was alive and well. This must be the stern German part of David at work.
“Gotta go, sweet thing.” He leaned over, grabbed the nape of her neck, and, taking advantage of her astonished mouth dropping open, kissed her hard with a quick thrust of his tongue. One rough finger tilted her chin up as he looked deep into her eyes for a nano second, and then chuckled deep in his throat. The Italian Stallion was back.
“Yum, like honey nectar, still sweet Cher,” he murmured.
She felt her mouth gaping like the Grand Canyon as he walked swiftly out the door. Good Lord. After all these years, you’d think she would be prepared for his outrageous behavior. But she never was. It was part of the pathology of their relationship that he could shock her senseless—every single time, over and over.
Waiting for the tingling to stop, Cheryl sat rubbing her lips as she watched a beat-up, plain-brown-wrapper automobile, lights flashing on the dash board, peel out of the drive way next door. Drawing deep breaths in and out, she grabbed her stomach and tried to quiet her pounding pulse. She hadn’t had a reaction like that since the beastly Lily Killer had stepped in and ruined her high school prom.
“I will not allow him to come back into my life. I swear on my best boots I will control myself. I don’t know how he manages to seduce me like that. When will I ever learn?”
Over in the corner, her parrot squawked in a facsimile of her grandmother’s voice, “Ack! Naughty Boy!”
“You got that right, Ganymede. He’s been a naughty boy all his life!”
Cheryl stalked out to the garden and calmed herself by furiously weeding a perennial bed. A tiny Sphinx Moth buzzed her ear and settled in a patch of impatiens nearby. The soft sounds soothed her as the tiny humming bird look-alike drew sweet nectar from the blossoms. She settled back on her heels to watch. Bees and colorful butterflies flitted throughout the garden filled with peak July blooms. A gloriously red cardinal, almost like a flower himself, was stridently singing, warning other males to stay out of his territory. She allowed her mind to wander, her eyes unfocused while her thoughts strayed to her childhood.
David Larkin was four years older than she. What did that make him now? Thirty-three and a half? Living all their lives next door to each other, their grandmothers had been friends. Frequently Cheryl would find David playing in the backyard when she came to spend time with her Nana. He’d fascinated a lonely little girl with no siblings with his merry grin and a winning way of presenting “the plan” for the day to little next-door Gullible Cheryl. She would fall into helping him build a tree house in h
is Granny’s best fruit tree, allow him to haul up her best toy tea set which he promptly smashed in some sort of gravity experiment. A beloved doll served as a hung pirate while he stalked her with a sword made from a cardboard paper roll.
His laughter proved contagious, his antics irresistible, and she followed him like a faithful puppy in and out of scrapes which grew worse each year that passed. David Larkin, the Pied Piper of the neighborhood. But as she entered high school, he disappeared from the scene and there were four blessed years of trouble free visits. She was growing up and not as interested in boisterous games with a rough boy. Her grandmother said he was away from home.
In high school, she developed a super crush on a hulking football player. She was thrilled when he asked her to the prom and felt sophisticated in her strapless gown as they headed to someone’s post prom house. The party was wild, the music was loud, and some kids were drinking. There weren’t many students there that she knew, but she was excited to be included. Her new strapless prom dress, a mass of row upon row of delicate blue ruffles and almost the most perfect dress she had ever owned, seemed to be of great interest to her date. He kept rubbing her arm and accidentally dragging her bodice down bit by bit. She tugged it back up, and he would rub it back down. He didn’t appear as cute as she once thought.
Eventually it dawned on her the party was without chaperones, although there did seem to be several young adults present. When she commented on this fact, her date smirked and invited her for a walk out by the pool where he steered her toward a pool house, a cabana of sorts. As the door opened, she had a sudden premonition she didn’t belong there and started to pull away.