Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything

by Nancy Martin

  “I could hire someone to do this chore.” Honeybelle tucked the notebook under her arm and pulled on her gardening gloves. She grasped her cane—not that she needed it much anymore, but I knew she didn’t want to risk another fall. “But I do everything for my roses. And I never open my garden for tours. No, sir, my roses are too valuable to have people walking around doing whatever they please. So watch your step.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I shaded my eyes and looked up at the flowing river of colors. One bush seemed to crowd into another and another, with some branches climbing up a trellis, others snaking along the ground in a chaotic tangle. But in a moment, the colors sorted themselves out, and I could see the garden was very well organized, with a small bronze marker driven into the earth at the foot of each bush.

  “Wow, it’s beautiful. How many rosebushes do you have?”

  “Seventy-two varieties, all of them quite wonderful.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I can see that. You planted them all yourself?”

  “Of course. I selected every one, chose the ideal spot for it, and dug the hole. Used my own two hands to nurture the plants to perfection.”

  She opened her notebook and showed me a page. “You see? I keep track of where each rose came from, when I acquired it, where it’s planted now, plus whatever research I’ve completed. And here’s a picture. When I got started, I took Polaroids. I miss a Polaroid camera. It was very useful. See? Here’s a photo of my grandson, helping me plant a rose. What a darling boy Trey was.”

  “My mother kept journals like this. She wrote entries every day and reread parts of it all the time. Sometimes she read something she’d written a year earlier and it suddenly made new sense. She said science was like that. You have to keep yourself open to discovery.” I leaned close and turned a page to see a picture of another rose, with its accompanying text. A lot of Honeybelle’s writing seemed to be in code. “This is a big project.”

  “One very close to my heart. In some cases, I found the plant and dug it up myself, but we don’t talk about that.”

  I stopped reading over her shoulder. “Why not?”

  She snapped her notebook closed and turned as pink as the flowers at her elbow. “Well, you’re not supposed to dig up whole bushes, Sunny. You’re supposed to ask permission and take little cuttings to propagate, but really, if a rosebush was left behind when a family moved on and a ranch just fell down and blew away—I was doing a public service, wasn’t I? Who would ever appreciate a rare rose if it’s out in the scrub all by itself?”

  “So these flowers came from abandoned ranches?”

  She hesitated. “Some of them. Why, one time my dear Hut and I were driving out in the middle of nowhere to meet some young high school football prospect, and I suddenly shouted at him to stop the car because I’d seen just the tiniest speck of red out in the desert. We put on our boots and found the foundation of an old farmhouse—nothing else left, except this beautiful gallica rose.” She cupped a vivid red flower in her hand and tipped it to better show off its qualities. “I think it originally came from Persia, but somebody dug it up and brought it all the way to Texas—by way of Ireland or England, probably. The British were always taking what they wanted, weren’t they? And their empire ruled the world. Now, it would be a terrible thing if this beautiful flower just dried up and died in the desert, wouldn’t it? I rescued it.”

  I thought about my mother and her obsession with saving rare butterflies. Here was Honeybelle doing the same kind of thing. I could hardly picture her trading her fancy shoes for hiking boots and leading an expedition into the jungle, but apparently she had done almost that. “Who did the farm belong to?”

  “I have no idea,” she said briskly. “And I have no intention of finding out.”

  “But if you knew who owned the farm, maybe you could track down where the rose came from, and—”

  “I might also have to give it back,” she said.

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s mine now,” she said firmly. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law. They’d have to prove I took it, anyway. Nobody’s going to wrestle it away from me now.”

  “Still,” I said, “you could probably look at property deeds for a name, and then do some ancestry research. Nobody would have to know but you. And the history might be fascinating if you—”

  “Thank you, Sunny.” She gave me a long, quelling look. “I’m beginning to wonder what I ever did without you.”

  She didn’t sound happy with my suggestions. I buttoned my lip and pushed the wheelbarrow after her as she led the way across her dewy lawn, fresh from its morning sprinkle. Miss Ruffles snuffled the grass and briskly scouted the yard for enemy combatants. Honeybelle used her cane to fend off Miss Ruffles once, but eventually she set it aside and took the rake to turn over some of the mulch around the roses. I read off some of the bronze markers, and she told me what she knew about each plant. She had so much information in her head that I was surprised she needed the notebook at all.

  “How about this one?” I pointed at a particularly prickly bush, laden down with yellow blooms. Each petal had a bright yellow throat, but the color turned creamy at the edges. “Why doesn’t it have a marker?”

  “It doesn’t? Oh.” She glanced at the rose and quickly went back to raking. “Yes, that one’s a mystery, all right. But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Very pretty.”

  Next she went around and cut bits of stems off a few bushes and dipped them into a jar of granules that coated the little snippets. “Stick this stem in the sterile soil, Sunny. Yes, like that. Be careful of the thorns.”

  Obediently, I took half a dozen of her cuttings and tucked them into a tray of potting soil.

  “Now we’ll label these and put them in a sunny spot in my conservatory. In no time, we’ll have even more roses.”

  I glanced around. Her garden already seemed jam-packed. “Where will you put more roses?”

  “Oh, I’ll find homes for these little wonders.”

  In a few minutes, Honeybelle took a break and repaired her lipstick from a tube in her pocket. She wore her white slacks with a pink polka-dotted blouse tied fetchingly at her waist. Her enormous straw gardening hat swooped over one eye and fastened under her chin in a large pink bow.

  “Did you hear everything Posie said at the meeting?” Honeybelle asked very casually as she replaced the top of her lipstick. “That silly business about saving water knocked me for a loop. It’s not as if we’re using millions of gallons. And bluebonnets hardly use any because they’re a native plant. Don’t you think flowers are a perfectly good use of water? I can’t imagine a world without flowers, can you?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “I’m perfectly aware that we must conserve, but really, what would life be without green spaces? They’re restful, soothing. And who doesn’t need soothing these days?” From the wheelbarrow, she pulled a trowel, then got down on her knees on a neatly folded towel. “Posie’s tone was very accusatory.” She jabbed her trowel into the flower bed. “I don’t mind a disagreement behind closed doors, but in public like that…”

  “She counted on your good manners,” I said. “She knew you wouldn’t disagree with her in front of other people.”

  “You’re right! Why didn’t I think of that?” She sat back to consider my theory for another moment, and then said, “I just wish some of my friends had stood up for me a little bit. Not one of them said a word on my behalf. I know I should be a good Christian and forgive them.” Honeybelle began to stab at the roots of one rosebush again. “But I don’t mind admitting I’m having trouble forgiving that bunch of biddies who wouldn’t defend a friend when the chips were down. I’ve been good for this town,” she went on, her outrage gaining momentum. “I give money to every cause. I’ve attended so many bridal and baby showers I could scream. I go to those awful jewelry parties, too, even the ones with silly games, and I always buy something, even if it’s tacky stuff. An
d I drove Minnie Longwell to every single one of her doctor appointments for her hammertoe last winter. Nobody could say I wasn’t a wonderful friend to her. I’ve been more than generous.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you have.”

  “So why can’t I get a little credit once in a while? A little loyalty in return? They’re all jealous, that’s the bottom line. They’re jealous of my life and my position and my roses.”

  “Your … roses?”

  She took a pair of shears from the wheelbarrow and snipped a faded bloom. “Well, there have been whispers, you know.”

  “What kind of whispers?”

  Honeybelle suddenly appeared uneasy. She picked up her trowel again and began shoving it into the earth. With a wince and an exclamation, she dropped the trowel. She pulled off her glove and examined her fingernails for breakage. “I have a mind to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  She cut her eyes at me. “Well, I thought I’d ask you.”

  “Me?”

  “You being a Yankee and all, I thought maybe you’d have some ideas. About getting back at people.”

  I almost laughed. She was talking as if anyone from north of the Mason-Dixon had a forked tail. “It’s not as if we’re … well, anyway, I’m not really a Yankee. I’m from Ohio, which is more midwestern than … never mind. I don’t know any—”

  “You must know a dirty trick or two. Something I could inflict on my former friends.”

  When I could speak, I said, “Former…? Look—”

  “I’d like some revenge. There, I said it. Does that make me a bad person? Or simply human? I’d like to see some of those two-faced old bats get some comeuppance.”

  I was seeing a side of Honeybelle I hadn’t expected. “Such as?”

  “I don’t know! Something satisfying. A prank, maybe. I’m being serious here, Sunny. I’m angry! And I want to make a point, darn it.”

  “I don’t know how to help you, ma’am. I really don’t.”

  She sighed, disappointed. “Well, maybe I’ll ask my grandson. He might have some ideas.”

  A passing car pulled over to the curb and stopped in front of the hedge. The driver rolled down his window.

  “Hey, good-lookin’,” he called over the hedge to Honeybelle. He was the owner of the local funeral home, Mr. Gamble. I knew him because he had come to the house a couple of times to sit on Honeybelle’s porch and drink gin and tonics. Miss Ruffles had tolerated him. Perhaps because he was completely unthreatening, and Honeybelle seemed to like him. He had brought a case of bottled water the first time—a puzzling attempt at a romantic gesture. But Honeybelle professed to be charmed by it.

  This morning Mr. Gamble was looking more like a Las Vegas singer than the local mortician. He had shy, down-turned brown eyes with Bambi lashes, a thick head of dark hair complete with long sideburns, and a slow smile. His black funeral suit seemed standard issue, except his white shirt was often unbuttoned to show a startling amount of manly chest hair. I guessed he might be wearing a gold necklace, but I was afraid to look close enough to find out.

  He said, “Whatcha doing there, Honeybelle?”

  Miss Ruffles dashed to the hedge and began barking madly.

  Honeybelle forgot about revenge and scrambled to her feet. She ignored her cane and tucked a stray lock of hair back into her hat, her concerns about her friends forgotten. “Why, Mr. Gamble. How nice to see you this morning. Miss Ruffles, settle yourself.” She struck a pose, one fist on a hip, looking far from a lady who needed a cane to sustain her balance. “What brings you out so early, handsome?”

  I picked up the rake and pretended to be invisible.

  Mr. Gamble leaned out his window and shouted over the barking of the dog. “Just passing by.” New to the game of flirtation, he was bashfully awkward, but he tried. “It’s against nature for you to outshine those flowers, but you certainly do.”

  “What a flatterer you are!”

  “Did you get that emergency water like I told you to?” He turned serious again. “Or do you want me to bring you a few five-gallon bottles?”

  “My storm shelter is well stocked, thank you, Mr. Gamble.”

  “I’ll bring my checklist over, make sure you’ve got everything.”

  “That,” she said, “would be very nice. You’re so thoughtful.”

  He looked pleased. “Or what about lunch on Saturday? I’m in the mood to take you all the way to Dallas.”

  She clapped her hands together. “Oh, would you?”

  “And I checked into that old ranch you mentioned—the one on the way to Dallas. I did a little looking around on some maps—”

  “Dallas sounds just wonderful,” Honeybelle cut him off, voice bright with enthusiasm.

  “Then it’s a date?”

  “Call me on Friday.” With a beaming smile, she pantomimed a telephone to her ear.

  He waved and went on his way. Miss Ruffles came trotting back to us, pleased that she had chased off the interloper.

  Honeybelle saw me blinking and said, “I’m helping him. The poor man’s wife died in the tornado we had here twenty years ago, poor dear, squished by her own deep freezer. I’m trying to bring him out of his grief-stricken state. Except now he’s a nut about emergency shelters.”

  “Can’t blame him,” I said.

  “I suppose not, but it’s getting a little … well, he badgered me into creating a shelter in one of my walk-in closets. I thought that would be the end of it, but now Mr. Gamble wants me to dig up some of my roses to make space for an underground room to hide in if another twister comes.”

  “Every house has a basement in Ohio.”

  “Did you ever go down into your basement to hide from a tornado?”

  “No, but it’s there, just in case.”

  “You sound like Mr. Gamble. ‘Just in case’ are his favorite words. He’s a stickler about keeping food and water ready, too, not to mention a ham radio. Honestly, who listens to ham radios anymore? It would be my luck to get stuck in my storm shelter and end up communicating with a randy teenager in Korea!” She collected herself. “A nice lunch in Dallas might be just the thing to budge him off twisters. Really, what are the chances of a town getting blown off the map twice?”

  “Well, if the town is located in a path that’s commonly affected by severe weather, my mother would say—”

  “I’m sure your mother had many good things to say, Sunny. You know what I mean. Hyperbole is a way of making a point.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you going to dig up some roses?”

  “What?” She looked stricken.

  I pointed at her garden. “To make room for your storm cellar.”

  “There’s a better chance of a new twister drawing the face of Davy Crockett in my front lawn. No, I’m not digging up my roses, and I’m not building any underground storm cellar, either.” She swallowed her exasperation and sighed. “I suppose I should be grateful he’s so concerned for my safety. I do like to be taken care of now and then. He rather reminds me of my Hut that way.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “It’s not like there are many eligible men in this town. I’ve run through most of them already. He’s the one who’s left, so I feel I should give him a chance.”

  “He seems very … thoughtful”

  Honeybelle’s enthusiasm began to fade. “He’s no Rhett Butler, and really, the idea of seeing a mortician is a little creepy sometimes, but he’s really very … sweet.”

  “Clark Gable is dead,” I reminded her.

  Honeybelle saw my smile and laughed, happiness restored. “True ’dat!”

  Within moments, more passing cars began tooting jauntily at Honeybelle, and more pleasantries were called from car windows. Miss Ruffles went into protection mode each time, and I made sure the dog didn’t knock over Honeybelle. Finally, a pair of elderly ladies stopped to tentatively call out a gardening question. I recognized two of the garden club turncoats.

  Honeybelle was very gracious to them, despite
the resentment she’d confided to me. Her reply made them smile—relief showing—and they drove off.

  When their car had disappeared around the corner, though, Honeybelle let her infuriation explode. “Oh, I need to get out of this town!”

  “That trip to Dallas couldn’t come at a better time.”

  “You said it!”

  “You never leave Texas,” I said, keeping my head down in case she decided to bite it off. “How come?”

  “Oh,” she said, finally sounding unhappy. “I love Texas, I really do. Hut and I planned to travel. But after he died, I just never had the courage to go anywhere else. It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “You seem like the kind of person who’d enjoy traveling.”

  “Do I?” She sounded pleased.

  “Sure. Sophisticated. Worldly.”

  She looked down at the gloves on her hands. “Sometimes I think it might be nice to visit New York. Or Paris! And those European river cruises all look so pretty, too.”

  “So why not go to all those places? You can afford it, right?”

  “Well, yes.” As if arguing with me, she said, “I do go to the beach in Galveston once in a while.”

  I nodded. “My mother used to say … uhm, I mean, there’s research that says people are drawn to blue water. Just being at the ocean causes a drop in our stress hormones.”

  “The variety in your education makes me breathless sometimes, Sunny.” More thoughtfully, though, she said, “I wouldn’t want to go on a river cruise alone.”

  “So ask one of your friends.”

  “Lady friends, you mean? Do you think I have any left?”

  “Then ask Mr. Gamble,” I said. “Seems like he’d be tickled to death if you invited him to travel with you.”

  She looked scandalized. “Oh, I couldn’t stay in a hotel room with him! That would be inappropriate! People would think—no, no, no.”

  “So get separate rooms. Or take one of your grandsons. Or better yet, see who you meet on the trip. My mom always said the best people were always the ones she found on the way to meet somebody else. You should talk to a travel agent. Get some brochures.”