The Bluebonnet Betrayal

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The Bluebonnet Betrayal Page 3

by Marty Wingate

“My company is new and based on my research,” Forde said, talking directly in her ear, “which resulted in a unique discovery that will revolutionize the biofuel industry. GlobalSynergy is extremely interested in acquiring BlueGreen Enterprises for that reason, and they’ve allowed me to represent them as we enter into negotiations regarding my…proprietary process.” Forde launched into an enthusiastic description of subsidiaries, contracts, and the worldwide energy shortage.

  Pru let all this talk of business flow into her ears and work its way to the back of her brain, where it leaked out. What did she care of subsidiaries? Chiv kept his head down and didn’t engage Forde, and Pru was beginning to understand why. Did the young man ever shut up?

  “…of course, I’m not at liberty to say how, but I’ve discovered a way to increase the biofuel’s efficiency twentyfold using a particular enzyme in the seeds.”

  At last a word Pru understood. “The seeds of what?” she asked as she took a hammer and banged a corner of siding to seat it properly.

  Forde’s eyebrows lifted. “Bluebonnets, of course.”

  “The Austin Rock Garden Society (ARGS) is not affiliated with any national or international organization, but stands on its own merits to learn, preserve, and disseminate information as it sees fit without being told what to do. We are more than rocks and stones.”

  Article 2, Section 3, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 3

  “Biofuel from bluebonnets?” Christopher asked that evening on the phone. “That’s his university research? How did a boy from Newcastle choose a plant from Texas?”

  “He was an exchange student and spent his junior year of high school in Austin, and his chemistry teacher was none other than Twyla Woodford,” Pru said, her voice echoing as she stuck her head in the empty fridge looking for something to eat. “He did a project on bluebonnets while he was there, and it led him to more research at uni. I’m not sure, but maybe Twyla was a long-distance member of his master’s committee or an advisor or something. I’ll get the whole story on Saturday when I collect the women. I’ll get them settled in the house they’ve rented, and then I’ll take them out for a pint. Let them experience an English pub.”

  A pub was just what Pru needed at that moment. Perhaps she’d pop down to the Green Man on the corner for a bowl of soup.

  —

  Saturday late afternoon, Pru stood poised outside of arrivals at terminal five, Heathrow Airport, trying to catch her breath and concentrate on the people dribbling out the door from baggage claim. Had she missed them? Next to her, a man in a suit held a sign close to his chest—a driver looking for his customers. Perhaps she should have made a sign that read Austin Rock Garden Society. Pru had no idea what the women looked like, except for Ivory, whom she hadn’t seen in twenty years. Short, African American, round. At that time, her hair had been shoulder length, straight, and glossy.

  With the arrival of the six women, including ARGS president Twyla Woodford (She’s a doll!), they at last would have some semblance of a real crew. And Pru would have someone to explain to her how it came to be that the Austin Rock Garden Society landed at the Chelsea Flower Show and why she was called in to “save their bacon” just before construction began.

  She hopped out of the way as a laden luggage trolley narrowly missed knocking into her, and glanced behind her to the Costa Coffee counter, dearly wishing she could dash over to get a flat white.

  The rain had returned that morning as she and Chiv had dug the trench for the serpentine wall. Iris and Teddy were making a day’s journey to and from Hereford to the nursery—home base for A. Chiverton Gardens—to check on the plants, which wouldn’t be shipped up to London for another week or so.

  There had been no sign of Roddy, but their young sponsor, Forde Thomas Forde, had made an appearance and hovered near Pru’s shoulder rabbiting on about financing, the control of ideas, and venture capital. He crept up to the edge of the trench, and Pru’s heart leapt with joy when she looked at his feet.

  “Forde, are you wearing steel-toed boots?” she had asked.

  “Oh,” he said, stepping back, “should I be? I’m not actually doing any work.”

  That’s for sure. “Sorry, yes, you do need them. If you’re caught on the grounds wearing regular shoes, well, we could be in big trouble.”

  Forde had apologized and promised he would go out shopping that very afternoon, because he didn’t want to miss any of the garden creation. As he had hurried away, Chiv looked up at her, smiling.

  “Did you not mention he could borrow a pair from the press office caravan?” he had asked.

  “Silly me,” Pru had said, hitting her forehead lightly with the heel of her hand and smiling back. “It must’ve slipped my mind. Well, too late now.”

  Chiv rested a foot on his spade. “You’re a good worker,” he told her. “I didn’t know if you’d be back after the first day—I thought you might be just for show.”

  “I’m not for show,” Pru said. “I’m a gardener.”

  “Sorry I let them loose on you—bloody MacWeeks and that boy. I should’ve warned you they wouldn’t leave you be.”

  She forgave him—just. Through phone calls, texts, and emails, she had become the repository of every request, comment, and boast from both the designer and sponsor of the garden. The night before, Forde had sent her the link to his student page at Newcastle University, which touted all his many accomplishments, and Roddy had texted to ask if she knew anyone working at the Daily Mail. But it didn’t matter any longer, because she was about to hand off the entire kit and caboodle to Twyla.

  But there had been no sign of Roddy that morning, and after lunch, as it neared time for Pru to start her journey to Heathrow, she grew reluctant to leave. Chiv had gone into meditation mode about the wall again—it apparently took a great deal of study before he laid a stone—and only waved at her when she left.

  —

  Another clutch of people now emerged from arrivals—men, well dressed in matching sport coats with SUSSEX COUNTY CRICKET CLUB on their luggage. She sighed as the crowd petered out again. Unconsciously, she put her hand deep into her cavernous canvas bag, feeling around for her coin purse, the need for coffee overwhelming her sense of responsibility. While her hand was lost at the bottom, her phone rang.

  She couldn’t answer, not now. She must focus on arrivals, greet the women. She was itching to be rid of all responsibility for the garden. She had thought she would be merely a stand-in for the Austin women, but the few days she’d been at the garden, she’d had little support from Texas. Chiv had sent her off to a meeting with the assistant show director, Arthur Nottle, when Roddy didn’t show up; Forde seemed insistent on explaining to her something called molecular orbital theory; and she had learned that Iris abandoned whatever job she was doing to stand by her man if Pru and Chiv so much as said “good morning” to each other.

  Now that would change. But her phone continued to ring. No, she wouldn’t answer. Unless it was Christopher. Her hand wrapped round her phone and she looked at the screen.

  Roddy. Crap. All right, then—this would be the last time she’d have to listen to him—let Twyla look after him from now on.

  “Hello, Roddy.”

  “Listen, Pru, here’s the thing—I’ve a serious commitment to the Leicester council for a new landscaped public space near the common in that city and I’ll need to just jet up there for a day or two.”

  “What?” Pru shouted, and a woman standing next to her flinched. Pru dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “You can’t leave me. You have responsibilities.”

  “I won’t be away long, and you’re doing such a fine job. Just keep it on the QT, will you?”

  “Roddy, what am I supposed to tell people?”

  “It won’t be a problem, Pru.”

  “You think Twyla will be your cover? I see now how much of a commitment this has been for you.”

  Pru heard him suck in a breath. “Oh God, I forgot. Right, I tell you what
—I’ll be there first thing tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to miss her. Them. You’ll mention that, won’t you?”

  Pru rang off without answering. “I can’t believe he’s doing this,” she muttered, opening her bag and shoving the mobile phone to the bottom as if that would keep Roddy off her back.

  Behind her, she heard a voice call out, “Pru Parke, you get your butt over here and give me a hug.”

  Of course she recognized Ivory—she looked exactly as she had two decades earlier, apart from her hair, which had exploded in a halo of tight, frizzy black-and-gray curls that fell almost to her shoulders. Pru broke away from the waiting crowd and hugged her as several other women gathered, parking their wheeled suitcases that dangled with the detritus of a long journey—neck pillows tied to handles, half-empty water bottles stuffed into zippered compartments.

  “Welcome to England,” Pru said to the group.

  “Let me introduce you,” Ivory said. “You don’t know any of these women, but they sure do know you. I’ve been telling them all sorts of stories about you—I remember the time you dyed the water in all the fountains at the Dallas Arboretum green for St. Patrick’s Day. Okay now—here are KayAnn and Nell. They’re the babies of the group.”

  KayAnn and Nell looked to be in their thirties, about twenty years younger than Pru, Ivory, and the other Austin women. Both waved and said hi. One was pale with red highlights in ash-blond hair, the other with milky-brown skin, dark hair, also with red highlights. Apart from that, they could’ve been the Doublemint twins—they had identical hairstyles cut at such severe angles they looked as if they had puppy-dog ears. Their outfits matched as well—yellow sateen shorts over patterned black tights, brown sheepskin boots, and cardigans that reached just past their bums. Their nails were painted in red, white, and blue with a lone star.

  “And this is Sweetie,” Ivory said.

  Sweetie dropped her shoulder bag and flung her arms round Pru. A mass of layered salt-and-pepper hair tumbled into Pru’s face, causing her nose to itch until Sweetie stepped back, dipped her head, and tucked a strand of the wildness behind her ear. “We are so happy to see you—I’ve never been outside of Texas before and I didn’t know what we were gonna do when we got here.”

  “Rosette Taylor.” Ivory nodded to the fourth woman. She was the only one of the group who didn’t look as if she’d spent the past ten hours on a plane—buttoned-up jacket and fresh lipstick.

  “Pru.” Rosette gave her a tight smile.

  “Happy to meet you all,” Pru said, running through the names in her head and wondering which was KayAnn and which was Nell. “Oh, but not all.” She looked past them to the arrivals door. “Is Twyla still waiting for her bags?”

  The group froze, cutting their eyes at Ivory, who locked her gaze on them as she spoke to Pru.

  “Twyla didn’t come.”

  “Thanks to last month’s speaker, we all now have a greater appreciation for the trees, shrubs, and flowers that grow in Calgary. Travel opens a gardener’s eyes. Will you share your love of your favorite place?”

  The President Speaks, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 4

  “Didn’t come? Twyla didn’t come?” Pru repeated the words hoping that would help her understand their meaning, which refused to sink in. “What do you mean? She has to be here—this is her garden. You said it was her idea—the Chelsea Flower Show—that she was excited, that she planned it all, that she would be in charge. What do you mean, she didn’t come?”

  Without realizing it, Pru had clamped her hand onto Ivory’s arm and was squeezing. Ivory patted the hand before pulling it off and patting it again.

  “No, don’t worry, honey. She’ll be here.” Ivory shook her head and laughed, and the frozen group broke into smiles of their own. “Twyla would not miss this for the world—would she? She’s our president, after all.”

  The group laughed and nodded, and Pru thought she heard someone murmur, “President for life.”

  “But why isn’t she here now?” Pru asked in a little voice. “You promised she would be here.” Her dream of stepping into the background of garden construction faded before her eyes, replaced by the image of one arm being tugged by Roddy MacWeeks and the other pulled on by Forde Thomas Forde.

  “Something came up, that’s all—isn’t that right, ladies?” Ivory asked.

  “And Ivory’s vice president—she’s next in line.” “Lotta good that’ll do her.” Those remarks came from the younger women, but by the time Pru looked to see who said what, both had clamped their mouths shut under a severe look from Rosette. “Sorry, Ivory,” the blonde—KayAnn? Nell?—said hastily. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “That’s all right, honey,” Ivory said, now patting the blonde’s arm while still looking at Pru. “Twyla had some business to attend to and so she stayed back another day or two. But she’ll be here before you know it, and in the meantime, we’re here. Put us to work!”

  Pru nodded. “Yes, right, of course. Well, let’s get going.” She nudged the women along, down to the train that took them to Paddington Station. During the fifteen-minute journey, she saw more than one chin sink to a chest, only to bolt upright again. She had thought the last leg of their journey could be on the Tube—their first London adventure—but as they struggled to swing carry-ons over their shoulders, and pushed their wheeled bags along as if they were filled with bricks, she took pity and ushered them to the taxi rank. Instead of relinquishing her responsibilities for the ARGS garden, it was now all too clear she had assumed even more.

  —

  Lamont Road in Chelsea would not be a bad place to spend a month, Pru decided as they pulled up to the Austin women’s temporary home, a large, corner house along the brown-brick terrace. Pru had lived in Chelsea her first year in England, not too far away, and she knew the neighborhood. If the women could stay awake long enough, she would take them to the Cat and Cask, her old local.

  Rosette had the key, and once in the door, the five women dispersed to look round, choose a bedroom, find the loo. Pru could hear them upstairs exclaiming about bedding and paint colors. She stood in the entry for a moment, and noticed boxes against the wall with boots, high-vis vests, and work passes. All sorted, then—at least Twyla had done that much. Pru wandered through the sitting room and into the kitchen and looked out the window at a tiny back garden with patio and barbecue.

  “This is fabulous,” she said to Ivory, who walked into the kitchen and opened cupboards until she found a glass. “How did you find it? Oh, don’t tell me—Twyla arranged it.”

  “Damien. He’s covered the rent, too.” Ivory turned on the tap and stuck a finger under the running water.

  “Well, whoever Damien is, he must have deep pockets. Is he from GlobalSynergy?”

  “Ten thousand pounds for the month—that’s how much it cost,” Ivory replied. “Whatever that is in real money.”

  Pru’s eyes widened. “It’s a lot.”

  “Are we supposed to go to sleep now or what?” Sweetie asked, standing in the doorway, already wearing fuzzy slippers.

  “Too early for that,” Pru replied. “You should try to stay up until a regular bedtime—it’ll be easier for you to adjust to the time change. I thought we could go down to the pub. Why don’t you get everyone together.”

  Sweetie padded obediently back up the stairs, and Pru turned to Ivory. “Is her name really Sweetie?” she asked in a whisper.

  Ivory shrugged. “If she has another one, she’s never told us.”

  —

  Pru led the way to the pub, but had to retrace her steps several times as the five women stretched themselves out behind her in a stringy parade, KayAnn and Nell bringing up the distant rear. When they got to the end of Lamont Road, the women stopped.

  “How many blocks is it?” Rosette asked.

  “We don’t really have blocks here,” Pru replied. “But it isn’t far—six or seven minutes. Truly.” Possibly. She got
behind KayAnn and Nell to nip at their heels. “I’m sure you all could do with a drink.” I certainly could.

  Down two more streets and round the corner. They walked under gray skies, but on dry pavement while Pru kept up a lively, albeit one-sided, conversation about London and what they might like to do in their free time—not that she expected them to have much of it. Next, she described the Chelsea Flower Show, which none of them had ever attended, and mentioned the occasional sighting of a celebrity or royal. At those last words, KayAnn and Nell scooted closer, but Rosette just shook her head and said, “You sound like Twyla.”

  Pru pulled up in front of the Cat and Cask, and the women gathered behind her. Begonias, trailing lobelia, and multitudes of small violas erupted from hanging baskets and window boxes, standing out against the dark green walls. Her first year in London, Pru had been a jobbing gardener—pruning here, planting there—and tended the potted plants at this very pub. It seemed an age ago, and although she could get misty-eyed thinking about those days, she was ever so grateful they were in her past.

  She stopped under the painted pub sign swinging above the door. It showed a gray tabby balanced atop a wooden beer cask that lay on its side. The cat, with its tail curled round its haunches, leaned over and batted at the cork.

  “Here we are now,” she said, pointing up to the sign. “Your first English pub. What do you think?”

  “I think I need to sit down,” Ivory said.

  —

  “I took them to the Cat and Cask when they arrived,” Pru told Christopher later on the phone.

  “Did you have a meal there?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She had bought a round of drinks—Chardonnay for KayAnn and Nell, vodka and tonics for Ivory, Rosette, and Sweetie, and a pint of bitter for herself. No one admitted to being hungry, but when six side orders of chips—thick potato wedges twice-cooked in duck fat—arrived at the table, the women set upon them until the plates were picked clean. Fueled by alcohol and fried food, their conversation had gathered an upward momentum with talk of who was looking after husbands and boyfriends back home until it spiked with a burst of laughter, followed by a precipitous drop in energy, which left the Austin women nearly comatose.

 

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