Roses in Autumn (7 page)

And yet that painful, hurt look remained in Tom’s eyes. That was entirely ridiculous, because Tom was the one who had hurt her.

Right. Back to the scene at hand. Purple-leafed Persian plum trees behind a wall of hydrangeas and a festivity of Canterbury bells. “You can almost hear them ring, can’t you?”

No response. As if he were punishing her. But for what?

They crossed the broad green concert lawn where musicals were staged in the summer and fireworks displays held in July and August. “Oh, Tom, wouldn’t that be fun? We must come back!” If there was still a “we” by next summer.

Tom ignored the implications of her statement. “Just time for lunch before your appointment. Shall we skip the Japanese garden?”

“It’s only over that little hill. Can we walk through it really fast?”

Tom strode out, not bothering to reply. The austerely formal, clipped atmosphere of Oriental restraint was like a cool shower after the baroque riot of the sunken garden. Everything was held in perfect, unemotional order, the only color provided by the fall foliage and a curved red footbridge. Nothing bloomed.
I know how it feels.
Laura nodded as she looked at the closely trimmed bonsai tree confined in the center of a dry, pebble bed neatly raked into a pattern of rippling water.

But as they climbed the stairs toward the Torri exit, a little brook beside them babbled unrestrainedly between its mossy banks. It was a thin stream singing of joy and hope, breaking from the bonds of constriction.

“Oh!” Laura’s startled exclamation snapped the fragile atmosphere.

“What is it?”

She looked around, puzzled. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. I had the impression someone was there—ready to jump at me from that bush.” She shook her head. “Silly, I know.”

Tom shrugged. “Writer’s imagination.”

They passed a star-shaped pond with stone frogs spurting into the water, then past a splashing fountain of cavorting dolphins and turned in at the sign of the little green teapot. Inside the dining room they were welcomed by a high, blazing fireplace. Laura held her hands out to the fire. “I didn’t have any idea I was so cold. The sun is so bright on the flowers that it doesn’t seem possible there could be such a chill in the air.”

Tom asked for the warmest seat in the room, and they were led to one by a black iron stove where nearby water trickled from an Italian lavabo and, as always, flowers bloomed in profusion. Laura looked at their hostess—beautiful, gracious, and pregnant. And she was stabbed by the thought that so often crossed her mind when she saw women in that happy condition,
Does God love her more than He does me?
And as always, the thought was followed by deep contrition. She didn’t mean to be blaming God for her problems. It was just that her hurt ran so deep. Laura was glad to see Tom lost in concentration over his menu; she could hope he hadn’t even noticed the hostess.

Laura ordered Scotch broth and salad, then cupped her hands around her little brown teapot. “Ah, the circulation is coming back.”

Tom reached across the table and touched her hand. “You are cold. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, I didn’t really realize it until I got in here. Had my mind on other things, I guess.” It felt so good to have Tom holding her hand. It was what she’d been dreaming of all morning. She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes.

That was her mistake.

He pulled back as if from the metaphorical snake he had mentioned earlier. “You needn’t make your calf eyes at me. Save them for Lothario. He’s probably lurking somewhere behind the potted palm.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your helpful friend. I don’t suppose you knew I saw him. Or are you going to tell me he’s the horticulturist you’re meeting this afternoon?”

“Tom. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And I suppose you have no idea your friend from the museum is here, even though he stood in full view waving at you.”

“When? I didn’t see him.”

“Didn’t you really? He was directly below you when we were at the top of the sunken garden.”

She thought back, frowning, then gave a sputter of a laugh. “Oh! That must have been when I had my eyes closed.”

“Huh?”

“I was concentrating on the sounds. I always try to work with all my senses. What is the matter with you—?”

Before she could finish her question, she knew. She had taken a course in psychology in order to better understand the workings of her characters’ minds. She knew all about projection—casting one’s own guilt and motives onto another, suspecting others of what one was up to oneself. Tom felt guilty about Marla, he suspected Laura of setting up a rendezvous, as he would have liked to. She bit her lip and clenched her hands together. She would not make a scene in the restaurant. This was not the place to accuse Tom of further infidelities—even if he did seem to be accusing her. “That man—whoever he is—is simply here on a business trip from Calgary.”

“Has a lot of time to hit the tourist spots on his business trip, doesn’t he? And if he’s from Calgary, why was he on our plane from Seattle?”

“Was he? I was too busy looking for an airsick bag to notice anything.”

“Yes, he was right behind you. And never more than 12 inches from you the whole time in the airport until I dealt with the matter.”

“Well, thank you, Sir Galahad.” She looked at the bowl of rich lamb and barley soup before her. Her stomach lurched. “I have an appointment now. A
business
appointment, but you are more than welcome to come since I’m so untrustworthy.” She pushed her chair back with a sharp scrape.

“Don’t worry. I brought plenty of my own work. We’ll meet at the car when you’re through. You needn’t rush. I have everything I need.”

His dismissal rang in her ears and suppressed tears blurred her vision. Indeed, he had everything. He had a cell phone, a laptop computer with modem fax, an electronic pocket organizer, a wife, and a paramour. Who could want more?

Chapter
6

Laura forced herself to slow her steps and to breathe slower. She did not want to arrive at her interview in a flurry. She paused under the trellised archway, blossom-heavy with clusters of pink rambling roses, and took a deep breath of spicy, sweet air. Assured that she exhibited outward calm and professionalism, she entered the rose garden.

A young woman in a tan coverall was bent over pruning roses in a bed halfway along the path. “Excuse me,” Laura approached her. “Can you tell me where I could find Glen Hampden?”

The young woman straightened up, pulled off her glove, and extended her hand. “I’m Glenda Hampden. You must be the writer who wants an interview?”

“Yes, I’m Laura James.” All business now, Laura put her personal turmoil aside as firmly as she drew her notebook from her briefcase.

“Good. Let’s sit over here by the gazing ball.”

Laura couldn’t believe her fortune! She had made the appointment to learn background for her rose-grower heroine—and here was a real-life horticulturist made to order: soft brown pageboy with auburn lights, sprinkling of freckles across a pert little nose, a smile that made you think you heard children laughing. Laura’s pen moved even as she sat on a cement bench beside a pedestaled crystal ball reflecting a web of sunshine around them.

“You’ll have to forgive my surprise; I was expecting a man. Narrow-minded of me, I suppose. Anyway, I’m glad you’re not.”

Glenda smiled and nodded. “There are several women on the staff. Most women horticulturists seem to prefer working in greenhouses, but I want to be here with my roses.”

“Yes, that’s what I would choose too. They are gorgeous. What are your favorites?”

“I love them all, but of course, you do develop favorites. Roses are living things; they have personalities just like pets or even people. I like roses I can go into the garden and smell—like Double Delight and the David Austin English roses. Of course, I get my share of scratches, but it’s worth it.”

“You’re getting the garden ready for winter?” It sounded like chitchat, but Laura would need to know these things about her Gwendolyn’s work.

“We will soon. The pruning I’m doing now is really just cosmetic—for the tourists. If this was my own garden, I wouldn’t be pruning this time of year.”

“You don’t prune for winter?”

“We do here, because it looks better. But I would let the old blooms form hips and seal the canes. When you prune for winter you leave an open wound and frost can just go right down the cane. Besides, you can use the rose hips for tea or jelly in the spring—great source of vitamin C, you know.”

“Will you mulch for winter?”

“Yes, that’s my next job. We mound mushroom manure well up over the graft.”

“Mushroom manure? I’ve never heard of it.”

“We get it from mushroom growers. It’s the richest mulch we can find. We don’t use straw because it draws the phosphate from the soil, and then it all has to be hauled off in the spring. The mushroom manure we can just dig in around the plants.”

Laura glanced at the list of questions she had prepared ahead of time, but she found it hard to stick to business. She felt so drawn to this girl. She wanted to get to know her personally. “Where do you get your roses?”

“Everywhere, really. Some of the big growers in America are great, but really, we need a Canadian rose grower. Getting the rootstock across the border is an awful hassle. If the inspector finds any bugs, he’ll torch the whole lot. You can easily lose $10,000 at a whack that way.”

“Is it any easier to get roses from England?”

“It’s really a matter of where the rose you want is. If it’s in Timbuktu, you go for it. And keep your fingers crossed for the ag customs officers.”

Laura looked at her next question. “What do you feed them?”

Glenda stood up. “Albert, he’s our head gardener, said I could talk all I wanted, but I should work while I do it. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all.” Laura stood too. “I’ll just follow you around. I want to get a real feel for what you do.”

Glenda pulled on her gloves and extended her hands. “Sheepskin. They’re special to protect from the thorns.” She picked up a pair of orange-handled shears. “Good sharp clippers are important. These are English. The best.” She scooted a hard plastic bucket along the path, making a harsh, scraping sound. “There, Albert will hear that and know I’m making progress with my clipping.” She tossed a faded rose in the bucket.

“You asked about feeding. We mix our own 6-8-6 formula with plenty of trace elements and Epsom salts. Then feed one tablespoon per plant.”

“Epsom salts?”

Glenda nodded. “Because we get so much rain here. It cleanses the soil, prevents root rot. Good drainage is absolutely essential.”

Laura was writing as fast as her pen would move. She couldn’t wait to get home and try all this on her own bushes. Except the Epsom salts—hardly necessary in the desert land around Boise.

“Of course, we spray religiously—insecticide, fungicide—and don’t water from overhead. That awful rain the other night just demolished these blooms. You’re not seeing our garden at its best at all. But then, if the rain doesn’t get them the deer will. See—hoofprints in the soil right here.”

Laura was amazed. “This close to people?”

“Oh, yes. They come in at night. Here’s more prints. And in the spring it’s rabbits. They’re worse because they eat the new shoots.”

The bucket scraped on the path, Glenda’s clippers snapped, other tourists strolled through the garden admiring the roses and asking Glenda brief questions about rose growing. A visitor picked up a rosebud from the bucket. “May I take one?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Those are for my compost pile. If I gave them all away, I wouldn’t have anything to feed the pile.” The lady dropped the rose and moved on. Glenda smiled at Laura. “I probably say that 10 times a day. It would be nice to give them away, but we use everything here.”

Laura walked on a ways by herself, then turned back. “This is the only rose garden I’ve ever seen that gives the date and nation of the rose’s origin as well as its name.”

“Yeah, that’s interesting, isn’t it? The signs are about 98 percent correct. Some young interns did them. They made a few mistakes. Someday maybe we’ll have time to redo them.”

“Are there many from Canada?”

“Just one. Jenny Butchart is the only Canadian rose developed.”

“Was it done here?”

“No. We don’t have room to hybridize. Wish we did, though.”

Laura walked along, reading the markers: Cathedral, Ireland, 1975; Sir Lancelot, England, 1967; Fragrant Cloud, Germany; Anne Cocker, Scotland; Holland, Denmark, Belgium, Japan … It was a United Nations of roses. “Mountbatten. That’s not marked, but it has to be English.” She turned back toward Glenda.

“Yes, it is. It’s a really good yellow rose—deep color. Yellow roses are favorites of mine, but they need more sun. The ones on that side of the garden get too much shade. They’ll have to be moved.”

“Oh, here’s Peace. One of my favorites. I didn’t know it was developed in France.”

“Yes, it has quite a history. It was developed just before the Nazi invasion. Francis Meilland smuggled three packages to other countries. Two were confiscated by the Nazis, but one reached the States. It was officially named Peace on April 29, 1945—the day Berlin fell. It was given the American Rose Society’s award the day the war with Japan ended. And when the peace treaty was signed, it was given a gold medal.”

For a moment Laura was too engrossed to write, even though she would need this information later. “I had no idea. I just thought it got its name from its soothing blend of colors.”

“Ouch.” Glenda’s cry interrupted Laura’s peaceful musings. “Not much gets through these gloves, but that one’s a beaut. They’re a lot worse this year—cold winters make the bushes produce more thorns. Last year was about the worst we’ve ever had—some bushes just went all to thorns.” Glenda looked at her watch. “Teatime. Care for a cuppa?”

“I’d love it.” The time in the rose garden had been so calming. Laura didn’t want to recall that she had been too upset to eat her lunch.

They went to a long glass greenhouse just beyond the public gardens, but thoroughly secluded from public view by a screen of trees and bushes. “I had no idea this was here.”