The Devil's Interval (13 page)

“Did Grace know that's how her friends thought of her?”

Ginger laughed. “Absolutely. You know that old Carly Simon song, I can't even remember the name of it, but there's a line—‘clouds in my coffee?' She told me she used to sing it to Frederick.”

Over the din of voices we heard the tap, tap, tap on the mike.

“Hello? Testing?”

“Oh, oops, they're starting,” said Ginger. “I've got to go.”

She worked her way to the dais, and I watched Frederick Plummer reach a hand down and help her up to stand beside him. He lowered the podium microphone, so that it was at Ginger's height, and then stood back.

“Hello, everyone,” said Ginger. “Ladies and gentlemen. Gardeners and would-be gardeners, welcome! Thank you all for gathering on this spring morning for such a special occasion. My name is Ginger Brand, and I had the honor of chairing the
campaign to design and install this beautiful fountain.”

She stopped and gestured at the fountain, an abstract, bronze shape built in three levels. “Today, we're dedicating the fountain in memory of our friend, Grace Plummer. I look around the garden today, and I realize that thanks to Grace, I know the names of most of these beautiful plants. Before Grace, I knew roses—you know, the flowers your husband brings you when he's done something wrong—and the kinds of orchids we used to wear as corsages to proms. Now…” she gestured again, this time at the garden, “I look around and I see old friends—a
Vireya
rhododendron there, a lipstick plant or
aeschynanthus
as Grace taught me to call it—over there. That was one of Grace's gifts to me. She fell in love with this garden and wanted everyone she cared about to love it as well. She knew the language of gardening, and she taught me every Latin plant name I know.” Her voice was breaking. Frederick stepped close to her and put his hand on her shoulder. He whispered in her ear.

“Sorry, I knew this was going to be an emotional day,” she said. “Now, it's my pleasure to invite Frederick Plummer, Grace's husband, to dedicate the fountain. Frederick…” Frederick stepped to the fountain, plucked the rose from his blazer buttonhole, and tossed it into the top section of the fountain. Magically, the water began to bubble and cascade from the top bowl into the next basin down. A little ripple of satisfied “ooohs,” went through the crowd, and polite applause. “Thank you, Frederick,” said Ginger. “And thank all of you for enhancing the beauty of this garden in Grace's memory. Now, refreshments are ready inside, and any of you who feel an urge to be even more generous to help us endow the Cloud-Forest Garden,” she made a plucking motion with her right hand, “I'll be around to finish picking your pocket.”

“Charming, just charming,” said a low voice next to me. I turned to see Augustus Reeves III, arms folded, leaning against a garden wall. He was dressed a little better than when I'd first seen him in Ivory's bar, but still sporting a Giants cap. “Mr. Reeves, isn't it?” I asked.

“Gus,” he said. “Or Uncle Gus.” He touched his hand to the cap brim in a salute.

“What a coincidence to see you here.”

“Not really,” he said. “My daughter strong-armed me to come.”

“Your daughter?” I asked, confused, looking around.

He cocked his hand like a kid's toy gun and pointed at Ginger.

“Right there. That's my perfect little Ginger.”

“Oh,” I said, stunned into silence. I was having trouble connecting the elegant young woman with Uncle Gus, who looked like a longshoreman who'd stumbled into the wrong party.

“Can't match us up, huh?” He laughed.

“Well…” I faltered, “not exactly.”

“I'm very proud of her,” he said. “She could have been a spoiled little twit like…some of her friends. That's how her grandparents raised her.”

“Her grandparents?”

“Yeah. When her mother and I split up, Ginger was just a tyke. The grandparents—my wife's folks and mine, agreed to take her in 'til we figured out what we were going to do. So, old Gus II—that was my father—and my mom had her half the year, and my wife's folks had her the rest of the time. They all indulged the heck out of her—fancy schools, riding lessons, a coming-out party, and I don't mean out of the closet. Smith College, the whole WASPY shooting match. And look at her now.” We both watched Ginger greeting people near the podium, exchanging hugs and warm handshakes with people. She looked like an elegant young aunt of the bride, minus twenty years and yards of bad chiffon.

“I can see why you're proud of her,” I said.

“Not proud of much in my life,” he said. “But that girl turned out damn fine. She asks me to show up, I show up. Besides, I like to know the company she keeps. Rich people aren't always upstanding citizens, know what I mean?”

I didn't really, but I nodded. We were silent for a moment. “So, may I ask a personal question?”

“Shoot,” he said, “isn't that what reporters do?”

“They do,” I said, “though I'm not much of a reporter. I was just wondering about your relationship to Ivory. She's your … niece?”

“Now, that's a little creepy,” he said. “I live for the occasions when I can get that woman in the sack.”

Another surprise. Didn't see that one coming. “But she referred to you as Uncle Gus,” I persisted.

“Oh, that,” he said. “I'm so used to people calling me Uncle Gus that I never think about how peculiar it must sound to outsiders.”

“So, what's the deal?”

“Kinda long story. But the short version is that when I was in college, I lived with two other guys, both by the name of Gus.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That seems statistically improbable.”

“Sure does. But it happened. I was Gus for Augustus, just like my old man. There was a Swede from North Dakota named Gustav, Gus for short. And then there was this preppy guy from the Cape, name of George. You know the type, loafers with no socks and monogrammed shirts and shit. But none of that famous New England reserve. In fact, he talked so much, his nickname was Gusty, and so everyone called him…”

“Gus,” I chimed in.

“Right. So anyway, Gus the yapper and Gus the Swede were both big boozers and potheads, and I was always having to fish one or the other of 'em out of trouble. So, everyone took to calling me Uncle Gus, because I was the responsible one. Even worked as a volunteer fireman for our college town. Which is pretty ironic, when you think about it.”

“Enlighten me,” I said. “Why ironic?”

He shrugged, “Let's say that I got out of the responsibility habit pretty soon after college. Went to Vietnam, became an MP, which gave me an incurable case of disliking, distrusting, and disregarding any kind of institution and most people. Came home, got married, and Ginger was born. Turns out I couldn't even be a responsible, card-carrying parent. That's why her grandparents had
to raise her.”

“Where was her mom?”

“Gone, took a powder. Actually she got into a whole bunch of powder.” He sniffed and touched the side of his flattened nose. “Nose candy.”

As if on cue, his eyes filled and he dug in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and honked into it.

“Where is she now?”

“Ginger's mom? Dead. Too much crap in her system. Kidney failure or something. She looked like hell the last time I saw her, and that was when Ginger was six.”

“Tough situation,” I said.

“Yeah, tough all around,” he said. “So, since the grandparents had Ginger, I lit out myself. Did construction work in L.A., because you can work all year round, save up some bucks, then bum around 'til it runs out. I got pretty muscled up, so I used to get a fair amount of movie work, too. One rung up from an extra, enough lines every once in a while, so I got my SAG card. Mr. Man of a Thousand Faces, that was me. Right clothes, right wig, right attitude, I could be anything—a gladiator, a cowboy, a gangster. And when I came back to the Bay Area, I'd crash in Ivory's spare room, in her flat over the club.”

“And how'd you know Ivory?”

“She's George—Gusty's sister. And since everyone else called me Uncle Gus, that's what she called me, too.”

“And how long did you stay with Ivory?”

“Forever. I'm still there.” He looked at me and grinned. “Surprised again, huh? You don't think I'm her type.”

“I've given up predicting anybody's type,” I countered.

“Yeah, well, I'm in love with that woman. Always have been; always will be. She just tolerates having me around, but I've come in handy over the years. After her stroke, I took care of her, and she's going through a rough patch with all this crap around Travis and that spoiled broad he probably offed, so I think she's glad to have me around. Even if Travis and I were never best buddies. Guess he
thinks I'm not good enough for his mom. And he's probably right. But there I am, hard to get rid of. Plus, Travis knows Ivory can use a little extra folding green right now.”

So, more surprises. Uncle Gus as nursemaid
and
Daddy Warbucks.

“And now,” said Gus, “you're wondering where the money comes from.”

“Okay, a little.”

“I screwed around a lot in life, but I've got one of those peculiar magnetic brains. Once something goes in, it sticks. Know what I mean?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “You're talking to the girl who knows what
tête-à-bêche
means.”

“Head-to-ass. It's a thing in stamps, right?” he said promptly.

“I believe philatelists call it ‘head-to-tail,' but you're absolutely right.”

“Yeah, well, I usually am,” he said. “It's my only claim to fame, besides holding cards in SAG and the carpenter's union. Just like Harrison Ford, only better looking.”

“And modest,” I observed.

Gus continued, as if I'd never said a word. “So one of my L.A. pals dared me to go on
Jeopardy
one day.”

“And you did.”

“I did and I won a pile of money. Big pile of money. And Gusty, Ivory's brother, who gave up hash and went to business school and became some Wall Street smartass, invested it for me. I'm not stinking rich, but I've got way more than enough to live on. And to help pay Ivory's mortgage. And aid and abet that precious little club of hers.” He shook his head. “I know she's just tending those fires so Mr. Wonderful Travis has something to come home to.” He fell silent and gave me a sly look. “You must be good at this reporting shit you say you don't do. I just spilled my whole damn life story to a perfect stranger. And we're not even drinking.”

“We could be,” I said. “They're serving Lemon Drops inside.”

“Figures,” he said. “But Ginger told me they'd have a beer
tucked away for me. Too early for those fruity drinks.”

“That's thoughtful of her.”

Gus shook his head. “She takes better care of her old man than I ever took of her.”

“And that's why you're so vigilant now?”

“You bet your ass,” he said.

I caught up with Ginger over the baked brie. “Lovely speech,” I said. “Very moving.”

She surveyed me suspiciously. “Is that what you really thought?”

“It is,” I said, realizing I needed to take Ginger more seriously.

“It's not just the usual fundraising bullshit,” she said, taking a serious gulp of her Lemon Drop, and for a moment, sounding a good deal like her father. “This place really meant something to Grace, and she dragged me here, and I ended up being a big fan as well.”

“Will you stay involved?” I asked. “Now that the fountain is dedicated?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was telling the truth up at the mike. Grace got me hooked on this place, and on gardening. She always said that gardens kept you humble. You learn things, you study, you pay attention to plants, and sometimes they reward you, and sometimes they don't.”

“Just like kids,” I said.

“I wouldn't know,” said Ginger. “Bill and I are another one of those self-indulgent, childless-by-choice couples. Too busy having fun to have kids.”

The phrase sounded like she was quoting someone, and I wondered whose choice it was to be childless. I also wondered if Ginger would be as willing as her father to spill her story—whatever it was—to a near-perfect stranger. Too early to tell. I returned to safer ground.

“Do you have a garden at home?”

“Teeny-tiny,” she said. “We live in the City, so we have a brick patio with pots. Thanks to Grace, I only kill a fraction of what I
used to. And, I've fired our gardener and do the work myself.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I was chatting with your father after your remarks,” I added. “It sounds as if you and Grace had more in common than gardening.”

“Besides the fact that we're both spoiled little socialites?” she asked, arching one perfectly waxed and feathered brow.