Pushing Up Daisies

CHAPTER 19

The extra manpower had put us way ahead of schedule. I took the opportunity to get back to the quiet, anti -social side of gardening that I loved. Just a girl and her trowel.

My tiny bud get for Halcyon was long gone, spent on things Richard Stapley and I couldn’t beg or borrow. One of the society’s members was the own er of a chain of seafood restaurants, so we scored two truckloads of free oyster shells and clamshells to line the garden’s paths. In this light, the mother- of- pearl paths glistened against the rich brown of the newly turned beds like the bleached bones of a skeleton.

Richard had been feeding me weekly updates on ticket sales, and the numbers were strong. Our little wine and cheese party had blossomed into a full- fledged social event, at least by Fairfield County standards. Once I knew tickets were selling, I’d ordered the more expensive trees, shrubs, and perennials and, with Richard’s approval, had the bills sent directly to him.

Three nurseries provided the plants-Lee’s for shrubs and woody ornamentals, Gilbertie’s for herbs, and Guido’s for annuals. Guido wasn’t thrilled he wasn’t getting more of the business, but even he had to admit Lee’s had the best shrubs; and Gilbertie’s had been around so long, they may have provided Dorothy with her original herbs.

The herb garden occupied the same amount of space as the white garden but at the opposite end of the allйe. In each corner of the large square was a triangular bed that probably had held taller perennial herbs like yarrow and bee balm. A round central garden, with a raised bed, was surrounded by four curved beds with spaces in between so Dorothy could tend and harvest the herbs. Again, the paths were covered with crushed shells, and they evoked the sea and fresh herbs, even though most of the vegetation was long gone.

My plan was to install Halcyon’s herb garden last; that way it wouldn’t be damaged by any late spring frosts. The newspaper photos weren’t much help, but, judging from the vintage Comstock, Ferre seed packets I’d found in the green house, the sisters had made some eclectic choices.

Neil MacLeod, my massage therapist and Dorothy’s erstwhile student, agreed to work on the garden with me, so I was relying on him to fill in the missing pieces.

According to the copper plant markers I’d found and scraped clean, the most common herbs were all represented, but so were pennyroyal, feverfew, tansy, rue, and others I assumed were either fashionable in the thirties and forties or were personal favorites of the sisters’. The lavender and oregano still flourished; once the dead foliage was cut back, they’d fill in. Wisely, the mint and lemon balm were in concrete containers, to control their aggressive roots; tiny clusters of lady’s mantle peeked out in the newly cleaned beds.

Everything else had to be replaced. No problem, though; my list didn’t raise an eyebrow at Gilbertie’s. They had everything, even the hard- to- find ones, like the borage Neil had been looking for.

In the interest of saving a few bucks, and getting to use the newly cleaned green house, I’d started a few plants from seed. I don’t usually, because, as it’s been noted, I’m not that patient, but basil, nasturtium, sage, and parsley are so easy, it’s just plain lazy not to do it. If the seedlings survived, I’d transplant them when they hardened off. Flats of herbs from Gilbertie’s would form the bulk of the garden, and they filled the largest of the tables in the green house.

Since my unintended nap there, I’d learned the greenhouse was an Amdega, the Rolls- Royce of green houses and conservatories. I’d seen one on top of a building on Sutton Place on the East Side of Manhattan-and supposedly Queen Elizabeth had one-so I was doubly glad I hadn’t smashed any glass to get out that night. Hugo had fixed the latch on the door, but I nudged a broken concrete planter between the door and the jamb, just to be on the safe side.

Everything looked healthy, and the nasturtiums had shot up another two inches. I was thinning out the crowded basil seedlings with a pair of cuticle scissors when I heard a tap on the glass.

“Anybody home?” It was Stapley.

“Richard, in here.” He seemed in a fine mood, looser than I’d ever seen him.

“I thought I’d stop by to deliver the news in person. As of today, ticket sales have put us in the black.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. I offered him a seat on an upturned whiskey barrel Hugo had brought to the greenhouse to use as a step stool.

“It was slow going at first, but I called in some markers,” he bragged, trying to get comfortable yet still maintain his dignity on the uneven surface of the barrel.

With the raffle items and silent auction, SHS would cover its costs, pay me, and maybe even deliver the bonus that Richard dangled but didn’t promise when we made our handshake deal. I gently reminded him of it.

“I guess I shouldn’t have told you the good news,” he joked. “We’re not there yet. We’ll see what happens the night of the party.” I knew he still had hopes of prying checks out of some guests at the event.

I gave him a quick status report on the garden, and saw his eyes start to glaze over. Good, you raise the money, and I’ll handle the garden. I preferred that arrangement to one where the client was constantly second- guessing my decisions. He listened politely, but his mind was elsewhere, and I wasn’t surprised when he rode off, presumably to share his good news with Margery.

Now I was in a good mood, too. Not only did I have a realistic shot at the bonus, but if the restoration came off as planned, Lucy’s idea of a Garden Channel feature might not be that crazy. I still had connections. I’d documented and photographed all of the major improvements. Why not? There were plenty of stupider things on television. That was the fantasy I was indulging when I heard another tap on the glass. I thought Richard had forgotten to tell me something, but it wasn’t him.

Felix Ontivares toed the concrete planter away from the door and closed it behind him. Instead of his usual work clothes he wore jeans and a gray V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt. He smelled delicious-a little sweat, a little Armani. He walked toward me slowly, finally backing me up against the edge of one of the empty potting tables. Without uttering a word, he bent down and gently slipped his tongue into my mouth. Whatever I was holding fell out of my hands, and I wrapped my arms around him, sliding my hands up and down the muscles I’d been eyeing for weeks.

His mouth still on mine, he reached behind me and lifted me onto the table. Then he peeled off his sweater to make a pillow.

“Someone might come,” I said, breathless.

His lips brushed my ear as he whispered, “Espero que asi sea. I certainly hope so.”

Felix’s hands were on my waist, rolling up my thin T-shirt and stopping only to unhook my bra.

“Wait a minute. I can’t do this.”

“Afraid I’ll accuse you of sexual harassment?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t start sleeping with-”

“The help?” He laughed. “What if you don’t pay me? Am I still the help? Or is it something else?”

“Of course not.”

He searched my face to make sure I was serious. Then he rolled down my T-shirt. “Estб bien, maestra.” He gave me a fake salute and left me in the suddenly chilly green house.