The Bluebonnet Betrayal (5 page)

“International Gardening: Label the native country for each of these plants—lantana, crape myrtle, possumhaw, scaevola. Extra points will be awarded for the botanical name of each.”

Quiz Time at the monthly meeting of the Austin Rock Garden Society

By some miracle—and the concentrated efforts of Chiv, Teddy, and Pru—they managed to put in the liner for the water reservoir, which stretched seven feet across and two feet deep. It would hold more than seven hundred gallons of water—Pru had had to convert from the metric to reach a volume she understood. They installed the pump to draw up the water and buried the cord leading to the power source at the back of the garden. After that, Chiv, as if in a world of his own, occupied himself with setting the stones in place, stacking them up into a cairn, to hide the bubbler in the center. When he finished, the rocks looked as if they'd been there for eons and it took no stretch of the imagination for Pru to visualize the water gurgling out as if it were truly a natural spring.

They secured the grille over the reservoir and took to setting flat stones along the edges to hide the liner, but hadn't finished by lunch. When they left for the exhibitors' marquee, Chiv stayed behind, fiddling with what they'd done, changing out this rock and shifting that one a few inches one way or another.

When they returned, he was on the phone, and stayed that way the rest of the afternoon. He had hired out the collection and delivery of the plants, because he couldn't spare Iris and Teddy for the many journeys to and from Hereford it would take—a six-hour round-trip. But the small company that worked out of Leominster had abruptly gone out of business, and its two lorries had been repossessed by the bank.

Pru could hear the desperation in Chiv's voice as he tried to find someone to bring their plants up to London. It couldn't be just anyone—this wasn't like moving furniture where you could shove the dresser and mattress into the back and slam the gate shut. Transporting plants to the show occurred at their most delicate stage. The wildflowers would be on the brink of bloom. The flats had to be handled delicately and set out as they had been grown—next to one another so that they would look like a wildflower meadow, not lines of black plastic pots on a nursery table. But without any vehicle to transport the plants, the distance in miles between the Chelsea Flower Show grounds and Hereford where their plants—arbutus and all—filled greenhouse upon greenhouse at A. Chiverton Gardens may as well have been to the moon and back.

It made their morning accomplishments shrink in significance—what did it matter if they installed the hill country spring if no plants would surround it? Once again, Pru's duties were distilled into worrying about plants, stones, rain, and mud, along with dogging KayAnn and Nell, who seemed to be keeping some secret vigil, as well as Sweetie, drawn to the Australian garden like a yellow jacket to overripe peaches.

“I'll go get her,” Ivory said, setting a large flat stone on the ground with a grunt. “It's just that she's fragile right now—her divorce was final a couple of days before we left home. Her husband walked out on her last year and straight into the arms of some young thing—they'd been married twenty-five years. It's really bruised her emotionally. I think she just needs to prove to herself she's still got it. You know?”

Pru felt for Sweetie, but was buildup to the Chelsea Flower Show really the time or place to work out your personal issues? Ivory was able to extricate her, and Sweetie was in a bad temper the rest of the afternoon.

When Chiv dismissed them with a jerk of his head at the end of the day, the garden couldn't empty out fast enough. Chiv stayed behind to brood about his wall, and Iris and Teddy took the Bull Ring gate—they'd driven that day, and parked their minivan along the Embankment. Pru followed the ARGS women to the London gate, where she waved goodbye to them as they turned left toward Lamont Road. After a stop at their Chelsea digs, they were off to the theater. Roddy was long gone, of course, and Forde, subdued after a sharp word from Chiv when Forde had bumped into a cache of wall stones, had left early, too.

Pru dragged herself halfway up Lower Sloane Street toward the Tube station, her steps getting slower and slower even though she had changed out of her heavy steel-toed boots. She came to a stop at a corner, reluctant to go farther, weary in spirit and body. With each step away from the garden, she wondered if she would have the energy to make it back in the morning. A quiet lane took off to the left, and Pru impulsively followed it a short way down to where a mews led to a few converted flats and a pub with a swinging signboard that read:
THE CADOGAN ARMS
. A half pint—just what she needed.

It was a pub that time and the rest of the upscale neighborhood had forgotten—a narrow, dark room painted red with a leather Chesterfield sofa along a long wall opposite the bar. At the back, a fireplace with two chairs and a low table, and in each corner, wooden settles with high backs. Although smoking had been banned years ago, there was still a hint of stale tobacco in the air.

There were two old fellows at one settle, hunkered over their pints, and a tall, broad-shouldered man at the bar squinting at her. It was Skippy from the Aussie garden next door.

“Owyargone,” he said, looking down on Pru with a smile.

Pru hadn't a clue what he'd said, but decided it must be some sort of greeting. She took the Chiv approach to conversation and lifted her eyebrows as a response. “You've found a good spot here,” she said to Skippy after she'd ordered a half of Bombardier and a packet of crisps.

“Yeah, a great little out-of-the-way place. No one knows about it.” He took a gulp of his lager. “Almost no one.”

Up till that moment, Pru had seen Skippy only from a distance. Now, close up, she could tell the Aussie must be in his late forties, with a rugged face, one of those men who oozed a strong magnetism. She pictured Sweetie tucking that strand of hair behind her ear as she looked up at this slightly younger, hunk of a fellow.
Careful, Sweetie.

The door opened and Skippy looked past her. “Waiting for someone?” Pru asked.

His eyes moved back to her. “How's that Texas garden of yours?”

She shrugged. “And yours? That's quite a mountain you're building.”

“Would you like to see it from up top? It's no trouble—I could be your escort. What d'ya say?” He edged forward. She saw a twinkle in his eye as if he considered the whole world a bit of a laugh.

“No, thanks,” Pru said. She tore open her packet of crisps and stuffed a few in her mouth. “So, what's the plant palette in your garden?”

Skippy grinned and backed off, launching into a description of the Aussies' “Welcome to Oz.” Pru could follow little of it. Australian accents had a delightful cadence, but one that rendered them almost unintelligible to her. And the vowels—she expected them to go one way and instead they went off in an entirely different direction. At the end of it all, Skippy bought Pru her next half and another packet of crisps, and asked about Texas.

If anyone could understand the vast differences in the Texas landscape it would be an Aussie, whose homeland was even more vast. Pru explained the Gulf Coast of the south, the greenness of east Texas, and the arid, empty west and how the hill country sat in the middle, a beautiful compromise.

“Perhaps I'll see Texas one day,” he said.

Perhaps that was just what Sweetie needed, to take gorgeous Skippy back to Austin with her, introduce him to her ex.

The second bag of crisps was empty but for crumbs and she'd reached the bottom of the glass. Pru said good evening to Skippy and stepped out, surprised for a moment to find it still daylight. She continued her interrupted journey to the Underground station, but stopped outside the entrance at a flower cart, where a middle-aged man was buying a bouquet—pink columbine, purple iris, and white bellflowers. Spring flowers—just the sight of them made Pru's eyes sting as she thought about what the ARGS spring garden should be for Chelsea. Why couldn't they make that happen—what did they need Twyla Woodford for?

She reversed her journey and marched back down Lower Sloane Street, arriving at the hospital grounds less than two hours after she'd left. She pulled her high-visibility vest back on to get through security at the gate. Past seven o'clock now, but work continued at one or two of the sites—daylight grew longer each day. Some crews took advantage of that, working until the grounds closed at eight, and even longer if they could manage it—those that had hopes of building a respectable garden at Chelsea.

As she strode down Main Avenue toward the Rock Garden Bank, she could see a figure in an ARGS blue sweatshirt picking its way round the site, bending over to touch a mound of stones. She thought it might be Chiv. Hadn't he stayed late? As Pru neared the site, the sun dipped below a cloud, and light struck the figure as it reached up and pulled back its hood. Out tumbled a blond ponytail, a faded blond, mixed with gray.
We are all of us mixed with gray,
Pru thought.

The woman turned to her.

Her eyes were set at a slight angle so that the corners drooped, giving her a sad look. But then she smiled, and her face lit up.

“Hey, Pru,” she said.

“Twyla?”

“Partner up! In two weeks, we'll be cleaning up trash along our adopted highway southwest of town, and as KayAnn and Nell have learned, it's best to work in pairs. Just let Ivory know who your other half will be.”

Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

“Ta-da,” Twyla said, holding up her hands in presentation. “Thought I'd never get here, didn't you?”

“No,” Pru said, “I didn't think that. Of course not.” Twyla cocked her head, and Pru laughed. “Well, yes, okay—I was beginning to worry. Ivory said you were busy. It's lovely to meet you,” she added.

Twyla pulled the elastic band off her ponytail, combed her fingers through her hair, and secured it again with the band. “I'm sorry I was delayed. And once I did get here, I had to clear my head, reconnect to the place.” Twyla's smile broadened as she looked beyond the display site and around the entire show grounds. “Can you believe that we're doing this—capturing that moment in spring when the roadsides of Texas are the color of the sky—the color of the lakes? And putting them on display here, of all places?”

Pru nodded, entranced. “It is amazing. How did it happen? How did you get a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show?”

Twyla sat on a stack of Chiv's stones. “It took me a while. The society—well, they weren't the easiest sell. But I told them this, here”—she pointed to the earth below her feet—“was the only place to be for gardening.”

“You've spent time in England?”

“I lived here for a couple of years. It was ages ago—and I couldn't stay. Family needed me—my crazy sister and my daddy both. I tried to take a bit of Britain back to Texas with me.” She laughed and shook her head. “That didn't work out. But this place is in my bones—I feel like I belong here.”

“Oh yes,” Pru said. Clouds had thickened, sending a heavy mist upon them. Tiny beads of moisture settled on their sweatshirts. Pru thought she should go to the shed and get out her waterproofs, but she didn't want to spoil the moment, and so pulled up her hood and stuck her hands deep in her pockets as she settled on another pile of stones nearby. She and Twyla fell into chatting about Texas and England.

After a while, Twyla said, “I knew you'd understand. Your mother was English.”

“Yes. You must've heard that from…who was it told Ivory about me?”

“I told her,” Twyla said. “I've always kept up with the news here. I read all the papers online—
The Guardian,
the
Independent,
The Telegraph,
The
Scotsman
—even the
Daily Mail,
” she added in a whisper, and they both laughed.

But Pru's laughter dried up. “So you'd read about me?”

Twyla narrowed her eyes at her. “Yes, I did read about you—the important stuff. I knew where you came from and I could tell how much you love it here. I know you're a fine gardener. And it came to me that you were the one we needed—boots on the ground. It's weird, isn't it—here we are meeting for the first time, but I feel like I've known you forever.”

Pru had been poised to dislike Twyla, now suddenly she felt a kinship.

“Have you seen the others yet?” Pru asked.

The sun sank behind the top of the plane trees on the far side of the grounds, and light faded, but not so much that Pru didn't see the excitement drain from Twyla's face. She shook her head.

Pru smiled. “Everyone will be happy to see you.”

“Not everyone.” Twyla frowned. She rubbed her forehead. “I'm so sorry about all this, but it isn't enough to wait around for someone else to do what's right. Sometimes
we
are the ones that have to do it.”

“You're right—no more waiting,” Pru said with a renewed sense of purpose now that she could relinquish some responsibility. She unclipped her hair, combed through, and reclipped. “You're here now. We'll get the garden finished.”

They both looked round at the bare ground and pallets of stone. “I know they think I'm a tyrant,” Twyla said, “but I can't help it. I could see this—it was my dream. But I couldn't do it alone, could I? I had to ask for help…That hasn't turned out as I'd hoped,” she added sadly.

“Are you a professional gardener?”

Twyla blushed. “I've been studying at the local junior college for the past few years—in the summer when school was out.”

“Yes, now I remember—you teach high school chemistry.”

“Taught,” Twyla said. “For twenty years all total. It's enough to drive a sane woman batty. My ex-husband said that every September I used to recite the periodic table in my sleep.”

“You must be a good teacher—Forde spoke highly of you.”

“Ah, Forde,” Twyla said, sighing. “Every once in a while, in a sea of juniors who see you as a ticket machine, spitting out science credits toward graduation, there'll be one standout, one kid who gets it. You never know what that one might do. I had a girl who's gone on to become head of R&D for a big drug company, working on a treatment for liver cancer.”

“And now Forde, developing a process to take the world of energy by storm,” Pru said.

Twyla looked into the distance. After a moment, she said, “Seven years ago, when Forde sat down in my class, his very presence reminded me of what I'd left behind. It was like he was England personified, right in the front row. I've been working to get back here ever since.”

They were quiet, until Pru had added up what she knew.

“Is this your design?”

Twyla looked round them. “Do you think it works?”

“I think it's fantastic.”

“The hill country is an important place,” Twyla said, laying one hand on a flat stone. “I've been reminded of that more than once. This is our heritage—our bluebonnets. We can't let anyone take that away from us.”

“But if it's your design, why is Roddy's name on it?”

“Well, that's it, isn't it? It's Roddy's name. I needed him for that. Although I forgot how grabby he can be.”

“So you do know him—and Chiv?”

“Chiv,” Twyla said, in a voice so intimate that Pru blushed. “You'd never suspect the depth of him at first glance, but when you get to know him…well. And he can work with stone like no one's business. Look at that now.” She nodded to the cairn that covered the source of the spring. “He's a sorcerer with rock and stone. And he's a good teacher. Chiv's good at just about anything he sets his mind to—although he isn't appreciated for it.”

Pru continued to put the pieces together. “Was Forde the one who got this company—GlobalSynergy—to sponsor the garden?”

Twyla laughed. “I had help there, too—calling in my chits, I suppose. And now I'm about to blow it all sky high.” She stood and brushed the mist from her sweatshirt. “Look, Pru, I can't tell you how grateful I am that you could step in at the last minute.”

That sounds like a dismissal,
Pru thought. She had known all along her role was temporary, and being relieved of the pressure was the very thing for which she'd been longing. And yet, unexpectedly, a sense of disappointment welled up inside her.

“I hope you won't leave,” Twyla continued, “because I still need you. They're going to blame me when this comes out, and I need you on my side.”

“You need to get the credit due you,” Pru said, “and I'm more than willing to stick around and make sure that happens. And of course I'd love to keep working at the garden—really, I'd planned on it.”

“I don't know if we'll be able to go on, and I'd hate to lose all this”—she looked round the site—“but it's got to come out. We cannot let this be in danger.” Twyla stuck her hands in the front pockets of her sweatshirt. “I knew we'd get along. I knew I could count on you.”

Pru was indignant on Twyla's behalf. No wonder Roddy showed up at the garden so seldom—it wasn't even his, and yet he would get the glory. Twyla deserved to be known for her work.

“I promise I'll do everything I can.”

Twyla put her hand to her chest and exhaled. “I know it sounds like I'm talking in circles— it's how my mind is working right now, I'm that tired. I'll explain it all to you tomorrow. I'll show you—meet me here first thing in the morning. It'll be safe till then.” She tapped a finger at her temple. “I figured out a way.”