“Probably, but these roses are as good as dead if you start messing around with pesticides. Just call a professional. I’ll pay for it as long as–”
“I know the perfect person!” I interject, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before! Didn’t I just meet a knowledgeable, well-qualified rosarian the other day? And didn’t I tell Cicero that we would see the very handsome Mr. Brody Wyatt again if the Fates wanted us to? Now here we are just a few days later and my grandmother’s roses are ailing, which gives me a valid reason to call Brody. It’s kismet! Those Fates are such ‘shippers!
“Great. But we’re not hiring this person before getting references and a detailed price quote, including labor, supplies, and all inciden–”
The sounds of a fork clattering to the ground and the splashing of liquid draw our attention across the yard, where my rascally dog can be seen, feasting on my quiche, which he’s managed to knock off the table, along with both cups of lemonade that have spilled their contents all over his head. “Cicero!” I admonish, but I can’t help but laugh at the sight of him, dripping wet, with a big slice of lemon perched between his ears.
“That dog really needs obedience school,” Sloane mutters, pulling her plate closer as if she needs to protect it from my little chowhound.
Chapter 10
(Willa)
I almost miss my stop because I’ve got my face buried in my phone, reading the latest e-mail from my mother. Fortunately, the bus driver knows I always get off at California and 22nd, so he gives me a shout.
“You’re the best, Carl,” I say breathlessly as I rush off the bus. “I’ll bring you a batch of those Butterfinger blondies you like next week.”
When I’m standing safely on the curb, Carl gives me a smile and a two-fingered salute, then pulls on the metal lever that closes the bus door. I scurry away to avoid being caught in the cloud of exhaust fumes the vehicle leaves behind. Knowing I could make the two-block walk home with my eyes closed, I return my gaze to my mother’s message, which I had to stop reading at an especially good part. It seems she’s met a handsome piastrellista – that’s a master craftsman whose specialty is making and laying tiles. Yeah, I didn’t know that either. I should probably explain that my mother is two weeks into a three-month stay in southern Italy. She and some of her Santa Fe friends decided to go on an artists’ retreat to a place called “Palazzo Luchesi,” which is this gorgeous historical property nestled on a hilltop, overlooking vineyards, where creative types congregate for workshops, open studio days, exhibitions, etcetera. Mom has been loving every minute of it, and I’m thrilled she’s enjoying herself and getting to do what makes her happiest, which is paint. The only downside to her being off on this adventure is that I miss being able to pick up the phone and talk to her whenever I want. When she’s home in New Mexico, we chat several times a day and e-mail each other constantly, which drives Sloane nuts. She says the two of us are “codependent.”
So not true. Okay, maybe a little bit true. But we can’t all be islands unto ourselves like my self-sufficient sister. Anyway, there’s no Wi-Fi or cell phone reception at the palazzo, so I only get to hear from Mom when she travels into one of the bigger cities for supplies and can dash off an e-mail. This works out better than her trying to reach me by phone since there’s a nine (or is it ten?) hour time difference.
Okay, so the piastrellista’s name is Nico. Ooooo, I like that! Sounds so strong and masculine, also a little mysterious. Mom says he’s very talented and committed to his craft, so they have a lot in common. Perfect! They’ve gone on a few outings together – to a festival in the nearby village, where they had fun doing some folk dancing, and on a picnic in the countryside. SIGH So romantic . . . Oh, she’s attached a picture! I’m about to click on it when I sense physical discomfort. “Desi!” I lower my phone and see the elderly Chihuahua and his owner, Colleen, approaching. They live one street up from me on 23rd, and Desi is a close friend of Cicero’s. The two of them bonded over their mutual love of chasing squirrels several years ago.
Hurrying up to the pair, I make a sad face and say, “The bladder stones are back. I’m so sorry.” I squat down on my haunches so that I can pet the sick doggy.
“Yeah, but the vet says it’s not as bad as last time, so he probably won’t need surgery,” Colleen tells me.
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it, Desi? You just have to drink lots of water and eat your special food.”
“He hates it. I think that’s why the problem came back, because he keeps turning his nose up at the prescription kibble.”
“Hmmmm . . . What can we do to get you to eat that kibble, Desi? And don’t say ‘add meat,’ because you’re supposed to be on a low protein diet. Uh huh, yes, okay . . .” I nod my head. “I think that’ll work.” Lifting my eyes to Colleen, I suggest, “Cut up some tiny pieces of banana and mix those in with the kibble.”
“That’s a great idea!” she exclaims. “I’d forgotten how much Desi likes bananas.”
I rise to my feet. “Check with your vet first, but I think a little potassium should be okay in his condition.”
“Thank you so much, Willa.” She gives me a hug. “We’ll have to arrange a play date for the boys as soon as Desi’s feeling better.”
“Any time.” I wave goodbye as they walk off. Back to the budding romance on my phone . . .
I open the photo my mother sent and blurt out the words, “Holy smokes!” when I see her new man. What a hunk! And I think he might be younger than my mom, judging by his super fit physique and lack of gray hair. I scroll back up to her message to see if she mentions his age . . . thirty-nine? Wow! You go, Valerie! She’s fifty-one, but doesn’t look a day over forty. So, I bet people don’t even think there’s an age difference when they see her and Nico together. He’s got a lovely smile, and it warms my heart to see him looking at my mother with such tenderness and affection. SIGH At least things are going well in the love life of one woman in our family. Now if some of my mother’s good romantic fortune would trickle down to me . . .
I’ve reached my apartment building, so I put away my phone and let myself in the outer door. I stop to check the mail at the bank of gold boxes in the entryway, but there’s nothing in the box for Unit #2. So, I proceed to my apartment, which is located at the far end of the ground floor. Best unit in the building if you ask me, because we can walk out our back door right into a very pretty communal garden, which is mostly comprised of potted plants set out by the other tenants in the building. My favorite feature of this green space is the charming, little fountain that sits in its center. Cicero and I like to chill out there and listen to the soothing sounds of the flowing water when the weather’s nice.
“Hello, sweet boy.” I bend over to pet my canine greeter, who meets me at the front door with his tail wagging. I’ve only been gone a few hours, but he is bursting with news. The UPS man delivered a package, and my roommate is hard at work on a new project in the dining room, where he’s made a big mess. Tommy, that is, not Cicero. My well-trained dog never has accidents in the house. At least none that I know of anyway.
“I’m home,” I call out.
“Did you get the mail?” Tommy yells back.
“Not here yet,” I respond as I follow Cicero down the narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen, his nails tapping out a staccato tune on the white-and-black diamond tile.
I can sense that Cicero’s feeling a bit peckish, so I toss my purse on the scratched-up laminate countertop and go straight for the Snoopy cookie jar when we reach the kitchen. Scooping out a dogranola treat, I toss it to my faithful companion who catches it mid-air.
“How’d it go?” Tommy asks from his seat in the little nook off to the side. The white butcher block table we normally eat at it is covered with all manner of craft-making supplies, as well as strange odds and ends like yogurt containers, back issues of fashion magazines, and what are those? Circuit boards?
“Fine. I got Meow-Meow to
come out of the closet and end his hunger strike. There was nothing wrong with him other than he hates his name.”
“Well, who can blame him?” Tommy gazes up at me, with a hot glue gun in his hand.
“Meow-Meow’s a ridiculous name. Did you convince his owner to change it?”
“I mediated a very heated debate on alternate names for over an hour. The final verdict was Ambrose, which seemed a bit pretentious–”
“Says the woman who named her dog after a philosopher in Ancient Rome,” Tommy deadpans.
I stick my tongue out at him, and we both chuckle. Taking a seat in the spindle chair opposite my roomie, I say, “What’s going on here?” and point at the clutter on the table.
“This is my new business – Eco-cessories, or maybe Green Gear. I haven’t decided on a name yet, but I’m going to be creating and selling accessories made from recycled products.”
“Sounds like a winner!” I enthuse. Tommy really is very clever. He’s always coming up with new and exciting career avenues to venture down. “But what about the Juicetopia franchise you wanted to open? Can you do that along with the accessories?”
Tommy grimaces and sets the glue gun down. “I am so over the juicing thing. That bitch, Marigold, shot down every idea I had, no matter how fabulous it was. Why not add cocoa to some of the juices? Chocolate makes everything taste better and most of those juices taste like dirt, so there was definitely room for improvement. The woman has no vision. I felt so stifled in that place; it was like being in prison – an organic, hemp-reeking prison. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Marigold, ‘Peace out,’ when I went in for my shift this morning.”
My eyes widen with shock. “You quit?”
He scratches the stubble on his head. Normally, he has an unruly mop of dark, curly hair, which he refers to as his “Puerto Rican ‘fro,” but he decided to shave it all off a few weeks ago, saying he wanted a new look for the summer. He touches his almost-hairless noggin constantly now. I’m thinking he might have some variation of that phantom limb syndrome – lost locks disorder?
“Hell, yeah, I quit. I’m better off going the entrepreneurial route anyway. There’s big money to be made with these green accessories. I can feel it. Look at this magazine subscription card bracelet.” He hands me a woven, multi-color cuff bracelet. “It’s dope, right?”
“Wow,” I marvel at the intricate design. “A lot of work must have gone into this.” I slide the cuff on and hold my arm out, admiring it. “I would totally buy this bracelet if I saw it in a store.”
“Of course you would, and so would any woman who’s got style. I’m going to be selling these in boutiques all over town. Sasha said she could get my stuff into that funky shop she works at in The Haight, and that’s just the beginning!”
“Sasha?” That name doesn’t sound familiar.
“Yeah, you know, she’s the stepsister of my ex, Emile. She had that little pill-popping prob a few years back, but she’s clean now, well since she got out of rehab in March. She’s like the second assistant manager at The Paisley Peacock, so she can hook me up. I just need to put together enough pieces to fill up a display.”
“Great! Is there anything I can do to help? I’m free for the rest of the afternoon. What are you going to do with those circuit boards?”
“Those are for my men’s line – cufflinks, money clips, business card cases. All the computer geeks and tech execs around here will love ‘em. I can work on those while you make earrings out of these Yoplait containers. You were never going to eat the apricot mango you had in the fridge, right? They’ve been in there forever, so I figured you didn’t like the flavor and the little fruit design on these is such a fun color. It’ll look uh-mazing on a dangly earring.”
I just brought the apricot mango yogurt home a few days ago, but that’s okay. There’s always more at the grocery store. I give him a smile. “I’m sure it will. Show me what you want me to do.”
“Let me grab a juice first.” He rises up out of his chair. “You thirsty?”
“Not so much, but I’d love an apple.”
“Your wish is my command.” Tommy snatches a McIntosh from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and gently lobs it at me.
I’m happily munching on my makeshift lunch when I hear the muffled sound of my cell phone ringing in my purse. “Would you grab that?” I ask Tommy with a mouthful of apple. “Could be a client.” Some juice dribbles down on to my chin and I have to wipe it away with my hand since I don’t have a napkin.
He pulls the cell out of my purse and checks the Caller ID. “Brody Wyatt? Wasn’t he the cute flower guy you met in the green room at Daybreak?”
I nod and hold out my hand.
“Get it, girl.” Tommy gives me a saucy wink as he passes off the phone.
I can feel my cheeks heat up. “I’m not getting anything. He’s returning my call about a professional matter.”
“Uh huh, then why are you fussing with your hair? You know that’s just a cell phone, not Skype, right?”
“Shush,” I tell him, embarrassed that I’d been primping without realizing it, and answer the phone. “Hi, Brody!” Yikes, too perky. Take it down a notch, Willa.
“Hey, I got your message. You said you wanted to discuss a job with me?”
Straight to business then. Would have been nice if he started off with, “How are you?” or “It was such a nice surprise to hear from you,” but I guess he’s not one for pleasantries. “Yes, I’ve got a situation with the roses at my family home. It’s my grandmother’s garden. I’m afraid it hasn’t been receiving the proper care this past year, and the roses are looking sickly.”
“Sickly in what way? Black spots? Downy mildew? Deformed growths?”
Ew, who knew that so many things could go wrong with roses? “Uh, well, there’s some white webby stuff on the leaves and the petals are falling off. The roses just don’t look like their normal, pretty selves.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a variety of problems going on. How many bushes do you have and how old are they?”
“I’m not sure how many. Maybe ten or twelve. They weren’t all planted at the same time. I think the oldest would be forty or so.”
“Forty?” His voice rises with excitement. “Those are some mature bushes with a lot of history then. They need to be saved.”
“That’s what I told my sister!” I knew that Brody would feel as passionately about this as I do. “Those roses have meant so much to my family. We can’t just give up on them. Do you think you can help?”
“Absolutely. I can’t wait to get my hands on them.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. You are an absolute lifesaver, or I guess rose-saver would be more accurate. I’m sure you have a really busy schedule with that charity event at the Berkeley Rose Garden coming up, plus all your personal clients . . .”
“It’s okay. I just finished a job and I do the Berkeley work in my spare time. When can I see the patients?”
“Huh?”
“The roses that are ailing?”
“Oh, right.” I laugh self-consciously. “Well, as I said, they’re at my family home, which is a Victorian in Lower Pac. My sister lives there, but I don’t. I’m in Central Richmond. I have a cute, little apartment over here that Cicero and I share with Tommy – he’s my roommate, my gay roommate.” I glance over at said roomie and see that he’s shaking his head. “TMI,” he silently mouths. YIKES He’s right. Why am I telling Brody all this? He doesn’t need to know where I live. The job is at the house on Pine Street. Focus, Willa.
“Anyway, you’ll have to meet with Sloane. And I hope you’re not offended by this, but . . . she asked that you do an evaluation of the garden, then give her some kind of proposal, detailing what needs to be done and what it’s going to cost.”
“Of course, that’s fine. Your sister is smart to ask for a written estimate upfront. There are plenty of unscrupulous people out there who would try to bilk a clien
t by overcharging or billing for labor and supplies that aren’t necessary. I’ll be sure to do a very clear-cut itemization for . . . what was your sister’s name again?”
“Sloane. Same last name as me, Tobin. She’s a forensic accountant, works at Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister downtown, in the Financial District. You know that big building on Main Street that’s really modern-looking with all the green glass?”
“Mmmmmm, not really. My work doesn’t take me to a lot of skyscrapers.”
Tommy’s shaking his head again. Why is he shaking his head? I was babbling, wasn’t I? Brody hasn’t even met Sloane. Why would he care about the design of her office building?
“Doesn’t matter. The point is that Sloane has a very demanding job and a busy schedule to go with it, so she’ll have to meet you first thing in the morning before she goes to work.”
“No problem. I’m an early riser. How about seven on Monday?”
“I’m sure that’ll be okay, but let me confirm it with her. Then, I’ll text you the address.”
“Works for me.”
“Again, thank you so much for doing this. I know that my grandmother’s little garden pales in comparison to the ones you normally work on at estates and horticulture centers and it’s certainly not as exciting as designing and assembling floats at the Tournament of Roses Parade–”
“I don’t remember us discussing all that when we met.”
“Um, well, you mentioned some of your credentials in your segment on Daybreak and . . . I took a quick look around your website, so I’d have some info about you and your work in case Sloane had any questions.” Nothing wrong with a little cyberstalking.
“Good to know that someone’s checking out the site. I should probably update it with some new pics. It’s been a while.”
“The photos on your site were great! Nice to be able to see all those beautiful visuals of your work. Have you ever thought about having a tips section? You know, so that you could share some of your expertise with amateur gardeners.”
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