by Клео Коул
Eleven
In person, Ellie Lassiter looked much the same as she had on her Web photo: the layered, shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, the freckled, fair skinned oval face. She’d been so slender in college, the little bit of weight she’d gained over the last twenty years looked good, giving her attractive curves, even beneath the Botanic Garden’s sexless green uniform of baggy slacks and zipper jacket.
“I almost forgot you went back to Cosi,” she said as she shook my hand. Her voice was still softly feminine, but the big, joyful smile I remembered was now tight and reserved. “I’d known you as Clare Allegro for so many years...”
I shrugged. “That’s all right. It’s apparently hard for my mother-in-law to remember, too. But then she has a selective memory.”
Ellie nodded. “My grandmother’s like that. Terribly forgetful when the subject’s irritating, but sharp as a pruning hook when she’s got an agenda.”
“Sounds like your granny and Matt’s mother have been playing croquet together.”
Madame might have made a barb of her own just then, if she’d been present, but she wasn’t. She’d already obtained a map from the Botanic Garden’s Visitor’s Center and set off on a trek of discovery through the fifty-two acre sanctuary.
I envied her. The October day was bright and warm, the foliage around us displaying vibrant colors—deep russet and bronzed gold, brilliant yellow and blazing orange. We’d parked in the Washington Avenue lot, and then followed a paved pathway onto the grounds. The smells of the Garden hit me immediately: damp leaves, late season blossoms, freshly turned dirt. (Funny, how you can actually miss the smell of dirt when your entire range of outdoorsy experience consistently runs from Manhattan sidewalk to Manhattan asphalt.)
We strolled past an herb garden with hundreds of varieties, from medicinal and culinary to ornamental. I picked up scents of sage and rosemary as we walked. There was fresh mint and basil, along with some wild pungent fragrances I couldn’t identify.
The Japanese Hill-and-Pond garden came next. A miniaturized landscape—Japanese maples dressed in bright vermillion and evergreen shrubs traditionally pruned into perfect cloud shapes—surrounded a manmade pool, alive with quacking ducks, turtles, koi, and elegant, slender-necked herons.
By then, Madame was hooked and so was I. But though I was dying to see (not to mention smell) the rest of the 10,000 plants from around the world, I had business. So while my former mother-in-law set out on a trek through the various little gardens within the larger one, I went to the administrationbuilding and set out on a quest for Ellie Shaw Lassiter.
Locating her wasn’t difficult. The receptionist in the administration building simply directed me to the Steinhardt Conservatory, a collection of immense greenhouses no more than a stone’s throw from the main plaza (not that I advocated throwing stones anywhere near those amazing glass buildings).
I found Ellie inside one of the warm, rather uncomfortably humid rooms of one structure. In the room next to us, I could see an amazing display of tiny, perfectly shaped trees. This was the Garden’s Bonsai Museum, the oldest collection of dwarfed, potted trees in the country.
In Ellie’s large, bright, transparent space, the display was much newer and closer to home—a collection of lush, green coffee plants in various stages of fruition. Some were flowering white, others were heavy with green, yellow, or red berries.
As I shrugged out of my jacket, I inhaled the wonderful, jasmine and bitter orange blossom scent of the white coffee flowers. It brought me back to one of the few business trips I’d taken with Matt—to the Kona district of Hawaii’s Big Island. The buying trip had doubled as our honeymoon. Our hotel room’s French doors opened to a view of the wild Pacific, and we’d made love so often during those two perfect weeks, I’d be hard pressed to guess a grand total.
“These coffee trees are beautiful,” I said.
Ellie’s reserved smile became warmer. “Thank you... although technically they’re shrubs.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s true, the Coffea plant is often called a ‘tree’ by people in the trade, but botanically it’s classified as a shrub, more precisely as a perennial evergreen dicogtyledon.”
“Right.”
She smiled. “That just means it’s a plant that’s always green and has two seeds per fruit body.”
She went on to explain that her month-long exhibit on the horticulture of coffee would officially open next week, in honor of the International Coffee Growers Exhibition. I could see she was proud of it.
“I’m just putting on the finishing touches... you see...”
Ellie took me to the center of the room where a diorama illustrated the origins of your average cuppa Joe. I was well acquainted with these basics, having written about the beverage for years. But most coffee drinkers downed pound after pound without considering the source.
Ellie’s display nicely explained that coffee beans actually come from berries (“cherries” to those of us in the trade). These cherries are green in the early stages of growth. They then mature to yellow and red. They’re ripe at dark crimson, which is when they yield the best coffee via the two seeds (beans) inside.
“The average arabica coffee plant takes about five years to mature and produce its first crop,” Ellie said.
That I knew. “And of that crop, it will take an entire coffee ‘tree,’ ” I added with air quotes, “to produce only one pound of coffee; i.e. about forty cups.”
“Forty cups in one pound?” she said. “That I didn’t know.”
We both laughed, and I repeated how great her exhibit looked. Then I told her: “Actually, the reason I’m here, Ellie, is because of Ric. Matt and I are going into business with him—”
“I know. Ric’s very happy. He and Matt told me all about it.”
“Matt? You’ve been seeing Matt, too?”
“Yes, of course. We met many times over the summer. I’m surprised he never mentioned it. I asked about you, and he said you were very busy in the Hamptons, helping a friend open a new restaurant?”
“Yes, I was.”
“He assured me I’d be seeing you Friday,” Ellie said. “So I was looking forward to catching up then—”
“Friday? You mean the Beekman Hotel? You’ll be there for the big tasting and announcement?”
“Absolutely. Ric’s counting on me. I’ll be there to answer any questions the journalists may have about his hybrid’s viability.”
“You’re his seal of approval then? Like Good Housekeeping ’s endorsement of a really good floor cleaner.”
Ellie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Something like that.”
“He told me that you’re helping him apply for a plant patent.”
“A plant patent? No.”
“No?”
I waited for Ellie to explain, but her attention had strayed to a small, middle-aged Asian man who’d wandered into the coffee plant room. He had short dark hair threaded with gray, a pale complexion, and slightly almond-shaped eyes. He wore loose silver-blue track pants and sneakers; and although it was a warm day, even warmer in the greenhouse, he’d kept his blue jacket on and zipped up to his chin.
I’d already removed mine.
“Excuse me, sir,” Ellie called politely, “but you shouldn’t be in here.”
The Asian man didn’t hear her, didn’t understand, or was simply ignoring her. He continued around the room, looking at each of the plants.
“Is there a problem?” I whispered.
“The exhibit’s not quite finished,” she whispered in reply. “So it’s not yet open to the public. I’m surprised this gentleman didn’t see the sign.”
I raised an eyebrow. There was a single entrance to this room of the glasshouse, and the standing sign in front of that displayed a big red circle with a slash through it and the words: STOP! DO NOT ENTER. STAFF ONLY.
“I’m sure he saw it,” I whispered to Ellie. “I’m also betting he ignored it. Big red stop signs are pretty universal.
Maybe you should escort him out.”
Ellie frowned. “Better not. I’ve seen him around the Garden recently. He’s probably a new member—they pay annual dues to enjoy special privileges. It won’t hurt him to take a quick look, as long as I stay to make sure he doesn’t touch anything.”
“Oh, okay...” I said.
We quietly watched the man after that. He carefully ignored eye contact with us as he worked his way around the room, studying the different varieties of coffee trees and the explanatory plaques beside each one.
“You were saying?” Ellie prompted, turning back to face me.
“Uh... yes,” I said quietly. “I was wondering why Ric would mislead me. He told me that you were helping him file for a plant patent, but you said you weren’t.”
“No. Not a patent.”
I shook my head, more distressed than ever. “I don’t understand why Ric would lie to me.”
“He didn’t lie. He was simply using an incorrect term.”
“I don’t understand.”
“His arabica hybrid can reproduce sexually, so I’m not applying for a patent.”
“Are you joking?”
“Absolutely not. The Plant Patent Act of 1930 covers asexually reproduced plants. In other words, plants that replicate through means other than germinating seeds. Like vines, for example. Since Ric’s hybrid reproduces through seeds, I’m helping him file for a plant variety protection certificate. It’s an intellectual property protection, not a patent.”
“But will it protect Ric’s rights to the plant?”
“Yes, of course! The certificate will give him up to twenty years of exclusive control over his plant. If anyone attempts to breed and sell Ric’s hybrid without licensing it from him, he has a right to file charges and sue them. It even prevents others from using it to produce a hybrid or different variety.”
“Just in the United States?”
“Not just. He’ll be protected all over the world.”
Before I had to ask, she explained the Plant Variety Protection Act was really just the United States’s effort to comply with the Union pour la Protection des Obtentions Végétales, an international treaty on plant breeders’ rights. Every major country had signed on, including Brazil.
“So why didn’t Ric file himself?” I asked. “Why didn’t he work with the Brazilian authorities to protect his new plant?”
My question seemed to have rendered Ellie speechless. She stared at me, seemingly at a loss, and I couldn’t tell if it was just the warmth of the greenhouse or something else, but a pronounced blush was spreading over her fair face.
“Ellie?” I whispered. “There’s something you’re not telling me... what is it?”
When she continued to hesitate, I took an educated guess—given that Ric hadn’t even gotten the terminology right on the paperwork. “Ellie, are you the one who really produced this hybrid? Did you make the breakthrough?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Lassiter?”
I turned to find a young man staring at us. I hadn’t heard his footsteps, and I wondered how long he’d been standing there.
“What is it?” Ellie asked him.
“Your Maragogype just arrived via FedEx.”
The young man wasn’t much taller than my own five-two. He looked to be in his early twenties, had curly brown hair and a pale face with a bit of scruff on his chin and upper lip that I assumed were the beginnings of a goatee. I also assumed he was part of the staff since he was wearing the same spiffy green forest ranger ensemble that Ellie was sporting.
“Good,” Ellie told him. “That’s the last of them. Bring it in here, and I’ll inspect it after lunch.”
“You don’t want to see it now?” the young man asked, his close-set brown eyes squinting slightly with disapproval.
“No, Norbert. I have a guest, as you see. We’re going to have a bite to eat in the cafe.”
“Oh, of course, Ms. Lassiter. If anyone deserves a break, you do. You work so hard.” Now he was gushing. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Maybe your guest would like a complimentary Botanic Garden tote bag? How about it, Ms.... ?”
The question was pointedly leading. Norbert wanted to know my name. Before I could answer, I felt Ellie’s hand on my back. She was gently pushing me toward the exit.
“Lovely thought,” she called to Norbert. “Just drop it by our table later, okay?”
“Of course, Ms. Lassiter.” He caught up to us, staying on our heels.
“And do me one last favor,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Anything.”
She lowered her voice. “There’s a gentleman who wandered into my exhibit, and...”
As her voice trailed off, she turned to look for the middle-aged Asian man. I turned too, but I could see the room was empty of human life. The man was gone.
“That’s funny,” I said, pointing. “Wasn’t he just over there?”
Ellie looked puzzled. “I guess he slipped out. Forget it then, Norbert, just make sure you lock the door after you bring in my marigo.”
“No problem. No problem at all. And I’m so sorry to have interrupted you.”
“It’s all right, Norbert.”
Twelve
“Norbert’s your assistant, I take it?”
“That’s right,” Ellie replied as we walked toward the Garden’s Terrace Café. “He’s working here as an intern while he’s finishing up his graduate degree.”
“What’s his field? Eddie Haskell Studies?”
Ellie’s laugh was spontaneous and very loud in the quiet courtyard, its echo bouncing off the surrounding glass buildings. It sounded like the old carefree Ellie I’d known. But when a few dignified heads turned with curious looks, she quickly stifled herself.
I slipped my jacket back on as we walked across the courtyard’s flat, gray interlocking stones. The Terrace Café was just ahead. We followed the delicious smell of grilling meat to an open kitchen housed under a glass pyramid. When we reached the cafe’s counter, I could see the menu was a cut above the typical fast food fare. I ordered the Virginia ham and brie sandwich. Ellie went with the Cornish hen and brown rice. Then she surprised me by ordering a decaffeinated coffee.
“Decaf?” I said. The Ellie I remembered had been a caffeine queen. “You’re kidding?”
Her response was a silent shrug.
We took our trays to the outdoor seating area, where a field of green canvas umbrellas sprouted above wire-meshed patio tables and chairs. Amid the tables were large ceramic urns containing plants as high as ten feet. Some displayed evergreen branches and bright red berries, others golden fall foliage. We chose a table on the fringes, away from the small crowd of Botanic Garden guests enjoying their lunch.
My sandwich was delicious—a crusty, fresh-baked baguette with sweet, smoky ham and buttery brie tucked inside. Still, my morning had been stressful, and after chewing and swallowing my first bite, I was desperate for a hit of caffeine. I frowned at the cup of large coffee I’d ordered, contemplating the age of the brew.
“The coffee here is actually pretty good,” Ellie assured me. “Give it a shot.”
“I have a better idea. I’ll give it a test.”
“A what?”
“A test. Watch....” I took my small paper cup of cream and splashed a little into the coffee. “There it is. The bloom.”
“What bloom?” Ellie asked, looking at the potted plants around us.
“Not out there,” I said, and pointed to my cup. “In here. See how the cream blooms instantly to the top of my coffee?”
“Yes...”
“That means the coffee’s fresh. When coffee’s old, oils float to the top. That creates a kind of filmy barrier, so when you pour in the cream, the bloom doesn’t come right to the top of the cup. It takes a few seconds longer to get there.”
Ellie looked at me sideways. “You really do take coffee seriously, don’t you?”
“Would a top sushi chef eat old fish? Would a master baker eat stale bread?
Would an eminent butcher sink his teeth into—”
Ellie held up her hand. “I get it.”
I pointed to her own cup and smiled. “And if decaf’s your thing now, don’t go to Italy. You may as well ask a Roman where to find the best topless bar in Vatican City as where to find a good decaffeinated espresso.”
Though I’d been ribbing her in fun, Ellie didn’t laugh. “I wish I could drink caffeinated again,” she said. “But not long ago, I developed Graves’ disease.”
Oh, damn. “That’s hyperthyroidism, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid my doctor’s made me swear off caffeine.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie. You know, I was just kidding about Italy—”
“I know, Clare. And I do miss the old stuff...”
“Well, it’s a good thing Ric made his breakthrough, huh? Just in time to give you a spectacular decaffeinated cup.”
Ellie nodded as she sipped the Terrace Café decaf.
“Or... did Ric really make the breakthrough?” I quietly asked. “I’m sorry for bringing this up again, but was it really you who made the discovery? You never really answered me.”
Ellie shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was Ric. You know, back in college, he even talked about creating a hybrid decaffeinated plant. He had all sorts of theories, but it wasn’t until his family lost their lands that he committed himself to finishing his initial horticultural research.”
“In Brazil?”
“Yes, he finished the work in his relative’s nursery, but he actually began the research on Costa Gravas, using classical plant breeding techniques.”
“Classical?”
“Right, as opposed to, say, DNA manipulation. Classical plant breeding’s been around for thousands of years. Basically, it’s controlled crossbreeding, where traits from one species or variety are introduced into the genetic background of another.”
“Oh, crossbreeding!” I said. “Sure, I’m familiar with that. Coffee farmers have been doing it for centuries. Like that Maragogype your assistant, Norbert, mentioned. If memory serves, it’s an arabica mutation that grows leaves and fruit much larger than the typical variety. Am I right?”
