None of these healing remedies have been studied or assessed since the family keeps the book sealed and hidden away. Jardin family members refuse to be responsible for serious medical problems that might occur from trials of mentioned cures in their family book. Herbalists speculate about the use of dangerous plants cultivated in the seven herbal beds of the circular garden, although poisonous herbs like belladonna, foxglove and monkshood, are cultivated separately from safer plants like yarrow, lovage, and dragoncello.
She checked the flyer. The winery order form matched the description of both safe and deadly herbs. She slipped Volume II back on the shelf, and smoothed her curly wisps of flyaway hair, leaving unanswered questions dancing in the air, like motes in the sunlight.
At her desk, she sent off an emailed seed order with instructions for rush delivery. This day, she needed the assurance of seeds; tiny, changing bits of life that moved from dark to light and flourished. She picked up the discarded scarlet flyer and followed the folds to reclaim the butterfly once more. The origami insect fluttered through the air for a brief moment before it nosedived.
In Strasbourg, France, the Global Antiquarian Society chose twenty of their rarest books to take on tour to the United States.
In a small town in California, heirloom plants of unusual strengths and aromas thrived in a secluded gypsy garden.
CHAPTER 3
The sun shone down on the clover, alfalfa, and lavender fields that surrounded the Verkie goat farm outside Nolan, California. White-tailed animals scrambled to nibble their oats and groats, nudging against Aggie Verkie as she poured grain into the trough. When the old woman finished her chores, she roamed the garden.
Lost in memories, she thought back to her husband, Camlo. Years ago, driving in their horse-drawn gypsy wagon, they’d slowed down at the first whisper of divine scent and watched bees cluster in fields of lavender, poppies, and wild carrot. When they came upon the abandoned goat farm, with the stream running through it, Camlo tied up their horse and parked their vardo near the dilapidated garage. In welcome, monarch butterflies sent silent, semaphore messages with their wings. The minute the two looked in each other’s eyes, they gave up their wandering, turned into land dwellers, and drew even closer. They whitewashed the gabled house, the weathered barn, sheds, and drive-through garage. Camlo built a railroad tie garden and Aggie planted it, providing food for their table and green nourishment for their souls.
Now, the sight of bright, growing things nagged at Aggie like a loose tooth. The candle she called the California sun burned high in the sky, and she pulled her hand knit, brown sweater close to her body. The vigor of the garden pained her and contrasted to the last days of her dear Camlo. Sick and weakened, he’d died in slow motion from a decay she could not heal despite her constant tending. No gypsy remedies or blessings, no healing incantations, no potions or rich broth helped. Even doctors from the Groverly Hospital worked no magic. Although his body left her several months ago, her grief with its bone-chilling loss, still lingered on. After fifty years together, she could not let him go. Even with the rising temperature of the days, she stayed cold. Her salvation was his long dark cape that kept her warm.
Through the months since he’d been gone, she’d watched the circular garden of seven beds flourish. Overlooked by a stand of tall milkweed, the seasonal wheel turned as her gypsy herbs and vegetables swayed in the sun. Parsnip tops and rutabaga peered from rich dirt. Garlic shoots curled in loop-de-loops. Rosemary and periwinkle bristled with bees. In special rows, lovage and dragoncello tumbled, matching the vigor of yarrow and verbena, while gypsywort rambled along the garden edge that bordered the stream. Stalks of foxglove, monkshood and belladonna hid in the corner by the thorn apple, separated from other growing things because of their deadly juices. Only the old plum tree bowed and lost its leaves in respect for Camlo’s leaving. The wrinkles on Aggie’s face deepened. She rubbed pained, arthritic hands over her gray, braided hair.
Griffo, her tall, muscular nephew, hurried down the stairs from his room over the garage. He wore his red embroidered vest and Homburg hat. “I’m headed over to the Emporium. I got a job picketing from Boris, the new owner.”
“Deliver the goat milk in town first. Then go build your fences.”
Griffo waved a stick with a placard that read, “Save Our Town from XXX Movies!” He smirked. “Not fencing, I’m paid to walk back and forth in front of the place with this sign, so I don’t have time to deliver milk today. I wonder if he’d consider carrying your goat milk.”
Aggie knelt to touch a leaf of agrimony tinged with decay. “So will your important job bring you home for supper?”
“Probably. I get paid by the hour, come and go as I please.”
“Then explain why you don’t have time to deliver the milk.” She yanked out the wilting plant, wincing from the twinge in her fingers. “Never mind, be on your way. I’ll take the milk to town.”
“Maybe you can get some new customers at the town meeting in the Used Stuff Store,” Griffo said, “but you’re probably afraid to ask anyone, since you’re the local old gypsy hermit.”
“Well, I just might go to the meeting.” Aggie stood and brushed off her knees. She clacked her tongue and lifted the corners of her paisley apron. The beat of a zither played in her mind as she moved toward the kitchen. “I might just do that.”
On her way to the porch, she snatched one sprig of yarrow to add a touch of bitterness to the sundown beet salad.
Piper Valerian, twenty-eight years old and the prettiest blonde in Nolan, tidied her Cut & Curl Salon, the only beauty/barber shop in town. The white exterior, with its candy-striped awnings, pots of pink geraniums, and plastic flamingos, invited local citizens in need of personal beautification. With time to spare before the book club meeting, she sterilized combs, swept the floor, polished the long wall mirror and threw towels in the salon’s washing machine. Noticing the stack of old magazines with their torn corners, she pitched them one at a time into the trash bucket. Her hand brushed away the pink streak of hair that fell across her cheek and set her apart from other women in town. Her petite figure, turning this way and that in front of the mirror, was perfect. She sat down to study her face for blemishes, then trimmed potential split ends from her hair, and deepened her rosy lips. Finally, she let her hand touch her breast and felt softly, softly, then more firmly.
The revolving chair swung back and forth as Piper worried about her marriage with its set of new problems, Freddie wanting a baby for one thing, coupled with the other agonizing, secret worry. They had a perfect marriage with no discussions, ignoring any trouble that came near. She wondered if that was the reason their life sailed along so smoothly. Most of her high school girlfriends had married and moved away. Her mother lived in another state and serious phone conversations were impossible for both of them. With no one available for advice, she needed to figure things out alone. Through recent sleepless nights, flat on her back, feeling the lump, she came up with a solution: stop having sex with Freddie. The thought of him finding it, touching it, fondling the poison within her made her tremble.
She hoped for something to replace love making, like drowning herself in books of the romantic kind she’d always been curious about, books that told stories about the how, where and how often of other couples. What better place to find out this kind of intriguing stuff than in…not dirty books exactly, but novels called “hairotica” or something like that. If she could find exciting enough books to read, it might shake her mind away from her worries. That was the reason she’d requested a woman speaker from the Groverly Main Branch Library to help start a book club for the residents of Nolan. As soon as she was able, she’d find a way to fix things with Freddie.
Piper intended to pull the speaker aside after the talk and get some tips on that more delicious, provocative kind of reading. Librarians knew about such things, and the woman could point her toward titles filled with fantasy and fondling. She thought about Freddie’s fingers, stroking h
er skin, roaming her body and her mouth tightened. Fiddling with the tweezers, she plucked a new arch for her eyebrows and looked around for more cleaning to keep busy, but the salon gleamed. She switched her pink work smock for a pastel plaid jacket and squaring her shoulders, strolled past two buildings to the Used Stuff Store. Chosen for size and seat selection, it was the only site possible for the Nolan town meeting about a book club.
Filled with regret over her confrontation with the library director, Lily drove past eucalyptus stands in Groverly toward her Nolan assignment. The miles of Monterey County ticked by as fields of grape vines softened the landscape, their heart-shaped leaves catching the light. She passed by the billboard that announced “Salad Bowl of the World.” Soon, fields of pale green lettuce stretched into the horizon, followed by rows of strawberry plants offering occasional glimpses of plump, red berries.
A clammy feeling swept over her as she neared her destination. Nervous about her speech, she practiced by addressing the steering wheel. “How wonderful for all assembled here to discover the joys of creating a book club. I am sorry your town has no library. (Here, smile sympathetically.) When I was informed of your wish, I was delighted. It will be an energizing experience to choose the first volume for your discussion. I bring a boxful of excellent possibilities. (Now hold up first book.) For example, Wuthering Heights, a classic, romantic novel written by Emily Bronte.”
Informing the windshield, Lily condensed the plot and described the characters, but carefully, did not give away the ending. As the scenery sped by, she talked knowledgeably about the other selections in the box, chosen to represent literary diversity. “I sincerely thank you for this opportunity. (Perhaps nod.) I leave these examples for consideration by you, the new Nolan Book Club members. Perhaps you recall from Tatler that Joseph Addison and Richard Steele told us, ‘Reading is to the mind what exercise is to the body.’ With that to ponder, my very best to you all. Happy reading and hearty exercising.” (Smile. Give a little farewell wave.)
Her foot pressed harder on the gas pedal, edging past the speed limit. She sighed, thinking about how one anxiety had replaced another, the practice session distracting her from the rumpled dismissal letter in the pocket of her dress.
The car flew past the straight green rows of the countryside. A sharp turn brought The Emporium in sight, an old wooden building a couple miles outside Nolan that she knew well from previous visits. But she’d never driven into the town proper. Nestled in a lush valley, the town was a picture-perfect California town. She slowed down and studied the residences that rolled by. Live oak trees hovered over brick and clapboard Victorian houses. Porches, rows of porches furnished with old rockers, beckoned the weary. Zinnia beds, stands of hollyhocks, and grape arbors thrived in side yards, with front yards abloom with butterfly gardens of asters, lantana, and milkweed. The traditional town square showed heavy plantings of flowers, shrubby pine, and tall eucalyptus. One bench in the little park was provided for anyone who cared to sit and watch the activities on Main Street.
She continued down the thoroughfare, passing by a gas station, post office, grocery, feed store, and hardware. She noticed the Cut & Curl, next to a bar called The Hopper. At the end of the street, stood the Used Stuff Store, the place chosen by Piper Valerian as the location for a town meeting about a book club.
She blanched when she saw about thirty townsfolk settled in chairs of mixed pedigree, each with a tag marked “available for sale.” The room hummed with the murmur of an expectant audience as she hauled her small box of books to the front.
A voluptuous, blonde woman behind a painted desk flipped her pink streak of hair and waved. She pointed to a chair in the first row. “Welcome, a big welcome to our guest speaker. Come and sit down.” The young woman’s enthusiastic voice filled the room. “Wow, so many of you interested in starting a book club. Thanks to the Used Stuff twins, Sax Morton, who moved lots of bureaus and tables to make room for the seating, and Maxine Morton, for allowing us to meet here.”
Maxine stood up to small applause. Her wavy brown hair framed a full face and her sturdy form showed off lacy white finery. “Sax and I are both readers, but it seems Sax is busy elsewhere at the moment.”
Piper forged on. “This is how it came to be. The other day, I called the Main Library in Groverly and just like that, they sent us an expert.” She pointed at Lily, perched primly in an overstuffed chair. “So at this time, I give you our smart lady, Ms. McFae.” Piper slipped into the chair next to the still seated speaker and leaned over. “I need to talk to you, afterward. Will you stay?”
Lily nodded. She smoothed her hair and her loose beige shift, clasped and unclasped her hands, pursed and re-pursed her mouth. She sat, waiting for some unknown energy to move her, then felt a strong nudge from Piper.
The librarian adjusted her glasses, picked up her book box and followed her loose knees to the makeshift podium. She heard her breath weave in and out of her lungs’ soft tissue. Like a moth swimming through thick, red wine, the sensation of flapping wings moved through her bloodstream. When the pulsating creature reached her heart, she’d explode. She knew it.
A prisoner in the Used Stuff Store, she faced that form of civilized torture accepted by polite society described as public speaking. She worked to reclaim the words chosen on her drive from the city.
“Thank you, uh, all assembled here.”
The eyes of the audience bored through her and judged her, a dreary woman from the city.
She looked around the store, overburdened with leftovers from closets and basements, from attics and hideaways. She was the perfect addition, one more remnant.
“I was informed that you have no library in town and wish to…” The eggbeater in her mind revolved to a standstill and she cleared her throat. Waiting for inspiration, she looked down at the box of books she’d brought from the library. Her hand sought the top of a familiar volume, Wuthering Heights. With the cover cool to her palm, she lifted the classic book to display to the group. “…wish to read. Perhaps, a romance.”
Lily reached into the box again, her hand seeking the next book exterior. “I brought different genres for your consideration, like science fiction. This is Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.” She quickly grabbed other books. “A biography of John Quincy Adams. An anthology of women’s stories called Our Spirit, Our Reality. Or poetry, like Favorite Verse Through the Ages. These books are lent from the Groverly Library so you can …” Lily put the books down to push her glasses closer to her eyebrows. “…can read. Select one. Contact the library for multiple copies. Everyone reads the same title. Then you discuss. Remember, reading is brain food. On that note, happy exercising.”
Polite clapping filled the store, and the audience filed out in silence. The front door of the store beckoned its escape hatch, and Lily followed the crowd, moving toward the outside air.
Piper hurried to the desk to study the literary assortment. The stack of library books brought only one other person to the front. Aggie, in her multi-colored patchwork skirt, gradually inched forward against the shuffle of leaving attendees. When the owner of the goat farm reached the pile of books, she hung back to give Piper first choice of the selections.
“What an exit that lady made,” Piper whispered. “And she loses points for a bad hairdo. Admit it, she’s an odd bird.”
“Maybe a person to figure out,” Aggie moved closer. “Case of jippety nerves, I expect.”
“I’ll take the romance, for sure.” Piper grabbed Wuthering Heights.
Aggie took the poetry book, then set it down. “She didn’t talk long. I liked that about her.”
“You know, a trim at my shop would fix up her straggles in one sitting. I asked her to stay afterward, but she took off like a bat.”
“Maybe she’s waiting outside,” Aggie said.
“Of course.” Piper rushed toward the last of the audience emptying into the street. She found Lily gazing at the gathering clouds of the wheezy afternoon.
She touche
d the librarian’s arm. “Thank you so much for coming. I thought more people would stay and I did hope for a few spicier selections. Come back in. For a minute. Please?”
“I guess so.” Lily followed Piper, and they returned to Aggie and the books.
“Two people would be enough for a club, don’t you think, in a little town the size of ours?” Piper reached for the science fiction.
“You can have as many or as few as you like,” Lily said. “I don’t see a problem.”
Aggie blinked. “I’m not sure I belong in any club. I came to deliver goat milk to Used Stuff, then stayed to listen to the meeting. It was free entertainment.”
“Please join. It will be fun and easy too.” Piper picked up the poetry anthology.
“If one person likes the book, you pass it on to the other person,” suggested Lily. “Then get together and discuss the parts you liked or didn’t like.”
“I don’t have much time left after the goats.” Aggie looked down at her gnarled hands. “And I’ve never…discussed.”
“I know I never drove out to your farm for milk and you never came into my shop, but this way, we’ll get to know each other. We’ll chat. Here, take this one. It looks like it has lots of different writers inside.” Piper thrust the volume of poetry into Aggie’s hands.
“I don’t know.” Aggie paged through the book.
“Tell you what, if Ms. McFae comes back to lead our first meeting and helps us get the hang of it, we’ll do it.” She gave Lily a pleading look.
The librarian gazed at the classics on the desk, and then at the faces of the women. “I suppose I could.”
“I’ll take three books, if you don’t mind.” Piper tucked away the thick anthology of women’s writing. She handed Aggie the last volume. “You take the biography of J. Q. Adams. He’s an important person, but a dead one and I already heard about him in high school.”
The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies Page 2
