by Cleo Coyle
“What are you getting at?”
“I just couldn’t reconcile a man who’d painstakingly create a new hybrid plant with the sort of carefree playboy Ric had been during his college years. You know that Brazilian term Matt uses?”
“A carioca?”
“That’s the one.”
Madame sighed. “Alas, my son’s favorite foreign word.” “We’re talking about Ric.”
“Not just.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want to talk to you about Matt. That’s why I was coming to see you.”
“Okay . . .” I said, curious at the suddenly hushed tone. “What did you want to talk about?”
“That woman.”
“Excuse me?”
Thinking my ex-mother-in-law was speaking about a pedestrian, I glanced out the window. To our left was Little Italy, although lately it was hard to tell. Swanky Soho (to our right) had jumped the avenue, bringing its chic boutiques and trendy watering holes into the neighborhood of old school Italian restaurants and mirror-walled patisseries.
“Which woman?”
Madame saw me searching the crowded sidewalk and shook her head. “No, dear, not out there . . .”
“Where?”
“Right under your nose, that’s where!”
“Right under my . . . ?”
“Breanne Summour.”
By this time, my reaction to the woman was an autonomic response. At the sound of her name, my grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“What about her?” I asked levelly.
“I know Matt’s been networking with her.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Madame sniffed. “That’s the word he used.”
“Networking?”
“Yes,” said Madame. “I’ve seen their photos together in the tony magazines—you know, those charity party mug shots? I’ve met her a few times, too, and Matt continually tells me it’s a casual thing, a collegial relationship.”
“He’s sleeping with her.”
“Well, yes, of course.”
I sighed. “You know your son better than anyone.”
“What I know, Clare, is that Matt doesn’t love this woman. Not even remotely.”
I shrugged uneasily. “The caricoa strikes again. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need to love a woman to sleep with her.”
“If all he was doing, or intended to do, was sleep with her, I wouldn’t be so worried.”
“Worried?” My ears pricked up. Had Madame heard something suspicious about the woman, something that might be linked to what was happening with Ric? “What worries you?”
“I think Matt may be getting serious about her.”
“Oh, is that all . . .”
I tried not to laugh. Matt and serious—when it came to women, anyway—just didn’t go together in the same sentence. To prove it, I considered telling her about the pass he’d just made at me the night before, but I held my tongue. Madame still entertained the ludicrous idea that I might one day remarry Matt. Why give her hope?
“I saw them together yesterday,” Madame continued in a grave tone.
“Uh-huh.”
“They were at Tiffany, Clare. They were looking at rings.”
“Rings?” I repeated. My brain seized up for a second, but then I thought it through. “Breanne’s quite the fashionista. She was probably just shopping for a new bauble—”
“They were diamond engagement rings. I kid you not.” Good lord. I managed to keep my foot from jamming on the brakes, but only barely. “Did you ask Matt about it?”
“No. I was with a friend and we were on our way out. But I tell you Matt and Breanne were very close together, very intimate.”
“He is sleeping with her, Madame. I wouldn’t think standing cheek to cheek in a jewelry store would be an issue.”
“I want you to find out what’s going on.”
“Why?”
“I told you. My son doesn’t love this woman. I can’t have him marrying her.”
“He married me.”
“You’re the only woman Matteo’s ever loved, Clare. Don’t you know that?”
“Frankly, no. His behavior during our marriage was unforgivable—the women, the drugs—”
“I can’t defend him, and you know I’ve never tried. But that was a long time ago. He’s been off the drugs for years now, he’s working very hard, has wonderful ambitions for our business, and—”
“Please stop. We’ve hiked this hill already.”
“But he still loves you. I know it. If he marries Breanne, there’ll be no chance for you two to reconcile.”
“We’re not going to reconcile! I’ve told you before, we’re business partners now, but that’s all.”
“True love shouldn’t be ignored, Clare.”
I took a deep breath. As gently as I could, I said, “Madame, listen to me. I love you. And I know how much you loved Matt’s father. But Matt isn’t his father. And I’m not you.”
Madame fell silent after that. She leaned back in her seat and gazed out at the slow-moving traffic.
I could see by the crawling blocks that we were inching up on Joy’s culinary school. I began to scan the sidewalks, a little desperate to score a glimpse of my daughter’s bouncy ponytail. But then I remembered she was uptown these days, interning at Solange under that hot young chef, Tommy Keitel.
Given Madame’s news about Matt, a feeling of empty-nest heartache stung me especially hard. I swatted it away. You have a bigger problem to think about, I reminded myself. So think about that . . .
Ellie Lassiter was my only lead on the mysteries surroundingFederico Gostwick and his magic beans. Once more, I considered discussing everything with Madame— the smuggled cutting, the mugging, the stolen keycard, the possibility of attempted murder. But when I glanced over at her again, the look in her eyes told me she was no longer in the present.
I wondered what she was seeing now; probably an image of her late husband, some memory from years ago, like my marriage to Matt, something long past.
I’ll tell her about everything later, I decided, after I speak with Ellie. Then I juiced the car, swerved around two lumbering supply trucks, and moved with greater speed toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
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 M
anhattan 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 hybr
id 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.”
