Lilies That Fester

by Janis Harrison

  I hung back from the group, pretending a curiosity for an odd piece of statuary. “This is different,” I said, pointing to the atrocity. The hunk of stone had been chipped and hollowed into a contortion of geometric shapes. “I wonder what it means?”

  “Our guide said it was done by a local artist. We could look him up and ask.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I said, though the idea of spending time driving around with Bailey was tempting. “But the sculpture is strange, and makes me wonder what the artist was trying to say. Life has enough oddities. Take for instance the way we met.” I turned a dazzling smile on Bailey, but he didn’t see it. He was gazing up at the intricate plaster cornices and elaborate carved wood moldings. I persevered. “We met in an elevator. Some people might see that as an indication of how our friendship might progress—highs, lows, ups, and downs.”

  “These old houses fascinate me,” said Bailey. “I’d love to own one and renovate it, but I don’t think I’d have the nerve to open it to the public.”

  I wanted to get a personal conversation going. I tried again, pausing at a window. “Last fall I became the proud owner of an eighteen-room mansion. Do you live in an apartment or a house?”

  “The tour is going upstairs. Shouldn’t we catch up with them?”

  I dug in my heels. I wanted just one straight answer. “Well? Do you live in an apartment or a house?”

  Bailey shrugged. “I keep a roof over my head. Are we taking the rest of the tour or not?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m with you.”

  “Don’t you have a preference?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “Why not?”

  I wanted to pull my hair out by the roots. To calm myself, I took a couple of breaths. “Why don’t you take the tour, and I’ll just hang around down here by the conservatory?”

  “I’ll hang, too.”

  How could one man be so totally annoying? “You stay. I’m leaving.” I walked off grumbling.

  “You’ll have to speak up if I’m going to answer,” said Bailey, keeping pace at my side.

  “Answer? That’s a novel idea.”

  As we approached a public rest room, the door opened and Gellie walked out. Her jaws were grinding away on something until she caught sight of us but mainly me. She wouldn’t meet my gaze and quickly swallowed whatever was in her mouth.

  I recognized the look of guilt on her face. That expression coupled with her jaw activity told me she’d sneaked a forbidden treat. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Gellie turned her head away. “Potty break,” she mumbled.

  Conscious of Bailey at my back, I said quietly, “Effie says you were upset earlier.” I smiled sympathetically and leaned closer. “If you’re tempted to overeat, just give me a call, and I’ll talk you out of it. That’s what friends are for.”

  She gave me a horrified look and practically ran down the hall. I watched as she maneuvered herself to the front of the tour, where she was well away from me.

  Without a word to Bailey, I went into the rest room. There were three stalls, all unoccupied. I glanced in each doorway, then went to the wastebasket that was sitting by the sink. On top of the trash were two Butterfinger candy bars—unopened.

  What had Gellie been eating? I reached under the bars and saw an empty plastic bag. I pulled it out, and down in a corner saw a speck of green that was half the size of a dime. I worked the particle out of the bag and into the palm of my hand, where I pressed it with a fingernail.

  Good for Gellie. She’d tossed the candy away and had eaten something healthful. I frowned. Then why had she acted flustered at being caught?

  I put the bit of vegetation back in the bag and tucked it in my purse. After washing my hands, I came out of the rest room to find Bailey waiting for me. The tour group had disappeared. “You should have gone on,” I said.

  “Who was that woman?” asked Bailey. “She was creating quite an uproar in the hotel lobby. From what I gathered she’s lost a bunch of weight. How’d she do it?”

  “I guess she closed her mouth and got up off her wide behind.” I waited for his reaction at my use of his insensitive comment, but he only stared at me in stony silence. “I’m going to pass on the rest of the house tour,” I said, walking off.

  I took the necessary twists and turns through the maze of hallways until I was at the back of the house. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw I’d lost Bailey. I stepped through the door marked EMPLOYEES’ LOUNGE and surprised a man and a woman in a hot clinch. A little hanky-panky on the job, if I gauged their embarrassment correctly. I acted as if I hadn’t noticed anything amiss and swung into what I wanted.

  “I’m looking for some information about a couple I know. I understand that in the last four days Mr. and Mrs. McDuffy have taken this tour several times. Vincent is very much overweight. His wife is extremely thin. Do either of you remember them?”

  The man shrugged and walked out. The woman leaned lazily against the table. She had big hair and a small body. Her skin had that bottled-bronzed look with the yellow undertones. She must have slathered the sunless suntan lotion on by the bucketful to achieve such a jaundice glow.

  “I know who you mean,” she said in answer to my question. “But I didn’t know their name. They seemed kind of lonely and sad, and weren’t interested in visiting with anyone. They never took the house tour, but sat in the conservatory and stared at the flowers, talking to each other. I bought them a couple of Cokes, and we chatted.”

  “Any particular subject?”

  She lifted a slender shoulder. “Mostly about the plants, the flowers, and the crowds.”

  “And you say they didn’t talk to anyone? They weren’t meeting someone?”

  “Not that I saw, though I think they were on the lookout.”

  “For anyone in particular?”

  “The man asked if I knew anyone that went by the nickname of ‘Friend.’ I don’t, but I told them that was a nicer handle than mine.” She looked around, then lowered her voice. “My family calls me Saffron.” She stroked her dark hair. “Isn’t that ridiculous? I can’t for the life of me understand where they came up with that.”

  I eyed her tinted skin and murmured, “Go figure.” I thanked her, then headed out the door and down the hall toward the conservatory. So Mabel and Vincent were looking for someone nicknamed “Friend.”

  At the final stretch to the conservatory, I saw Bailey leaning against a wall, a perturbed look on his face. “Where’ve you been?” he asked when I was within earshot.

  “Here and there,” I said, sauntering past him.

  Three strides and he was at my elbow. “Doing what?” he demanded.

  “This and that.” I sped up, then wished I hadn’t. Robbee and Chloe were seated on one of the benches that flanked the entry into the conservatory. Chloe beckoned me.

  When I got closer, she whispered, “Bretta, who is that fantastic man you’re with? He’s so distinguished. Makes me think of a congressman.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? Pushy, snoopy, and full of hot air described Bailey to perfection.

  “He looks irritated,” said Robbee, staring behind me. “Did the two of you have words?”

  I didn’t bother turning around. “Very, very few.”

  The aroma of Old Spice cologne told me Bailey was nearby. I didn’t know how close until he spoke in my ear. “Here comes the tour.”

  I jumped in surprise.

  “Why so edgy?” he asked. “I’ve heard that comes from a guilty conscience. Been doing something you shouldn’t?”

  “Shh. I’m listening to the guide.” He didn’t dispute me, but his frown let me know he wasn’t buying my sudden interest in Joan’s commentary. Just to prove him wrong, I tuned in to what she was saying.

  “—winter weather makes most of us burrow under a blanket in front of a fire,” said Joan, leading the group toward us. “Samuel Haversham wanted to enjoy each season to i
ts fullest. The main conservatory was built in 1922. Eight additional wings were constructed as interest in the collected plants blossomed.”

  Several people tittered politely at Joan’s play on words. Bernice snorted. “More like an excuse for hiking the price of admission.”

  The snide remark flustered the young tour guide. Joan stammered, “We … uh … here at Haversham Hall take pride in our work and our jobs.” She tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth wavered. “As I was saying, the … uh … eight additional wings have provided our staff with more landscaping space. The Desert Den contains cacti that are over one hundred years old. We’ve used sand and rock outcroppings taken directly from the Mojave to give our display authenticity. Our Fern Grotto has a collection of plants that came from the darkest jungles in Africa. I’m sorry that this exhibit is closed at the present, but you’re welcome to sneak a peek across the barrier. We’re revamping the thirty-foot waterfall, so I’ll ask that none of you go beyond the designated area.

  “My favorite spot to relax is the Orangery. The first known greenhouses were constructed by northern Europeans to grow oranges, a fruit exotic to their region. Even George Washington had a greenhouse at Mount Vernon. It was called a ‘piney’ since it was built to grow pineapples, his favorite fruit.

  “At this point of the tour, you can wander on your own. You are free to go through all of the conservatories except the Fern Grotto. I … uh … want to thank you for being such a … uh … large group. Enjoy the rest of the tour.” She quickly departed.

  Robbee snickered. “We sure made an impression on her. Tyrone warned us to be on our best behavior. When he hears about this, he’ll have Bernice so rattled she won’t know her ‘assets’ from a hole in the ground. I wonder why she acted like a jerk?”

  Chloe flicked her fingers down Robbee’s shirt. “You men are such ninnies. Bernice is crazy about Tyrone. It won’t matter to her if he rakes her over the coals, just so he focuses on her, even if it’s only for a few minutes.”

  “Seems damned stupid to me,” said Robbee. “Women play the most devious games.”

  I glared at him. He met my gaze calmly and asked, “What was Miriam talking to Darren about? At first I thought they were getting along fine, then he turned red and stomped off.”

  I didn’t want to let his remark slide about devious women, especially when he was such a pro, but I squelched my rebuttal. “I hope Darren is still at the hotel when we get back. He may have packed his bags and left.”

  “Two designers out of the contest,” said Robbee, rubbing his hands together. “I may get a shot at those beaches yet.”

  “If Darren leaves, too, there won’t be a contest.”

  “How can you say that?” asked Chloe. “All the florists are here and there’s more coming. Even if Darren does leave the contest, we’ll have to go ahead. You’ll see,” she said, “everything will be just fine.”

  Yeah. Yeah. Who wants to see fine, when they had the chance to view a genius at work? What had Darren said to Miriam? “My repertoire suits any occasion.” Why did that phrase haunt me? It sounded as if—

  “Are you going to stand there the rest of the afternoon or are you coming with me to see the conservatory?” asked Bailey.

  I waved my hand at Robbee and Chloe to lead the way. Bailey leaned close. “Florists are a strange bunch. I thought the butterfly watchers were a flighty group, but, babe, yours has them beat.”

  Air swooshed out of my lungs. It was as if Bailey had punched me in the gut. I struggled for a breath. “Don’t … ever … call … me that.” I saw astonishment register on Bailey’s face, but I couldn’t explain.

  I hurried away, blinking back tears. Of all the names Bailey could have called me, why had he hit upon “babe”? Just the sound of the word coming from another man’s lips made my skin pucker with goose bumps. No one in my life had ever called me babe except Carl. We’d only been married a short time when he’d christened me with the endearment, saying I wasn’t a sugar or a honey, but a babe … his Babe.

  I wandered aimlessly, wondering which way to go to find the rest of the group. An aerial view would have shown the conservatory resembled a giant daisy, with the domed roof as the center of the flower and each of the eight greenhouses veering off like petals.

  I heard laughter and headed to my right, following the sound to the Topiary Cotillion room. I had to pass the Fern Grotto, and paused at the barrier, which was only a couple of sawhorses.

  The water for the falls had been turned off, leaving the moss-stained rocks exposed. Judging the size of the holes left in the soil, massive plants had been removed from the display. The roof was covered with heavy netting that shut out the sun and made the air dank and stagnated. When in operation, it would be a refreshing place to visit, with the water pouring over the rocks, splashing into the pool. But at the moment, it looked like I felt—forlorn.

  Carl’s nickname for me had made me feel special, made me feel loved, but more importantly, it had made me feel connected to him. I could be at my wit’s end at work, the phone would ring and it would be him. Just hearing him call me “Babe,” my topsy-turvy world would right itself, and I could carry on. Had that been how Stephanie had felt about Friend?

  I turned my back on the ravaged Fern Grotto and stepped through the Topiary Cotillion doorway. Everyone was having a good time. Suddenly I wanted to be part of their fun. I wanted to laugh and joke and forget all the sad memories of my past, and every frustrating detail that had to do with this weekend. Here was the place to do it.

  Imagery and imagination had cast this glass-enclosed chamber into a ballroom. Wire frames had been sculpted into the shapes of five couples, who were postured in humorous positions. Thriving plants—creeping fig, wandering Jew, and English ivy—grew over the frames creating flowing gowns or tailored trousers. The topiary “dancers” were so lifelike that I expected them to yank up their roots and whirl around the floor.

  It takes patience and talent to trim and train the vines to follow the designated curves. But once that feat is accomplished the results are impressive, but maintenance is a never-ending job. Haversham Conservatory has a reputation for having ten of the most elaborate topiaries in the United States. But it wasn’t merely the topiaries that were imposing. It was the atmosphere in which they were presented.

  Topiary Cotillion was a theatrical masterpiece. I’d read in the hotel’s brochure that a computer controls the light, the sound-a waltz was playing in the background—the water for the plants, and the ventilation. While the air in the Fern Grotto had been stuffy and dead, in the Topiary Cotillion it smelled of healthy plants and moist, fertile soil.

  There was a particularly loud burst of applause, and I moved until I could see what was happening. Thinking it might be a show staged for our tour, I was shocked to see Gellie as the main attraction. She’d removed the red carnation from her jacket and had stuck the flower behind her ear. Bouncing from one male topiary to another, she was making a fool of herself, asking the statue to dance while sweeping her skirt in an embellished curtsy.

  I got the impression that she’d been holding court for quite a while. Several people were laughing, while others, beginning to be embarrassed by her display, were slipping quietly out of the room. Walking among the topiaries was forbidden. Signs were posted everywhere. But apparently she’d slipped under the rope and was heedlessly crushing the plants that formed the dance floor.

  I called to her. “Gellie, what are you doing?”

  She looked around, and her face lit up. “Bretta, honey, I’m free. My life has been anchored to the ground, but now I can glide like an eagle.” She skipped up to me and peered into my face. “You of all people must understand how I feel. Our extra pounds tethered us to this earth.”

  She would have danced away, but I grabbed her arm. “Gellie, what’s wrong? You’re acting strange. Come out of there before you get into trouble.”

  “No. You come with me, Bretta. Let’s show this group how we can fly. Spread you
r wings, Bretta,” she cried, breaking away from my grasp. “Spread your wings, and let’s soar like the angels.”

  “Gellie, stop talking and listen to me. What’s wrong? Why are you acting—”

  “Acting? I’m not acting, my fine feathered friend.” She roared with inane laughter. “Feathered friend? Isn’t that wonderful? I have these images in my brain, Bretta, and I have to try them.”

  Dodging topiaries, Gellie stepped over the rope and snatched a gauzy shawl from a woman who was with our tour group. “May I borrow this?” Gellie asked. But she didn’t wait for the woman’s reply. After draping the cloth over her bony frame, Gellie ran from the room, jostling anyone who got in her path.

  I didn’t know what to do, or what Gellie might do. She was in a terrible state, and I couldn’t let her go off by herself. Others must have felt the same. There was a surge for the door, and I got caught in the shuffle.

  “Let me through,” I pleaded. “I have to get to Gellie.”

  Slowly, I broke my way through the throng and into the hall. I didn’t have to ask which way she’d gone. The red carnation lay crushed on the floor. Gellie’s boisterous singing guided me to the doorway of the Fern Grotto, where the barrier had been pushed aside.

  Bailey had caught up to me. He took my elbow and led the way through the silent tour group. Heads were tilted back, eyes were directed to the utmost rock, thirty feet above us. Gellie had taken off her shoes, climbed the structure, and was posed with her arms outspread. Off key and using only part of the words, she was singing.

  “Do something, Bailey,” I said. “We have to get her down before she falls.”

  “You stay here and try to keep her attention. I’ll move around behind her.”

  “Gellie,” I called up to her, “I didn’t know you could sing.” My voice creaked with strain. “What’s the name of that song? It sounds familiar.”

  She looked down at me. “I should have learned more of the words. Friend told me it would keep my mind on track.”