The Azalea Assault

by Alyse Carlson

  “You’re here! Wonderful!” Mr. Patrick bellowed a few moments later as he met the new arrivals in the foyer. “I’ve got you in the servant’s house!”

  The servant’s house was opposite the greenhouses, and quite nice, but Cam could see the magazine staff was a little put out, so she added, “It’s beautiful, and closest to everything you’ll be shooting. You’ll love it.” She hoped they would believe her, then realized she needed to introduce herself. “I’m Cam Harris, the RGS public relations representative.”

  The taller man wore his hair in spikes that were bleached at the ends. He held out his hand but didn’t smile. “Ian Ellsworth, photo editor.” He then introduced his lighting man and his assistant. Cam wished he at least had the courtesy to make eye contact with Mr. Patrick.

  “Mr. Patrick, would you like me to do the tour?” Cam asked, feeling it unwise to pit artistic arrogance against privilege.

  “Do! Do!” He shooed them away. “I’ve got three board members arriving soon, so you kids go ahead and get to work.”

  Cam gave a reverse-order tour, thinking the mosaic of flowers from the balcony was a wonderful finale. She explained the seasonal greenhouses as she led them on a sweep through, pointing out the highlights. “Winter” included several varieties of berries on decorative bushes and evergreen shrubbery; “Autumn” held caryopteris, scotch heather, and witch hazel; and “Summer” had such variety that Cam felt lightheaded from the brightness and aroma just entering.

  She addressed the highlights she and Mr. Patrick had discussed. Ian largely ignored her, never acknowledging her suggestions. He pointed out other items of interest, though “interest” seemed the wrong word, based on his bored expression. The assistant, Hannah, made copious notes while Tom, the lighting man, just squinted and alternately nodded or frowned, mumbling about the amount of work needed to put various selections in optimum lighting.

  They exited the last greenhouse and began walking the “lily leaves” of the garden, Cam stopping at the collection of rhododendrons and azaleas. The areas of brightest coloring had rhododendrons at the center, surrounded by the azaleas, which then tapered toward the white of tulips, hyacinth, and assorted flowering ground cover.

  Hannah, the assistant, was drawn farther up a tributary, so the rest followed her.

  “It’s too bad we can’t do scratch-and-sniff photos. This is heavenly!” she said.

  Cam agreed, explaining that the most fragrant flowers had been segregated. She and the magazine crew now stood among the sweet olive, a deep green bush with small, wonderfully scented white flowers.

  “It’s so visitors can enjoy each, rather than having their senses saturated to the point where they don’t notice the fragrances anymore.”

  As she shared the information, she guiltily thought this had only been a rumor. She would double-check with Mr. Patrick later. Unfortunately, the photo editor and lighting man didn’t seem to share their girl Friday’s fascination with aroma.

  As noon approached, Cam decided it was time for the finale, so she led them up the outside stairway to the balcony. They followed diligently, though the lighting man now looked as bored as his boss. As they reached the top of the stairs, though, Ian threw his arm out, stopping the rest, and went to the balcony rail alone. Finally, after what seemed a long time, he looked back at Cam.

  “That’s spectacular.”

  “Isn’t it? Mr. Patrick said it’s best at sunrise, but I think it’s always spectacular.”

  “I’d have to agree. It’s high noon, and though the white reflects too much to photograph right now, it’s still phenomenal.”

  Cam asked about getting a sunrise shot, and Ian, without refusing, confirmed her fears about Jean-Jacques Georges and how prickly he could be. Tom, though, pointed out a true artist knew the magic of timing and would surely cooperate. It was the most she’d heard him say—out loud, at least.

  Hannah looked vaguely adoring, and Cam wondered if the mousy girl had a crush on this odd, quiet man.

  Ian spoke hesitantly, breaking the moment. “I don’t know… Jean-Jacques is used to fashion models and artificial settings.” It was the first break in Ian’s confidence she’d seen.

  Cam bit her lip. “Can’t hurt to ask?”

  Tom nodded and Ian shrugged. Cam could tell the request fell to her. She had been hoping for an ally, but Ian looked afraid.

  When they went downstairs, her sister, Petunia, was bringing in lunch. Petunia seemed all elbows as she maneuvered trays. Cam was thin, but Petunia was positively skinny. Fortunately, she was stronger than she looked.

  Several tables had been set up on the back patio under the shade of the balcony, and to the side was the tent with fans to keep the area cool. It was furnished with a buffet table. A handful of Garden Society members milled about, filling plates or holding drinks. After curious glances at Cam and her guests, they went back to their conversations.

  As they reached the back patio, Hannah sniffed deeply again, returning to her scent heaven. “Another fragrance!”

  Neil Patrick walked out just then and smiled. “Just so! Don’t get too close. The bees love the wisteria, but did you know it was Cammi’s father who built that trellis so that seventy-year-old tree could continue to thrive?”

  Joseph Sadler-Neff, the RGS historian, who’d been sipping sweet tea and watching from the edge of the patio, launched into a long lecture on the year, the building materials, the time it had taken to construct, and the history of the tree. This was common for Joseph. Most people who knew him only half listened, though they were polite colleagues, so at least they faced him and pretended. Cam quickly explained to the magazine crew who he was and why he knew so much.

  Ian, listening to neither Joseph nor Cam, gave the trellis and wisteria his full attention.

  He circled the structure with an artist’s eye. “It would be great to get a shot of the builder next to the trellis. Most well-meaning builders do some damage to the tree, but this looks perfectly executed. Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, but he has a busy social life,” Cam answered uncomfortably. Cam’s father seemed to unintentionally become the center of any gathering he attended, and she wanted this to be a Garden Society event. She was vetoed, though, when Neil Patrick spoke.

  “Oh, Cammi! You’ve got to invite him to the party tomorrow night. We’ll convince him to do the photo shoot! It’s a wonderful angle.”

  “Um… I’ll see if he’s free.”

  Petunia, who’d just deposited a dessert tray that appeared to be her last, met Cam’s gaze, an eyebrow raised under her blonde bangs. Cam knew her sister read her thoughts, but there was no helping it. She would have to invite her father to the festivities and hope he was busy. Cam mouthed “thank you” as Petunia turned to leave. When Petunia reached the door, Evangeline Patrick emerged, making a beeline for Joseph. Petunia scowled, or maybe it was only a face caused by the difficulty she was having balancing, since she was removing the breakfast remains as she left.

  Evangeline and Joseph began bickering, but in a moment their tone was cordial again.

  “Don’t mind them, hon.” Samantha Hollister put a hand on Cam’s, mistaking her frown for a response to the bickering. “Evangeline wants progress, and Joseph feels called to preserve history. They’re both right in small doses, but they sure have trouble finding balance. They get into it all the time.”

  That would have made sense, had Petunia’s scowl not left Cam with the distinct feeling she was missing something.

  That afternoon the magazine crew began testing the lighting in the various locations they had discussed, a task that would take the next day and a half. Cam made notes. When the photographs were complete, she wanted to be able to hand off a press packet with the information about the plant types and their origins, including the history of the particular plants in Mr. Patrick’s collection, to the reporter. Jane Duffy was rather prestigious in gardening circles and would interview the Roanoke Garden Society members. It was Cam’s job to make sure th
e background details were easily accessible so Ms. Duffy could concentrate on the story.

  When Petunia brought in supper for the house guests at six, she gave Cam a ride home, and Cam got to work at her computer, composing the various press packet pieces. Cam had extensive files on area plants, some from her own education and interest, but more of them from the historic files she’d gotten from Joseph Sadler-Neff. It was more an organization project than writing from scratch, so she cut, pasted, and proofed until she heard the rattling of the dumbwaiter. Some “treasure” was being lowered.

  Two minutes later Annie came from Cam’s kitchen with a tray that held a bottle of wine and two tiki cups shaped like shrunken heads. Cam glanced at her computer screen clock and saw it was a little after nine. She’d not gotten to her own garden all day, but it was too late now.

  “All work and no play makes Cam a dull girl.”

  “Pooh! I’m a baseball widow, remember?” It was true. Her boyfriend, Rob, played baseball for a city league, which had recently begun practicing for the season. It meant he was busy at least three nights a week, and Cam used that as an excuse to work too much.

  “I remember when you could out-party Theta Chi.”

  Cam laughed. That had been many years ago. “You know I cheated, only pretending to drink half the time.”

  “You hush. You’ll lose me my reputation as the evil twin.”

  It was an old joke. They’d been best friends since seventh-grade science, when the study of genetics identified them as the only two girls in the class with indefinable hair color. “It’s not red enough to call red, not blonde enough to call blonde, but it certainly isn’t brown.” Annie had been the one to declare it the “uncolor,” and Cam had laughed and given her a thumbs-up. They had moved their desks together and become science partners and, within weeks, best friends. Of course, twin jokes aside, hair color was where similarities in appearance ended. Cam was tallish and slim, with straight, stylishly cut, shoulder-length hair. Annie was shorter and curvier, with a broad friendly face, unruly curls, and an instant huggability Cam sometimes envied.

  “You know people have been permanently silenced for revealing smaller secrets,” Cam said, getting back to her cheating at the Theta Chi drinking games.

  “You’re threatening murder? I’m stung!”

  Cam eyed the cups. “Not murder, head shrinking. Unless… will you go to the RGS welcoming party tomorrow night?”

  “You honestly think I’d fit in at that high-society thing?”

  “Okay, don’t take this wrong, but I need some middlers. We’ve got the blue-blooded Garden Society, and then we have the helper types—the gardener and his son… Petunia…”

  “You better not be saying I’m classier than Petunia, because that’s blasphemy! I got no class, Cam Harris, and if you say I do, I’ll come in here when you’re sleeping and shave your eyebrows!”

  Cam broke into giggles; a single glass of wine was enough for her to fall under her best friend’s silliness spell. Annie was the daughter of a former senator, though he held title under a political party Annie swore she would never vote for. Annie had been fighting the “stigma” thrust upon her since middle school.

  “I swear I’m not saying you’re classy. I honestly just need some help. They’re making me invite my dad.”

  Annie nodded, finally getting the picture. Annie and Mr. Harris had a longtime understanding that was far more honest than what went on between father and daughter. Cam didn’t mind. She didn’t want to know. But she was glad someone she could count on was in the loop to help prevent anything unexpected.

  “I suppose your eyebrows are safe for now.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The next day was much the same, except that without the Garden Society meeting, the mood at the house felt significantly milder, like a subtle, sweet-scented garden, instead of the heady, drunken one of the day before. When Cam and the camera crew got to greenhouse three, “Summer,” and past the very excitable Barney, Evangeline’s Jack Russell terrier, they met Evangeline herself, holding a seated yoga pose underneath an ashoka tree.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Patrick,” Cam said as Barney jumped onto his mistress’s lap. “Should we come back?”

  The woman disentangled herself and rose, snatching up the dog with fluid grace, her rather perfect figure apparent in her tight top and yoga pants.

  “Not at all. I was done.” Her smile was serene. Obviously meditation was effective. “I’m sure all the spiritual properties of the ashoka are relevant to this article. Wouldn’t you think?”

  Evangeline had moved close to Tom, who looked near to passing out. Hannah frowned irritably.

  “I’m sure I covered it in the press packet,” Cam lied, promising herself she’d add it soon, in case the woman checked. She may have been a beauty queen, but Evangeline Patrick was no dummy—she’d gone to Brown with her Miss Virginia scholarship. “Ultimately, it’s up to the editor.”

  “I’m the photo editor,” Ian added, thrusting his jaw forward.

  Evangeline took his arm and led him closer to the little tree Cam knew was Indian, not American, and certainly not native to Virginia—she wasn’t even sure it would grow here if not for the summer greenhouse. Ian’s gullibility irritated her, but she had plenty of time to set him straight without offending Evangeline.

  After that, they continued their route through the greenhouses and gardens, though they seemed to have picked up a canine obstacle. They’d registered on Barney’s radar. He’d been fine the day before, but today each time they found him, he growled and blocked their path until Cam managed to calm him. At their final greenhouse, Evangeline once again intercepted them.

  “Barney! Shame on you! Here, boy!” She tossed a bone she’d picked up on the walkway. Cam glanced around and realized there were bones in half a dozen places within her vision. Distraction was apparently relied upon often with the little dog. To test this theory, she picked up the nearest bone and tossed it. Barney dropped the bone in his mouth and chased the new one.

  The crew broke up before five because there was a reception just a few hours later at Samantha Hollister’s home, the crowning glory of which was its English garden. The reception promised to set the magazine feature off to a fabulous start. Cam thought Samantha hoped to raise doubts in the minds of the camera crew as to the location they’d chosen, but she didn’t think that would be possible after two days of hard work at La Fontaine, so Cam concentrated on just making sure all had a wonderful evening.

  Cam had her boyfriend, Rob, drop her off at Samantha’s at six o’clock. He would then change, pick up her father and Annie, and return at seven with the other guests.

  Petunia and her husband, Nick—the primary chef at Spoons—were already in the kitchen when Cam arrived. Nick and Petunia had been married almost three years. About a year into their marriage, Nick had helped Petunia achieve her longtime dream of opening a restaurant. Spoons specialized in gourmet “one-pot” meals. The restaurant had seating for only about forty people, but the large kitchen allowed them plenty of room to cater, which was their primary source of income.

  Petunia had always been a collector of strays: dogs, cats, and people. Nick was no exception. He had a lot of tattoos, including one that looked like barbed wire around his neck, and he talked like a gangster, according to Cam’s imagination, anyway—he was certainly a Yank. She’d never been to New Jersey, but if she closed her eyes when Nick talked, she could picture a dozen gangster movies she’d seen. In his favor, he treated Petunia like a treasure, something of a novelty in Petunia’s experience, so Cam had warmed to him quickly, tattoos and all. She’d been the maid of honor at their wedding.

  Nick kissed Cam’s cheek when she entered. “Hey, sis, you ready for this shindig?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. Glad to have allies in the kitchen.”

  “We’re glad you send us some fancy business now and then—good for our reputation.” He grinned.

  “Of course I do. Y’all throw an elega
nt table.”

  Nick gave his single bark that was as much laugh as anyone ever got out of him. He always looked sort of sheepish when he received a compliment.

  At that moment, Evangeline barged in. “Jack! I thought I heard you. Nice to see you.” She clutched Nick’s bicep as she passed. “Anyone have a towel?”

  Cam handed Evangeline a towel, and the woman left again.

  “Jack?” Cam asked quietly.

  Nick shrugged as if he’d rather not get into it.

  “Who’d you rob to get that?” Petunia finally turned to Cam, after putting the finishing touches on a fancy lasagna and sliding it into the oven. Her studied lack of expression told Cam she was agitated. She pointed at Cam’s dress, her tone strange.

  “I didn’t have to rob anyone. It’s rented, if you must know.”

  “They rent dresses?” Petunia’s face registered disbelief.

  “They do, and for a hundred dollars, I get to wear a five-hundred-dollar dress I’d only wear once, so wouldn’t be worth buying.”

  “Heck, if I even had a one-hundred-dollar dress you’d never get me out of it again.”

  “Oh, I’d get you out of it,” Nick muttered from the corner. That was more like the Nick Cam knew, and she winked at him.

  “You behave!” Petunia snapped him with a kitchen towel, but she was laughing, the tension dissipating completely. “Rob coming?”

  “Yeah, he’s picking up Annie and Daddy. They’ll be here at seven.”

  “Couldn’t convince Dad this wasn’t his thing?”

  “I didn’t try. That photo editor seemed set on some shots of Dad with that trellis and wisteria at the Patricks’. I thought maybe a mint julep or two might work a little magic convincing him to pose.”

  “That’s true. Did we bring mint, Nick?”

  “I bet Samantha has fresh mint in an herb garden,” Cam said. “In fact, I’d be surprised if she doesn’t have a plot somewhere specifically devoted to cocktail condiments. I’ll ask her.”