Cam left the kitchen and found their hostess, who led her to the herb garden. The two collected mint and some Italian parsley to garnish the lasagna. Samantha envisioned herself as a local celebrity—platinum coif, bejeweled fingers, and all. Cam would never have ruined that illusion for her. She also saw herself as a mentor for Cam, pushing high manners and tastes that, in Cam’s opinion, were a little too extravagant to be truly classy. Samantha had exaggerated arm gestures, designer dresses, and an intimate familiarity when talking about the local politicians, but she was always gracious, a perfect hostess.
She also had an amazing garden, which Cam was seeing for the first time. The grounds were subtly choreographed, leading a wanderer through gorgeous curves of flowers, all set to look as if they had happened by accident, which of course was a great deal more work than something that looked planned.
Cam knew, though, they’d have only forty minutes or so of daylight after the guests arrived, so after extensive compliments, she suggested cocktails and appetizers in the garden and then supper inside. “We’ll avoid the bugs that way. The scent from your jasmine should still be lovely through the screen.”
“You’re right, of course.” Samantha wasn’t the type of woman to give away when she was disappointed, but Cam thought she was.
Samantha directed a few hired hands to shuffle tables, and Petunia and Nick began arranging snack trays as two of the brutish helpers wheeled the bar outside.
Cam assisted with the appetizers, and as she came out of the house carrying a warmer of little meatballs, Samantha stopped her. “Do you mind if Petunia keeps bar? Only I’m…” Samantha trailed off, but it wasn’t Cam’s first encounter with snobbery where Nick was concerned.
Fortunately, Nick preferred the kitchen, so Cam could honestly say, “That’s already the plan,” and force a smile.
A short while later, the Roanoke Garden Society members and guests began arriving. The influx set Cam into hostess mode, and she brought people drinks and made sure they were comfortable. When Rob, Annie, and her father, Nelson, arrived, she began formal introductions.
“The trellis builder,” Ian exclaimed excitedly when he heard Cam’s father was among them. He came forward to shake Nelson’s hand, the first smile Cam had seen on him. She wanted to laugh at her father’s confused expression.
“The trellis at the Patricks’, Daddy.” Cam hadn’t gotten around to warning him why his presence had been requested. She’d intended to get over to his house that afternoon and do a little work in her mother’s garden. It was a regular habit: Cam gardening and her father chatting and bringing her sweet tea. Times like those were when she usually made requests of her father. Having her mom’s spirit so close seemed to make him more agreeable. Today, however, had just been too busy.
Several people were looking their way now.
“Well, yes… I did several trellises, though that one in particular is the best, I think, because that wisteria was such a grand thing to work with. But I’m just a carpenter. It was my wife who wanted me to get into all that flowery stuff.”
“That flowery stuff” was how her dad looked at all of this, but somehow he said it with enough charm that everyone seemed enchanted rather than offended. “My wife even insisted we name our children after flowers, Camellia and Petunia.” He shook his head, laughing, as if it were an insane indulgence he’d granted. Cam noticed Samantha smiling giddily like a schoolgirl.
Cam managed to keep from rolling her eyes and went into the kitchen. “I can’t take him anywhere.”
Petunia gave a sympathetic nod. “Who’s in love with him now?” She hadn’t even had to ask.
“Samantha.”
At every event he attended, her father collected a new admirer or two.
“Oh, that’s all we need,” Petunia muttered under her breath.
Cam frowned but knew she couldn’t speak too loudly for fear of being overheard. “For your information, Dad could do a lot worse. She’s a nice lady.”
It wasn’t that she heard wedding bells exactly. Cam didn’t think Samantha was her father’s type, but there were times her sister’s reverse snobbery drove her nuts. Her father could obviously do worse than a beautiful, rich widow. In Petunia’s mind, however, anyone with wealth, education, or breeding was unworthy, and the only people who deserved Petunia’s admiration and sympathy were pity cases who had led hard lives or made bad mistakes. Petunia just nodded back at Cam sadly, as if Cam were the deluded one. Cam looked to Nick for help, but he had immersed himself in grating Parmesan for the salad.
“You need this?” Rob had snuck up behind her and put one arm around Cam’s waist. With the other hand he held a wine spritzer. He knew she wouldn’t drink anything stronger while she was working, but just having a glass in her hand would help her stress level. She smiled gratefully and went back out to the garden with him.
The other guests trickled out, a dozen in all, as did Henry Larsson, the gardener for several of the RGS members, including the Patricks and Samantha Hollister. He and his son, Benny, looked strangely out of place without their denim work shirts. Then at nearly eight o’clock, the guests of honor arrived together. When they stepped out into the garden, Samantha announced them and all eyes turned: Jane Duffy, premiere reporter for Garden Delights, and Jean-Jacques Georges, famed photographer. They were a study in contrast. Both were angular, but Ms. Duffy was a petite redhead, impeccably dressed, while Jean-Jacques was tall and lanky, with a slight hunch to his shoulders and a studied crumple to his clothes. That, with his dark locks that had been gelled back only enough to partially hold, made him look carefree and roguish, though Cam thought perhaps he was trying too hard.
Cam had had a handful of telephone conversations with Jane Duffy to convince her the Roanoke Garden Society merited a feature, so she made her way forward to introduce herself.
Jean-Jacques didn’t make eye contact with anyone. He looked around upon entering the garden and immediately sidled up to the bar. Cam heard Petunia’s familiar, “I’ll bring it right over,” just as Cam reached Jane Duffy.
“Camellia, it’s lovely to put a face with your voice. I wish we’d beaten the darkness—it smells heavenly out here. I bet it’s beautiful.”
“It is. I’m sure you’ll get another chance, though. Nice to meet you, Ms. Duffy.”
“Please, Jane.”
“I’ll try, Jane. You’ll find in some places old-fashioned manners die hard. Anyway, welcome to Roanoke.”
“Thank you. Jean-Jacques showed me a little of the area on the way from the airport.”
Jean-Jacques sauntered over from the bar, clearly bored but drawn by the mention of his name.
“Really? Have you been here before, then, Mr. Georges?”
“Oui. Il était une froid.”
Ms. Duffy looked at Jean-Jacques with a raised eyebrow, as if he’d said something strange. Cam, however, having studied Spanish instead of French, didn’t know what. Jean-Jacques’s hazel eyes gave nothing away.
Petunia arrived with his cocktail—a Long Island iced tea, if Cam were guessing—certainly something tall that carried a powerful waft of alcohol.
“Merci.” Then, as Petunia spun to return to the bar, Jean-Jacques swatted her bottom.
Petunia, Cam, and Jane all froze briefly, and then did what any thinking, polite society women would do when wishing to not offend a world-famous photographer: they pretended nothing had happened. Petunia scuttled away and got back to work, though she wouldn’t meet Cam’s eye.
“And what did you see today?” Cam asked Jane, avoiding a look at Jean-Jacques in case she couldn’t stop herself from scolding him.
“There is a History Museum, and… what was it, Mini Graceland?”
“History Museum?” Cam asked, confused as to what they could have seen.
“In One Market Square,” Jean-Jacques clarified.
“Really?” Cam asked. It was a tiny little thing—barely more than a hole in the wall.
Jean-Jacques nodded with a smirk,
finally showing amusement.
Cam gave a plastic smile. “I’m sure that was lovely. I hope you’ll let one of the Garden Society members show you a few more… treasures, while you’re here.”
She didn’t want to offend Jean-Jacques, but the tour he’d presented had about as much class as a butt swat given to a stranger. She hoped she could get across to Ms. Duffy, without words, that not all Roanoke was so tacky.
“It’s all this village has to offer,” Jean-Jacques muttered, stealing a canapé from a tray as it passed, popping it in his mouth midsentence, and chasing it with a long suck on his drink straw. His accent, when he spoke English, was odd.
Cam tilted her head at Annie, who was talking to the rest of the magazine crew across the brick patio. Annie spoke both French and Italian, having had many opportunities to travel. Annie saw Cam’s gesture and shook her head, but a more insistent tilt finally brought her over.
“Annie Schulz, this is Jane Duffy from Garden Delights, and Jean-Jacques Georges, famous photographer. Jean-Jacques, what part of France are you from? Annie spent a year of college in Marseille.”
“How splendid. Will you excuse me?” He didn’t wait for a response before darting away.
He found the magazine crew, and Cam, feeling wrong-footed at his hasty retreat, covered by introducing Ms. Duffy to the Patricks. She and Annie then worked their way back across the garden, Annie holding Cam’s arm.
“If he’s French, I’ll eat Mr. Tibbles, there.”
Cam stifled a snort. She hadn’t even noticed the large, squash-faced cat watching the guests from a stair railing that went to the deck. “Mr. Tibbles?”
“Doesn’t he look like a Mr. Tibbles?”
Cam rolled her eyes. “I think you’re right, though. Not French. Still, I’ve seen some of his work, and he may be a French fraud, but he’s a photography genius.”
“Good subject matter and pro lighting guys. I could do that.”
Cam frowned again and glanced over at Jean-Jacques. He and Ian were arguing in hushed voices; Ian looked angry. It wasn’t like Annie to be snotty about anyone’s work, especially artwork, including photography, but the argument was even more unsettling. Ian hadn’t mentioned any issues. She hoped it wasn’t about the sunrise shots, and more important, that it didn’t bode poorly for the next few days.
“Never mind,” Annie said. “Rob needs a grope, and if you aren’t going to oblige, I might have to.”
“Hint taken. I’ll go pay attention to my boyfriend for a minute. Why don’t you…”
“Help Petunia. I’m going to help Petunia.” In spite of the relative privilege of Annie’s birth, she was ashamed enough of it that she and Petunia got along well, the two of them often siding together to mock Cam’s more traditional values.
“You didn’t get along with the magazine crew?” Cam asked.
“Which one? The jerk, the silent one, or the annoying one? Besides, they’re talking to the guy who just ran away from me.”
“You take some mean pills tonight? You’re not like yourself at all.” The comment had been snarky, even for Annie, but Annie just raised an eyebrow.
Cam found Rob and pretended she needed to speak to him for a minute. Samantha had a few strategically placed trellises supporting clematis and trumpet flowers. Cam pulled Rob farther into the garden and under one that was blanketed with a well-developed orange trumpet vine.
“I just needed a moment of sanity.” She hugged him and then squeezed his bottom, mostly so she could tell Annie her mission had been accomplished.
“Hey, you think I’m easy?”
“I know you are.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll give you that. You know I’m going to have to reciprocate, though.”
“I know.” She started to sneak away playfully, teasing Rob, but then heard angry voices and pushed herself back into him, forcing them both into shadows again, and swatting his wandering hand.
Rob held her around the waist, taking her hint to be quiet, though ignoring the swat. She listened.
“I know you’re hurting, and I’m sorry, but you can’t…” Samantha pleaded.
“I’m not one of your boy toys, and you have no say in what I do!”
“I think you know I have quite a lot of say! It’s time to shape up.”
Cam watched Samantha storm away after the argument. Jean-Jacques lingered, lighting a cigarette, but after a few puffs he threw the butt into some iris and slunk back toward the crowd.
“You don’t think…” Cam started.
“That she has boy toys? Sure I do. It would explain a lot.” He nuzzled his nose into her neck.
Cam pulled away with a serious expression. “No, I mean the two of them… you know…”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking that accent of his disappeared fast. Never seen somebody acculturate so quickly.”
“How does a sports reporter know a word like ‘acculturate’?” Cam teased.
“I know stuff. You act like I’m just a nice set of pecs.”
“Can you blame me? It is a nice set of pecs.”
She ran her fingers across his chest longingly, but removed herself before he could do anything about it. Rented dress or not, it would be obvious if she’d been manhandled. She rejoined the others just as they were retreating into the house for supper. She noted Joseph had been the one to call supper, possibly responding in distress to the fact the hostess seemed to have disappeared.
Cam hoped someone had heard whatever preceded the bit of argument she and Rob just witnessed. She was dying to know if some illicit romance was behind the strings Samantha had pulled to get Jean-Jacques Georges to Roanoke—not that Cam was a gossip, but the need to know was a prerequisite in her field. If she paid attention to whispers, she could anticipate trouble that might come up, and anticipating meant damage control. Unfortunately, it made her always want to know, even when it wasn’t pertinent. Rob, a reporter with the same instinct, was the first boyfriend she’d had who not only accepted but also shared the inclination.
At the moment Cam thought the only likely repercussion of the argument was the degree of difficulty it added to coordinating between the photographer and the Roanoke Garden Society, a challenge that would undoubtedly fall on her.
She rushed to help play hostess, realizing Joseph was probably right. Samantha would be somewhat distraught. In every pair or trio she approached to suggest seating possibilities, she heard whispers. When she reached Rob, she pointed out seats but asked him to do a little listening, too, as she couldn’t contain her curiosity. He was happy to oblige, so she went back to her own eavesdropping.
“…can’t believe he’d be so rude!”
“Well, you know how the French are!”
“Her husband was right there!”
“I would have punched him if it was my wife.”
“That had to have been the most disrespectful…”
The only pair that looked content was her dad and Henry Larsson. From the way Henry was laughing, she suspected her dad had just told one of his jokes. The rest of the room, though, was a bundle of nerves. Apparently Cam had missed quite a scene before Jean-Jacques and Samantha had wandered out farther into the garden: suggestive comments, terrible manners, and Jean-Jacques had had the nerve to complain to several people how boring flowers were compared to Heidi Klum and Adriana Lima. He claimed to have given up a photography shoot for a prestigious fashion magazine to be there, and acted as if they should all be grateful to have him, though when pressed, he admitted Klum and Lima were not to be involved. That was when Samantha had called him over to talk and they’d wandered out into the garden. Jean-Jacques was now seated next to Evangeline, chatting amicably enough, as if unaware of the havoc he’d wrought.
By the time supper was served, conversation elsewhere was uncomfortably stifled, and people began to leave soon after the meal, many not even staying for Annie’s famous mud pie. Jean-Jacques was among the first to leave, and Cam couldn’t help but notice the tension left with him.
As people left, Cam’s father came inside from the garden with Jane Duffy. The two were laughing, Jane hanging on to Nelson’s arm. Petunia gave Cam a scolding look.
“Oh, Camellia, your father just showed me the swings he made in the garden. They’re beautiful! Though I’m feeling a little seasick after that last one.”
“Keeps you young,” Nelson began, but Cam cut him off.
“Yes, Daddy has a great many talents. So does that mean you’ll come for some pictures, Daddy?”
“Pictures?”
“They want you to pose with the trellis you built at the Patricks’, for the magazine?”
“Magazine?” He looked shocked, and Cam rolled her eyes.
“You have heard me talk about this magazine shoot…” she reminded gently, knowing he was just being a tease. “The one Jane is here for…”
“Oh, well in that case…”
Jane giggled like a teen, and Cam was reminded of a dozen other older women who’d spent a little time with her father. She knew after age sixty, women greatly outnumbered men, but she wasn’t sure why her father felt obliged to single-handedly try to make up for that.
“I suppose I should get back to my hotel,” Jane said girlishly.
“Let me drive you.”
“Daddy, Rob drove you.”
“Oh, right.”
“But I’d be happy to give you both a ride,” Rob volunteered. “Then by the time I swing back for you girls you’ll be about done.”
Cam wasn’t sure whether she was annoyed or grateful. Rob encouraging her father and skipping cleaning duty was a little irksome, but then, it wasn’t his job; it was hers. Annie still felt free to give him an evil eye.
During cleanup, Cam grilled Petunia for details of what she’d missed while she and Rob were under the trellis.
“That photographer seems to know that snotty Evangeline.”
“What do you have against Evangeline?” Cam suspected she knew. Evangeline was a trifecta on Petunia’s list of “so good it’s bad.” She was a Brown-educated former beauty queen, and now that she’d married Neil Patrick, she was rich.
The Azalea Assault Page 3
