Read Online Mulch Ado About Nothing by Jill Churchill - Free Book Online Page B

Most of them were empty or had an inch or two residue of mildewed seeds. Only the hummingbird feeder looked fresh, but it didn't have any customers. Jane propped her armpits on the crutches and looked around. She noticed that here and there, dusty electrical wires emerged from the ground and led into one of the areas. Probably some sort of lighting Ursula could turn on at night.
    There were a few neat things in the garden when you studied it. A peculiar iron sculpture about four feet high that looked like a bunch of rusted airplane propellers gone awry caught her eye and whimsy.
    A statue of a woman, nearly life-sized and graceful, was gently turning from copper to green. Morning glories had climbed her and wreathed her upturned head. Jane wondered if this was coincidental or a product of training them that way.
    A stand of bachelor buttons in a deep, eye-watering blue stood solid and proud among a sprinkling of towering bright yellow cosmos with lovely ferny foliage. A tilted, broken wheelbarrow spilled out masses of pink geraniums.
    It was, if nothing else, a messy garden with a lot of blighted areas among spots of true beauty.
    She heard a little cough behind her and turned to see Charles Jones watching her. "Aren't you going to walk around and look?" she asked.
    He shook his head. "I don't want to go home with ticks just to see a bunch of rubble."
    “But sometimes rubble is good — in small doses. Look at that big piece of egg-and-dart molding among the pink petunias. That's a good combination," Jane persisted.
    “It's okay, I guess. If you like that sort of clutter," he said, dismissing Jane's view.
    Of course he would hate a garden like this, Jane thought. He was so tidy and crisp and somehow disgustingly clean. She assumed he was a bachelor who would consider sex to be messy and disorganized.
    “Is it," she said, "that you dislike the garden, or Ursula, or both?"
    “Both," he said without hesitation. "If I lived next door to this… mess, I'd complain to the city, put up a solid fence, or just move away. Gardens should be things of beauty and precision. Like Dr. Eastman's. Though I don't believe he is really the gardener there."
    “Not high on the chaos theory, are you?" Jane said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
    He just stared at her with confusion.
    Shelley returned from her tour picking burrs off her slacks. "Interesting place," she said to Charles and Jane. "Can you see the waterfall from here?" She turned and peered back out into the yard. "No, I guess you can't. It's… interesting. A wall of clear violently colored marbles with tiny lights behind them here and there. The water absolutely shimmers over it. Ursula says she's done all this work entirely by herself."
    “Obviously," Charles Jones said. If his face hadn't been so utterly bland, Jane would have sworn he was sneering.
    The rest of the crowd was drifting back toward the patio. Geneva Jackson was smiling slightly, shaking her head in apparent disbelief. Stefan Eckert was trying to pull an especially clingy vine with thorns off his golf shirt. Arnold Waring simply looked stunned, and Miss Martha was grin- ning as she made scribbles in a notebook. Maybe she was the only one besides Jane who saw interesting things about Ursula's garden.
    When everyone started thanking Ursula for the tour, however insincerely, she exclaimed, "Oh, but you haven't seen — or heard — everything yet. It's a proven fact that plants thrive on music. Wait here.”
    She dashed into the house, and a moment later, there was a blast of noise. Not music.
    “I know it doesn't sound terribly nice together," Ursula said, reemerging from her house. She had to bellow to be heard. "But different plants need different kinds of music. Perennials, for the most part, prefer opera. I can't imagine why, but after long experimentation, I realized it's their favorite. The cornflowers and the hostas like marches. You wouldn't think they had that in common, would you? They're not the