Read Online The Bluebonnet Betrayal by Marty Wingate - Free Book Online
Authors: Marty Wingate
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said, “and I’m more than willing to stick around and make sure that happens. And of course I’d love to keep working at the garden—really, I’d planned on it.”
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to go on, and I’d hate to lose all this”—she looked round the site—“but it’s got to come out. We cannot let this be in danger.” Twyla stuck her hands in the front pockets of her sweatshirt. “I knew we’d get along. I knew I could count on you.”
Pru was indignant on Twyla’s behalf. No wonder Roddy showed up at the garden so seldom—it wasn’t even his, and yet he would get the glory. Twyla deserved to be known for her work.
“I promise I’ll do everything I can.”
Twyla put her hand to her chest and exhaled. “I know it sounds like I’m talking in circles— it’s how my mind is working right now, I’m that tired. I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow. I’ll show you—meet me here first thing in the morning. It’ll be safe till then.” She tapped a finger at her temple. “I figured out a way.”
“Happy the gardener who appreciates good surprises and tolerates the disappointments. Join us in Twyla’s greenhouse for a second go-round planting of basil.”
Tips and Trends, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 8
Pru left Twyla sitting amid what would be—in a fortnight’s time—a field of bluebonnets. “I just want to soak it all in,” she said. She’d surely soak up the damp straight through her trousers if she stayed there too long, but Pru understood. Twyla had her dream, and her dream was coming true.
As Pru neared the London gate, a broad path gave way to her right, leading down to Ranelagh Gardens. She saw a flash of blue out of the corner of her eye—an ARGS sweatshirt? She stopped, straining to see into the changing pattern of light and shadow cast by leaves moving with every breeze. Someone else had stayed behind. KayAnn and Nell lurking in the copse? She walked down the path and into the trees, where a green form streaked past her at eye level and a raucous chorus descended from above. She looked up and saw her culprits—parakeets. She had mistaken their bright green for blue. Ring-necked parakeets had naturalized in Britain ages ago, and quite a flock lived on the Royal Hospital grounds. She’d heard them plenty of times, but had not caught sight of one until now.
She continued to the Tube, and sat in a half-empty car with a smile on her face, rumbling along on the District Line to the Turnham Green stop. Pru’s mind shot ahead two weeks to the gala, the evening before the Chelsea Flower Show officially opened. She pictured Christopher in a striped sport coat and linen trousers. She wore a skimpy summer dress and spike heels, and they both carried flutes of champagne as she led him round the grounds, rubbing shoulders with celebrities such as Joanna Lumley and Benedict Cumberbatch. Maybe they’d even catch a glimpse of the queen.
At the flat, she poured herself a glass of red wine, took a sip, and then got straight into the shower, after which she settled on the sofa in flannel pajamas, profoundly grateful that this would be her last single night for a while. Mrs. Miller rang to say that she would send Boris up with an article from
The Telegraph
about a Humphry Repton garden restoration, and so when Pru heard a scratching at the door, she called out, “All right, Boris, hang on a moment,” as she turned the latch and opened the door.
Christopher wobbled on one leg as he balanced a large, rectangular wicker basket on his other knee. He had a bag slung over his shoulder with another on the floor, and his key in hand. Pru gasped, and he laughed. She picked up the bag from the floor as Christopher came in and set the hamper on the entry table before taking Pru in his arms for a proper hello.
After a moment, she leaned back, braced by his hands at her waist, and said, “I’m very happy you’re here.” She detected a
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to go on, and I’d hate to lose all this”—she looked round the site—“but it’s got to come out. We cannot let this be in danger.” Twyla stuck her hands in the front pockets of her sweatshirt. “I knew we’d get along. I knew I could count on you.”
Pru was indignant on Twyla’s behalf. No wonder Roddy showed up at the garden so seldom—it wasn’t even his, and yet he would get the glory. Twyla deserved to be known for her work.
“I promise I’ll do everything I can.”
Twyla put her hand to her chest and exhaled. “I know it sounds like I’m talking in circles— it’s how my mind is working right now, I’m that tired. I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow. I’ll show you—meet me here first thing in the morning. It’ll be safe till then.” She tapped a finger at her temple. “I figured out a way.”
“Happy the gardener who appreciates good surprises and tolerates the disappointments. Join us in Twyla’s greenhouse for a second go-round planting of basil.”
Tips and Trends, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 8
Pru left Twyla sitting amid what would be—in a fortnight’s time—a field of bluebonnets. “I just want to soak it all in,” she said. She’d surely soak up the damp straight through her trousers if she stayed there too long, but Pru understood. Twyla had her dream, and her dream was coming true.
As Pru neared the London gate, a broad path gave way to her right, leading down to Ranelagh Gardens. She saw a flash of blue out of the corner of her eye—an ARGS sweatshirt? She stopped, straining to see into the changing pattern of light and shadow cast by leaves moving with every breeze. Someone else had stayed behind. KayAnn and Nell lurking in the copse? She walked down the path and into the trees, where a green form streaked past her at eye level and a raucous chorus descended from above. She looked up and saw her culprits—parakeets. She had mistaken their bright green for blue. Ring-necked parakeets had naturalized in Britain ages ago, and quite a flock lived on the Royal Hospital grounds. She’d heard them plenty of times, but had not caught sight of one until now.
She continued to the Tube, and sat in a half-empty car with a smile on her face, rumbling along on the District Line to the Turnham Green stop. Pru’s mind shot ahead two weeks to the gala, the evening before the Chelsea Flower Show officially opened. She pictured Christopher in a striped sport coat and linen trousers. She wore a skimpy summer dress and spike heels, and they both carried flutes of champagne as she led him round the grounds, rubbing shoulders with celebrities such as Joanna Lumley and Benedict Cumberbatch. Maybe they’d even catch a glimpse of the queen.
At the flat, she poured herself a glass of red wine, took a sip, and then got straight into the shower, after which she settled on the sofa in flannel pajamas, profoundly grateful that this would be her last single night for a while. Mrs. Miller rang to say that she would send Boris up with an article from
The Telegraph
about a Humphry Repton garden restoration, and so when Pru heard a scratching at the door, she called out, “All right, Boris, hang on a moment,” as she turned the latch and opened the door.
Christopher wobbled on one leg as he balanced a large, rectangular wicker basket on his other knee. He had a bag slung over his shoulder with another on the floor, and his key in hand. Pru gasped, and he laughed. She picked up the bag from the floor as Christopher came in and set the hamper on the entry table before taking Pru in his arms for a proper hello.
After a moment, she leaned back, braced by his hands at her waist, and said, “I’m very happy you’re here.” She detected a
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