Rosemary Harris - Pushing Up Daisies

Great. Competition already. And from landscapers established enough to have a fleet of vehicles with their names plastered on the sides.

“Of course, it’s Richard’s decision. After all, he is the president,” she added, stretching out the verb and hinting that there was a story there, too; but time was short and I didn’t take the bait. She peered out of the thrift shop’s high casement window and into the parking lot, where she had a tire- level view of any visitors. “I don’t see his car, but it’s such a lovely day, perhaps he rode his bicycle.”

“I noticed a silver Specialized when I parked,” I said.

“That’s his. Go on, dear. He’ll need lots of help,” she said. “And you are one of our best customers. I held this for you.” From behind the counter she pulled out the lamp. It was one of those aggressively ugly lamps from the fifties that optimistic sellers on eBay refer to as Eames era, an amorphous green and gold affair almost three feet tall from base to finial with a ring of small sputniklike balls shooting out of the top. Frighteningly enough, I already owned the perfect lampshade for it.

“I’m not exactly dressed for an interview,” I said, as she painstakingly wrapped the lamp in copies of the Bulletin so old I wouldn’t have been surprised to see NIXON RESIGNS on one of them. Suddenly I felt amateurish and grubby in my baggy jeans, sweatshirt, and ever-present Knicks hat.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, finishing up. “You’re a gardener-he won’t mind. And Richard’s a newcomer, too, you know. From Boston.”

I took the lumpy package, said good- bye, and made my way up the stairs. To the right was the exit to the parking lot, and to the left was the long corridor to Richard’s office, the hallway filled with vintage photographs from Springfield’s past. I caught my reflection in the glass of one of them and made a feeble attempt to fix my hair. What the hell-all Stapley could do was say no, and what ever he decided, it wouldn’t be based on my having hat hair. Outside his office, I took a deep breath and tried to exude an air of competence. I knocked.

Richard Stapley was in his seventies, a little over six feet tall with thick white hair and a closely cropped beard. His dark eyes were framed by thin wire-rimmed glasses, and he wore the womb- to- tomb WASP uniform of light blue Brooks Brothers shirt, khaki pants, and Top-Siders.

“Have a seat,” he said in a way that was outwardly friendly but still made me feel like I was there to take dictation.

The bicycle had undoubtedly kept his weight down, but he still looked like he was no stranger to good food, good wine, and good cigars, as evidenced by the decanter, humidor, and crystal bonbon dishes on his credenza. Just under the portrait of Winston Churchill.

“One of my heroes,” he explained, when he saw me staring. “Do you play?”

Was he hitting on me? Maybe I didn’t look as bad as I thought I did. “Excuse me?”

“Do you play golf? Those look like golf clubs in your package.”

Inez had wrapped my lamp in so many layers of newspaper that it did indeed look like a set of golf clubs.

“No.” I laughed, finally at ease.

Stapley settled into his tufted leather chair and got right to my point. “I expect you’re here about Halcyon. I’ve gotten very popular with the gardening community since poor Dorothy passed. She was a fine woman,” he said, clipping off the end of a fresh cigar and rolling it between his fingers. I hoped he wasn’t going to light up, but I was hardly in a position to protest.

I spoke too fast, babbling incoherently about why I was the right man for the job, even though I wasn’t sure what the job was. Stapley nodded sagely, occasionally smiling at one of my obscure gardening references, which I couldn’t believe he actually got. (Ah, yes, what would Vita Sackville-West do?)

I was not optimistic, but less than hour later, he was giving me a hearty, politician’s handshake and wishing me well on the job. Somehow I’d managed to convince him I could handle the restoration of Halcyon’s garden. And he’d managed to convince me to do it for next to nothing.

“Here’s a copy of our Halcyon file,” he said, handing me a bulging manila folder. “Helen Cox at the library should be able to help you dig up a bit more. And the Society will hold a small event, just some wine and cheese, to raise funds for any new plants you may need. Give me a wish list and we’ll see how much we can pry out of some of these old tightwads around here.” I was on cloud nine.

He led me out to the front steps of the building to say good- bye. From the corner of my eye I saw his eyes narrow at his neighbor’s joyously tasteless holiday display.

“You won’t be sorry, Mr. Stapley.”

“I have every confidence in you.”

I needed to celebrate. There might have been no one at home to party with, but Babe would fill in nicely. Things were quiet at the diner, just a handful of stragglers and some teenage boys working up the courage to flirt with Babe.

“You again?” Babe said, looking up from her book. She switched a wooden coffee stirrer from one side of her wide mouth to the other. “You got nerve, after trashing my menu. What’s with the cat-who-ate-the-canary grin?”

“I got it.”

“You didn’t get it here.”

“The job. I got the job.” I looked at her suspiciously. “Why aren’t you more surprised?”

“Why should I be?”

“I don’t know. I was. I’m not a native, and although I am incredibly talented, it’s not as if I have a lot of experience.”

“Stapley’s not a native either-he’s only been here thirty years or so.”

“You guys are tough. Look, I’m not sure I want anyone else to know about it yet, okay? There may be a few noses out of joint that I got the gig instead of one of the established nurseries.”

“I won’t say boo, but you should consider not walking around saying ‘I got it! I got it!’ if you don’t want people to know.”

I smiled and spun around on one of the duct- taped counter stools, promptly banging my foot into a nearby seat and the man on it.

“Try not to wreck the place,” Babe said. “The Bon App й tit photographer is coming later.”

I mumbled an apology, and continued. “It was almost as if he was expecting me. I talked nonstop. I was sure I wasn’t going to get the job, so I figured I had nothing to lose. I wowed him,” I said, moving from surprise to swagger in a nanosecond. “Some of your voodoo charm must be rubbing off on me.”

Babe gave me a lopsided smile. “Stick with me, kid.”

I banged my hand on the counter, this time sloshing my neighbor’s coffee. “I am so sorry. I’m not usually such a jerk. I just got a bit of good news.”

“So I gathered,” he said. “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word.”

“My name’s Paula Holliday. Can I buy you another coffee?”

“Gerald Fraser. That’s okay. Nature’s way of telling me I’ve had enough. I’ll take a rain check, though. Congrats on the job.” He folded his paper, got up slowly, and made his way to the door. Sitting down, he looked fit and ready to spring, so I was surprised to see him move so stiffly out to the parking lot.

“Who’s that?” I asked, after he was gone.

“Like he said, Gerry Fraser,” Babe said. “Nice guy. Ex-cop. Comes in a few days a week. Walks over from Sunnyview.”

Despite the creaky moves, Fraser hadn’t looked more than fifty, fifty- five tops. “A little young to be in a nursing home, isn’t he?”

“Injured on the job. Some sort of mandatory retirement.”

“Looks okay to me.”

“Now you’re a doctor?”

“No, I’m a landscaping professional, dammit. And I’m celebrating! Give me a very large iced coffee, no sugar, skim milk, and don’t be stingy, baby.”