Backyard (31 page)

“This is a miracle!” Nan cried. “Scientifically speaking, none of this is supposed to be happening!”

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say someone cast a spell on our property,” said George. “A really good spell. Or maybe it was somebody's vision.”

“Oh, c'mon, George,” said Nan. “You don't believe in that kind of nonsense, do you? It does appear that we're going to have another go-round this summer with the gardens. And next year, we can work both sides of the house, not just the back.”

George groaned. This was the coffee-fueled Nan talking here.

“The prize money gives us enough to do the entire yard. And, at least for the foreseeable future, we'll have nothing but time. But, George, the money won't last forever, you know. We can probably live off our winnings another year and a half, maybe two years at most. Lots of college expenses coming up. Shouldn't we start looking for at least some regular part-time work?”

“Nah. Let's put that one off a little longer. I've got this idea anyway that I'll get around to someday: SpellCheck greeting cards.”

“Go on.”

“These greeting cards would have computer chips implanted in them that would be sensitive to the impressions your pen makes when you write your little notes. Your card would beep when you misspell a word. No more misspelled words for birthdays, graduations, get-well events, et cetera. Eh?”

“Sounds lovely, George.”

“Hey, Fremonts!”

George and Nan turned to shake hands with Roland Ready, who had parked his car on the street and walked up quietly behind them.

“Back for more flower drama, Mr. Ready?” Nan said. “You must be a glutton for punishment. Haven't you had enough of our little garden soap opera to last you a lifetime?”

Roland laughed.

“I see you've still got your Burdick's sign up. Pretty nice touch.”

“Yep,” Nan said. “We can keep it up all the way to Halloween, they said. Someone must have known we were going to have this late-season resurrection here. They'll bring it back next spring and we can have it up for a few weeks in May. Then, I guess they save it for the next winners, whenever that might be. All they have to do is change the names. You won't believe this, Mr. Ready, but we actually saw people pull up and take their pictures next to that sign. We must have had at least three hundred visitors; isn't that right, George?”

George shrugged; he figured it was more like seventy-five, and even at that he was ready for the visitations to start tailing off.

“It was a big deal.”

“That it was,” Nan said, sighing, then laughing.

Roland's contest story had run on Sunday 1A a week and a half after the Fremonts got the news of their contest victory. It had been thorough and accurate. George and Nan admired the way Roland conveyed the seediness of the sabotage conspiracies against them without making it the entire focus of the story. Marta came across as a beacon of righteousness, converted to the straight and narrow by an inner courage and determination to thwart evil. And Dr. Sproot, as it turned out, had gotten her comeuppance.

The first day of the judging, Earlene had brazenly tramped across her yard in broad daylight brandishing a McCulloch “Pro Series” chain saw that she could barely carry, and which would come in handy if you happened to have a stand of Douglas fir needed to furnish structural framing for a few subdivisions. She plowed through three beds of coreopsis-salvia-hollyhock blend, amputated every yucca in sight, and almost took off one of her legs before the police came and had to draw their service revolvers to get her to “Put down that chain saw, ma'am.”

Dr. Sproot had refused to be interviewed but Earlene had not; she and Marta were the ones who spilled the beans on the entire debacle. Those interviews and the police report of the night's incident gave Roland enough to name all three culprits and flesh out his story nicely.

For this second, and more serious, infraction of the law Earlene had to do a week's worth of time. She also had to part with a few thousand dollars and would probably be talking to Dr. Sproot's lawyers before long.

When she got out of jail, Earlene decided to embark on another career. She signed on as manager for the newly rehabilitated Pat Veattle, who had burned all her silly costumes, emptied out fifty bottles of hard liquor, and was looking for a recording contract. Pat didn't make it into Roland's story because of space restrictions. Plus, Roland noted, as outrageous as she'd been, she had no direct bearing on the contest or the gardens.

The part about Edith's spells never made it into Roland's story, either, but for a different reason. Edith had categorized herself to the police as a mere accessory to Dr. Sproot's diabolical plot. Those with direct knowledge of her part in the scandal either kept quiet about it because they didn't believe it themselves, or believed it but didn't want anyone else to know they did. At least as far as any public notice of the affair was concerned, Sarah the Witch remained unreported and, therefore, nonexistent.

The Fremonts, whom Roland had interviewed for two hours, came across as the victims of fickle fate whose gargantuan and magnificent efforts received their just desserts despite getting a good, hard swat from Mother Nature. They talked about “the phoenix of hope rising out of the ashes of tragedy” (Nan's words), and made clear their esteem for Marta and their willingness to forgive all, even Dr. Sproot. Besides, whose fault was it that some mysterious power—perhaps even God's—had decided to act up and visit a plague of hailstones upon their garden?

“What was weird was how localized it all was,” Roland said. “Your property bore the brunt.”

The Fremonts could only shrug their shoulders and marvel at the capriciousness of Livia weather. Roland was amazed at how easy it was for them to laugh it all off and extend the hand of friendship to one and all. They had immediately invited Marta and Ham Poppendauber over for an appreciation dinner, gushing gratitude and plying them with Sagelands and Bombay Sapphire and offering them a one-fifth share of their first-prize earnings, which Marta and Ham graciously declined. They even gave them two bottles of Sagelands to take home with them. When Roland pressed them they admitted that, sure, it was a little easier to let bygones be bygones when you had a check for $200,000 in your pocket and a first-place sign in your front yard.

“And Marta Poppendauber,” Roland said. “I confess I was mystified as to why she would so willingly give up the $200,000, no matter how good-hearted she might be . . . until I discovered something.”

“Discovered what?” Nan said.

“How strong her desire was to completely discombobulate Dr. Sproot. She knew Dr. Sproot would be absolutely stricken when she found out what she'd done. So, Marta's Good Samaritan gesture wasn't quite as saintly as it seemed. Besides, her husband's long-lost aunt had just died and, much to their surprise, left him a pretty good-sized inheritance. They probably didn't need the money.”

“Aha!” Nan cried.

“Hmmm,” said George.

“They just found out about that inheritance a few days before the judging. In fact, it was the day before your storm.”

“She never told us that!” Nan said. “But she
did
want the honor. I think we can attribute
that
to the goodness of her heart. So, why wasn't the inheritance stuff in your article?”

“My decision. Marta Poppendauber is an honest person and told me in the interest of full disclosure, though I couldn't persuade her to tell me what that inheritance is worth, except that it was ‘generous.' I didn't push it. But then I figured why spoil a wonderful story of redemption with mere facts? Besides, she was already helping you before she knew about the inheritance.

“Did that make it a little easier for her to forfeit first place? Sure, it did. Still, I think we can agree that Marta Poppendauber is at heart a good person. It wouldn't surprise me if she turned most of that inheritance over to charity anyway.”

“I'd like to think she would have given up first place no matter what,” Nan said. “In fact, I
will
think that.”

“Well, I do want to do a follow-up on your gardens sometime before the summer ends.”

“Sure,” said Nan. “Anytime you want. I'll mix up a pitcher of that lemonade you liked so much. If you look around, Mr. Ready, you might just find your material popping out of the ground even as we speak. Everything's coming back from the storm already . . . in August!”

“It won't be for the paper this time,” Roland said. “I quit my job there. I'm working as the editor of
St. Anthony Gardener.
I've decided to devote my professional efforts full time to gardening now. I think we'll be able to give your yard and its comeback a nice spread.”

“Well, you'd better hang on until you see how much more actually comes up,” George said.

“I don't think there will be a problem there,” Roland said. “I have full confidence in the Fremont magic at work here.”

“Glass of merlot?”

“Nope. Was in the neighborhood and just wanted to check in. Gotta be off. I've got our next big edition to edit. I'll be in touch. So long, Fremonts.”

“Look who's coming,” said George after they waved Roland out of the driveway and out onto Payne Avenue.

Bounding his impatient way up the driveway with those long, loping strides of his was Jim Graybill, lugging along with him his TreasureTrove XB 255.

“George! Nan!” shouted Jim.

“Jim!” they shouted right back.

“I have a proposition,” said Jim, breathless from excitement and his semi-trot over the length of two blocks. “Let me sweep your
front
yard. I have this feeling there might be something down there worth finding. Call it my gut instinct, my nose for treasure.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Nan with a chuckle. “Well, what happened to that gut instinct in the
back
yard, huh?”

Their backyard destroyed, the Fremonts had allowed Jim to root around where his metal detector had signaled hot spots. What he came up with was a couple of flattened cans, a padlock, and a few large rusted screws that were undoubtedly very old. Jim went all sheepish and shy, and stared down at his shoes.

“Yes, that didn't work out. Sorry. False alarm.”

“No harm done,” said George. “Perk up there, Jim. Nan says we're digging up the front yard next year for new gardens. So, by all means, have at it. Not now though, Jim; we've got guests coming over.”

Once Jim loped off toward home, George retrieved two bottles of Sagelands from the wine rack; the McCandlesses and Winthrops would be arriving soon. So as not to put on big award-winner airs, George changed from the expensive polo shirt he had bought when he and Nan went on a shopping spree into his navy-blue Jethro Tull 2005 American tour T-shirt, and donned his sweat-stained Muskies hat.

Nan sat down on one of the new patio chairs she had bought on a separate shopping spree and cast her frowning disapproval upon the Miguel de Cervantes wood sculpture. Much to her dismay, George and Jerry had rescued Miguel from what she hoped would be a mortal wound, sanded out the dinks caused by the hailstorm, filled in the tomahawk groove with faux-wood putty, and repainted it to make it even more conspicuous than before.

George appeared, open wine bottle in hand, filled the four glasses placed on their new wrought-iron-and-tile-topped table, then gave the bottle that no-spill little wrist turn he could do as deftly as any maître d' worth his salt in a four-star restaurant.

A couple of short beeps announced the return of Sis and Shirelle in Sis's new 4x4. Spurred by the resurrection of the backyard, they had just been to Burdick's to get a few more gardening supplies. Shirelle was eager to get to work as Nan's new helper.

And what about that Sis! Look at how much she'd matured since the storm, thought George and Nan. No longer the pouty, oversensitive Sis, she had become Mary, their invaluable helper, throwing herself into their renewed gardening efforts with a verve that put them both to shame. Nothing like a little disaster to get the gears of maturity grinding, thought Nan; George could really benefit from Mary's example. One thing was for sure: neither one of them would ever call her Sis again.

As for Cullen and Ellis, they kind of took after their dad, didn't they? Nan reflected with affection. Winsome, heroic when they needed to be, and, like most men, no help at all when the situation allowed it.

After Mary and Shirelle dumped their last bags of potting and fertilizer next to the shed, Shirelle headed back to the truck.

“One more thing,” she said. “A surprise.”

Mary tittered. When she returned from the truck, Shirelle carried a small shrub about six inches high, its roots encased in a large black plastic container. As she got closer, Nan began laughing.

“What's so funny?” said George. “A little too much Sagelands there already, Nan-bee. Don't gag on it, please. What could be so funny about a plant, especially one that hasn't learned to communicate yet?”

“This is our very special gift to you,” said Shirelle. She hoisted up the plant for George to get a good look at it. “A new angel's trumpet. It's what your wife and daughter said you wanted more than anything else. So, on behalf of Mary and Mrs. Fremont and myself, let this be a token of our wishes for many, many wonderful gardening years to come. Oh, and please use gloves and safety goggles when handling.”

Acknowledgments

H
ere are some of the folks who bear the burden of making
Backyard
possible. Should you find this book riddled with inaccuracies, misconceptions, and notions that defy the conventions of accepted gardening behavior, blame them!

 

Many thanks go out to my editor at Kensington, Martin Biro, whose suggestions have invariably made this book better, and whose meticulous attention to detail continues to amaze. My agent, Peter Rubie, at FinePrint Literary Management, salvaged
Backyard
from his agency's scrap heap of orphaned manuscripts, then promptly made selling it seem effortless. It all began with my former agent, Marissa Walsh, who charged right in where so many others feared to tread and steered
Backyard
onto its proper course. Even though I never got to speak with her, thanks also to Kensington acquiring editor Audrey LaFehr, who, thank God, bought the book shortly before deciding to leave Kensington for the Rocky Mountains.

If it seems as if I'm an expert gardener, that's because there are some true experts who helped me pull off this masquerade. Special thanks go to master gardener and former colleague Mary Jane Smetanka, who fact-checked the manuscript, one draft after another, and served as my horticultural sounding board on more occasions than I can count. My mother-in-law, Joyce Sandahl, endured many an early-morning flower question as I drained her coffeepot and perused her endless supply of gardening catalogs. Finally, the greatest tribute of all goes to my dear wife, Jennifer, who is also my favorite gardener and most accomplished teacher.