Front Yard (30 page)

“It's a place called Las Vegas,” said the gal ghost. A gasp went up from the humans in the crowd. “Honestly, folks, we'd never heard of it up to now. Must be kinda new.”

“Gee, I was kind of hoping for hell,” said Nan to George, followed by cries of “Hush,” “We're trying to listen,” “Keep it down, please,” and another stern look from the gal ghost. Dr. Sproot's eyes brightened as the gal ghost threw her a robe that didn't work so well because it was just as translucent and gauzy as the ghosts.

“Kind of thin material, don't you think?” Dr. Sproot said. “So, it's Vegas, is it? Well, that sounds like it just might work. What are we waiting for, spooks? There's no time like the present. Let's get a move on. Later, gators.”

“After a while, crocodile,” chirped Edith, who was still feeling the effects of the fairy dust.

With that the ghosts began rotating, faster and faster, until they became one whirling vortex of mist. With a “whoop!” Dr. Sproot was sucked in, and the mini-tornado lifted off the ground, angled off over the tops of the trees, and disappeared.

“Say,” said George. “Isn't that northeast? If my geography is correct, Las Vegas is off to the southwest.”

“Maybe they just said that to make it easier,” said Nan. “My guess? She's going to hell.” As George and Nan looked around, they saw there was no sign of the legions of plants and flowers that had been tromping around only minutes earlier. In fact, there was no sign of any other living thing. The brightening in the east signaled that dawn wasn't far off.

“Where are the girls?”

“Where are Edith and Marta?”

“Where are the Rose Maidens?”

“Well, gosh, you'd have thought they'd all stick around to give high fives or say good-bye after all we've been through here. They just vanished!”

“That means this must be a dream,” Nan said.

“But if it was a dream you wouldn't be saying that. People don't say, ‘This must be a dream' in the middle of their dreams. That's a known fact.”

“Okay, look, if this is a dream, then we should stay here and just sort of poof into awakeness like everyone else apparently did. If this is for real, this whole landscape will shrink back to its normal size, and the house will be right over there.... Hmmm, there's the house. And it looks plenty real. Well, forget that part. I guarantee you that, tomorrow, everything will be just the same as it always was. In a few more weeks, you'll forget this all happened . . . or
didn't
happen, I guess I should say.”

“Mmm-hmmm, whatever you say, Nan-bee.”

 

It was late afternoon the next day. George and Nan were sitting at the patio table, unenthusiastically slurping herbal tea, and scanning the newspaper classifieds and Nan's laptop for jobs.

“I could walk people's dogs,” said Nan, a false perkiness coloring her voice. “I hear there's a big market for that.”

“You could no doubt learn to talk to them,” said George. “I'm trying to cook up another invention. Something I can turn quickly. I'm thinking right now of a remote-control model plane that can shoot down yellow jacket nests.”

Nan shook her head.

“You're aiming way too low. How about bagging the invention thing and applying for some kind of superhero job? I mean, you're telling me that you vanquished evil last night. How about sprucing up your résumé with that, ha-ha? You could write under your ‘Qualifications' heading: ‘Able to destroy anything bad.' There's quite the demand for that these days.”

“You make fun of that, Nan-bee, as if you don't think it happened.”

“It didn't. It didn't happen, you kook. I mean, c'mon—flower soldiers and demons and Dr. Sproot all tarted up like an avenging bad angel from hell. Pul-eeze!”

“I'm telling you, it happened.”

“And I'm telling you you're delusional.”

“Well, what about the part where the
dream
world tried to take over, but couldn't? Like the vampires showing up. And my pj bottoms falling down and no one noticing. And the door to a classroom you or I hadn't been in all semester? Whaddaya make of that, huh? Dreams trying to intrude on the reality in some kind of new dimension. That's what I make of it.”

Nan snorted.

“What I do find kind of disturbing is your little middle-aged soft-porn dream featuring a naked Dr. Sproot. Good grief, George, can't your subconscious come up with something more titillating than that?”

“There's the proof!” cried George. “How could I possibly fantasize about an old hag like Dr. Sproot? It has to have been real.”

“Ba-loney,” Nan said.

“Okay, think about the here and now,” George said. “That's where the evidence is. What's delusional about two new chunks torn out of my bat and green stains on it that won't come out, huh? And how about your butcher knife? Where'd all those nicks come from, eh?”

“It's all about the power of suggestion, George. Those things were already there. They're tiny. In the case of the bat, I'll bet they're nothing but miniscule chips. You just didn't notice them before. Now, of course, you're looking for evidence and you will find it, come hell or high water.”

“Uh-oh, visitor.”

A new Volvo pulled up to the curb, and they watched a distinguished-looking man with a florid complexion and carrying a briefcase get out of the car, spot them, and begin walking toward the patio.

“And, no, Nan-bee, that's not a Rolls-Royce.”

As the man approached, they could see that he was older but not elderly, bald, and sporting a little clipped mustache. He was dressed in a starched white shirt, immaculate charcoal suit, and gray tie. A red handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his suit coat. To Nan and George, he looked British. Both concluded independently that here was someone at last who meant to conduct his business in a straightforward way, without trying to fleece or mislead them. This fellow was treading carefully on the pea gravel, which earned him extra points with Nan. He was also looking down at his feet, a welcome display of either shyness or humility considering some of the boisterous characters who'd come bounding up those steps over the past few months.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fremont?” said the man as he stepped onto the patio and offered them a thin but genuine-looking smile. George and Nan nodded.

“My name is Jones. Arthur Jones, of the Jones, Jones, Markham, and Jones law firm. I represent the estate of one Gwendolyn Price. I have some news about Miss Price's holdings and recent acquisitions that she wanted you to know about. I think I might safely say it will alter your lives somewhat.”

33

I
t was April, the great transition month. The winter had been another hard one, with six feet of snow and forty-six nights of subzero readings.

Nan wondered what the ajuga would look like, protected as it was by such a thick layer of snow. But, of course, the ajuga wouldn't be there anymore.

Another good thing about a bad winter was that it took a toll on the pests that ravage gardens during the summer. That meant there should be a drop in the rabbit population. As an added bonus, fewer squirrels would have been stripping the bark of the burning bush. But that was of no matter now, except in her imaginings.

The snow cover lingered until late March, and the ice in the smaller suburban lakes hadn't cleared until a couple of weeks ago. A few stray snows still leaked out of the leaden skies. Some accumulated, even as the Muskies attempted to play their opening home series against the hated Millers and Deerticks. There were a few cancellations. Those games would be tacked on to others sometime in the summer as doubleheaders. Despite these last rear-guard actions, winter in Livia was clearly in full retreat. As the end of the month approached in its slowpoke way, the mercury finally topped 60 degrees and by a healthy margin. A new spring sky appeared with its warmer, wetter look of darker and more sudden clouds. The soil begun its thaw. Burdick's PlantWorld was jammed with gardeners preparing for the season. The new shed Jerry built for the Fremonts was crowded with the usual tools, fertilizers, and potting soils.

As they strolled around their new property in the southeastern quadrant of the city, George and Nan wondered how they would be able to fill up one and a half acres in a way that could match what they had before.

“And this time it's all us and our green thumbs,” said George. “No good spells to help us out now. And no handy spirits to make sure everything flourishes. Though who knows what might be buried under
here
somewhere.”

“Oh, George, you don't believe in all that bosh, do you?”

“No. Of course not.”

“It's all through the grace of God. We've been blessed with some natural talent, and a dedication and work ethic few others can boast. We did it before and there is no reason on earth why we can't do it again.”

As George gazed upon their extensive grounds, which were still to be prepped for gardening, his muscles and joints began to twitch, as they always did when he was faced with the prospect of a large, physically demanding project.

Nan, eyeing every swell in the land, mentally mapped out where the big roots would be, and imagined leaves where the buds were sprouting to form a pattern of where the light and shade would fall in the summer and at what time of day.

“This will be a whole-yard job,” she said. “And it can command our undivided attention. We no longer have to even pretend we're looking for day jobs.”

“Maybe, one of these days, I'll dash off a little doggerel or come up with an invention, just to keep my hand in,” said George, snaking his arm around Nan's waist.

Their new yard seemed to go on forever. It left them with conflicted feelings.

“I miss . . .
home,
” Nan said, her eyes tearing up.

“Me too. Let's drive by and see how things are going in the old 'hood.”

As they approached the intersection of Payne and Sumac, they passed a big sign that read
ROAD CLOSED—NO THRU TRAFFIC
. Several of the lots adjoining their own had also been bought by the city and vacated. A few of the homes, including theirs, had already been torn down. They pulled up alongside what bore only a topographical and geographical resemblance to their old lot and got out to inspect a site transformed. Much of it had been cordoned off, and energetic, purposeful workers swarmed around the site. A backhoe and bulldozer were parked in their driveway, or what used to be their driveway. Much of the concrete had been pulled up.

All this had been Miss Price's doing. Shortly after the Fremonts unearthed the dragon-emblazoned chest of her ancestors and stuffed it in the trunk of her car, she had instructed her attorney to try again to buy the property, and to offer the Fremonts $400,000 this time. It would then be transferred to the city to be turned into a historical park, honoring the true founders of Livia. Miss Price was donating Livia another $400,000 from her apparently rather substantial fortune. That was to buy up one or two of the surrounding properties, raze them and the Fremonts' house, and do the proper work of restoring the lot to its natural state. Also to perhaps reconstruct Caradoc's and Livia's cabin and store, which were described in full detail in Caradoc's journals. Maybe there could be water fountains, walking paths, and nice benches on top of the rise for visitors to take in that view of Bluegill Pond.

Miss Price's attorney also drew up papers transferring ownership of the chest, with all its contents, to the Fremonts. Miss Price figured the chalice and cross, accounting for their antiquity, their rarity, and their connection to a seminal figure in the history of Wales, to say nothing of the fact that they were fashioned of solid gold, would go for at least $1 million at auction and probably much more. The chest might fetch a few hundred thousand. The clasp and inscribed stone, well, that would probably be substantially less. There was a proviso: The Fremonts would make a full presentation of the contents to the appropriate authorities, allowing them to take whatever documents and journals they might want to preserve and display for the public, and make sure the record was set straight. Finally, Miss Price offered the Fremonts $300,000 to settle their lawsuit. It was an offer they couldn't refuse.

And Miss Price had not forgotten Dr. Lick, who hadn't carried through on his threat to sue her, but
had
made good on paying his $30,000 debt to the Fremonts. Miss Price covered the debt, and gave him $100,000 for whatever pecuniary interest he might have had in the chest's contents. To further comfort him, Miss Price began to call on Dr. Lick at his office. Dr. Lick enjoyed her visits. He found Miss Price to be a kindred spirit similarly interested in the early, undocumented exploration of America by Welsh, Portuguese, Viking, and even Chinese navigators whose names had been lost to the mists of time.

“I almost expect to walk up my steps and see bleeding hearts and hosta and columbine poking up through the ground,” Nan said wistfully. “Now, it's nothing but dirt, and the steps aren't there anymore.”

George smiled and nodded. It was still hard to believe they were looking at their old property with no new life ready to burst forth from a hundred different points.

“Hey, Fremonts.”

George and Nan turned to shake hands with Roland Ready, their favorite newshound and editor of the
St. Anthony Gardener
. He had strolled up behind them from Payne Avenue, a press badge clipped to the lapel of his sport coat, and a pen and pad in hand. He looked to be bursting with new information that would have to be disgorged before causing internal injuries.

“Why, Mr. Ready,” said Nan. “It was almost exactly at this spot a year ago last August that we were talking about that other news story involving us. Remember?”

“How could I forget?” Roland said. “Quite a different story this year, isn't it?”

It was Roland who had trumpeted to the St. Anthony metro and Des Plaines region news of the discovery with a story in the St. Anthony
Inquirer
. That was, in part, the Fremonts' doing. When it appeared as though the contents of the chest would become a finding of some local significance, and the Livia city folks had delicately suggested contacts with the press, George and Nan agreed, though with one stipulation.

“We know a guy who can handle the story right,” George said. “He's been good to us in the past. We want him to be able to break the story, or, at least, get first crack at it.”

So, Roland got the call. Though he no longer worked at the
Inquirer,
his old boss liked the sound of the story he proposed, and let him freelance it. The other editors were so enthusiastic about it, that they ran it on 1A, top of the fold, Sunday.

George and Nan were scrupulous about giving credit to Miss Price and they steered Roland to her and Jim, whom they decided to recognize for his part in the discovery with 20 percent of the take from the sale of the chest and its contents, and for whom all the attention and the significance of the discovery served as a semi-permanent salve to balm his wounded heart.

Coverage of the historical find under the Fremonts' backyard didn't stop at the
Inquirer
. The interracial love story that matched Indian and European, the tragic deaths, and the lifelong crusade of Miss Price to set the historical record straight, to say nothing of the excavated chest chock full of personal treasures, was an irresistible yarn, and it struck a chord. Reporters came from all over the country to tell the tale of Livia and Caradoc Morgan, and their great-great-granddaughter, Gwendolyn Price.

Miss Price basked in the attention and the opportunity to tell the world that she was probably the only person alive able to trace her lineage all the way back to Hywel Dda and God knows how far back into the dim beginnings of a great Indian nation.

Her purpose having been served, Miss Price disappeared from public view after the first big burst of publicity subsided. The state Historical Society, which had by now taken over the project, was happy to oblige her in her wish to inter Caradoc's and Livia's remains, which she had not, as it turned out, disposed of at all, on the site, and even placed a special marker at the new burial site.

The Fremonts wondered if the Scroggit brothers would show up for the dedication, set for a year from June.

The Scroggits, it turned out, had wound up in court—in several courts, in fact—after officers responding to the gas line rupture called up their outstanding warrants.

Then, there had been a stunning reversal of fortune. Guilty pleas and shows of great contrition apparently got them off with no prison time, but hefty fines, which they had managed to pay. They had also settled with their creditors and paid all their back taxes.

Somehow, the resources had become available for the Scroggits to close their two failing local stores and donate them to a couple of local charities, then open a state-of-the-art “Scroggit Brothers Artifacts” store in the heart of Civil War country itself—Spotsylvania County, Virginia.

“Did you hear, they're probably going to name the new visitor center after Miss Price?” Roland said.

“Visitor center?” cried Nan. “They're going to have a visitor center?”

“Yes, it's on the drawing boards. And a parking lot. Probably even a concessions building. It's history that's been rewritten right here in Livia. The state's going to pony up matching money for the development and maybe more. Private foundations are chipping in, too. It'll turn into a bigger deal than Miss Price would have ever guessed. They're going to buy up some more homes, you know.”

“Yes, we had heard something to that effect. Some of our old neighbors aren't talking to us anymore. We felt badly about that. But that was completely out of our hands. We had no idea it was going to be this big. We've been sort of out of the loop here, Mr. Ready. We're got an entire new property to deal with, and more than an acre of gardens to map out and plant.”

“They were talking about taking some of the properties under eminent domain.”

“That's too bad!” said George.

“No, it's not. As it turned out, they might not have to, and I'm guessing you'll be back on speaking terms with your former neighbors before long. They're offering to pay top dollar for the properties, not to mention moving costs and relocation help. They might have willing sellers. Besides, Miss Price owned the property next to you anyway and donated it. That saved them some money right there. The idea here is to have a ten-acre site, at minimum.”

“Wow!” said George and Nan.

“Oh, Mr. Ready,” blurted Nan. “I wanted to tell you about a book I have in the works, a book about cross-cultural communication with plants.”

“Ah.”

“I've been working on it with Dr. Hilda Brockheimer of the horticultural department over at the university. We're looking for a publisher even as we speak.”

“Just let me know. One thing I almost forgot—the state architects want to construct an arbor just like the one you guys had. Same spot. The crab apples and paper birches are still there.”

“Gosh!” Nan cried. “I would have thought all our digging would have damaged their roots beyond repair.”

“Excellent idea,” said George. “For those tourists who need a little time to contemplate.”

“And they're naming it after you. ‘The George and Nan Fremont Arbor.'”

“With that in mind, we'll probably have to come over here and sit some, won't we, Nan-bee?” said George.

“Yes, and absorb some more magical powers,” said Nan, winking at Roland. “Lord only knows what we might be capable of after a few such meditations.”

 

“You probably won't mind checking in on you know who, would you, George?”

“I'm way ahead of you, Nan-bee,” said George, who was already on a route that would take them to the Breckwood neighborhood. Nan's smartphone went off. She had just made this concession to twenty-first-century technology, and already it seemed magnetically attached to her ear and thumbs. George, who was still holding out against the smartphone onslaught, grimaced; he hated that faux-wind-chime tone.

“It's Shirelle!” chirped Nan after she hung up. “She's doing fine in her new job and wants to come by and stay with us for a few days next month. Maybe even check out the new grounds. Maybe even help out planning some gardens.” Off went the sickening approximation of that sublime tinkling again.