The Bluebonnet Betrayal (3 page)

“Ms. Parke, may I introduce our garden's sponsor?” Roddy asked, after which he stuck his hands in his pockets and closed his mouth.

“Ford,” the young man supplied, smiling broadly. “Thomas Ford. Ford. Thomas. Ford.”

“Pru Parke, lovely to meet you.” Pru tried to sort out just how many “Fords” that made, but couldn't, until she looked down at the business card he held out. He was Forde Thomas Forde. She shook his hand and smiled back.

“Yes.” Forde nodded. “Mr. MacWeeks has just been telling me all about you, haven't you, sir? By the way, sir, I wanted you to know I've sent my sponsorship information for the leaflet directly to the printer, just as you asked. Sent and received.”

“Cheers,” Roddy muttered, turning away from Chiv, whose gaze looked as if it might be able to scorch a hole in Roddy's back.

“Are you with GlobalSynergy, Mr….” Pru floundered, unsure of which or how many names to use.

“Forde, please. I have my own company, Ms. Parke, as Mr. MacWeeks—” He looked over his shoulder to an empty space. “Now where's he gone? It's a pity he had to rush off. My company is BlueGreen Enterprises,” he added, pointing to the business card Pru held. She looked close and in the corner saw a blue smudge that she couldn't make out. She held the card at arm's length and the blue smudge came into focus.

“Is that a bluebonnet?” she asked.

“Pru, I could use a hand here,” Chiv said, pulling the tarp off the frame of the shed.

“Coming,” Pru called and moved to help, saying over her shoulder, “Sorry, Forde, perhaps we could talk later? We really need to get this shed assembled—it's our only storage for the garden. Plus, the front will be part of the hill country display.” And they could use an extra pair of hands.

“Not to worry, Ms. Parke,” Forde said. Pulling off the hood of his poncho as the clouds broke, he followed her. “You just continue your work. This display means a great deal to me—and, of course, GlobalSynergy. You probably know it's all because of my research at Newcastle University.”

Ah yes, now Pru put a finger on his accent—it had a slight Geordie sound to it, dropping the final “r” and swallowing any “t” in the middle of a word. “Are you on the faculty there?” she asked. As Chiv took one end of a section of siding, she took the other and they heaved it up against the frame.

“It's my postgraduate work,” Forde said at her shoulder, raising his voice as Chiv began screwing the siding into a stud using the power driver.

Pru sank to her knees in the mud, putting a shoulder up against the corner to line it up. The power screwdriver whined in her ear. “And you have your own company?” she shouted politely, wishing Forde would either lend a hand or go away. He appeared disinclined to do either. She stood, almost knocking him over, and he followed her to the other side of the shed where Chiv struggled to lift an unwieldy length of lumber. Pru took hold of one end.

“My company is new and based on my research,” Forde said, talking directly in her ear, “which resulted in a unique discovery that will revolutionize the biofuel industry. GlobalSynergy is extremely interested in acquiring BlueGreen Enterprises for that reason, and they've allowed me to represent them as we enter into negotiations regarding my…proprietary process.” Forde launched into an enthusiastic description of subsidiaries, contracts, and the worldwide energy shortage.

Pru let all this talk of business flow into her ears and work its way to the back of her brain, where it leaked out. What did she care of subsidiaries? Chiv kept his head down and didn't engage Forde, and Pru was beginning to understand why. Did the young man ever shut up?

“…of course, I'm not at liberty to say how, but I've discovered a way to increase the biofuel's efficiency twentyfold using a particular enzyme in the seeds.”

At last a word Pru understood. “The seeds of what?” she asked as she took a hammer and banged a corner of siding to seat it properly.

Forde's eyebrows lifted. “Bluebonnets, of course.”

“The Austin Rock Garden Society (ARGS) is not affiliated with any national or international organization, but stands on its own merits to learn, preserve, and disseminate information as it sees fit without being told what to do. We are more than rocks and stones.”

Article 2, Section 3, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society

“Biofuel from bluebonnets?” Christopher asked that evening on the phone. “That's his university research? How did a boy from Newcastle choose a plant from Texas?”

“He was an exchange student and spent his junior year of high school in Austin, and his chemistry teacher was none other than Twyla Woodford,” Pru said, her voice echoing as she stuck her head in the empty fridge looking for something to eat. “He did a project on bluebonnets while he was there, and it led him to more research at uni. I'm not sure, but maybe Twyla was a long-distance member of his master's committee or an advisor or something. I'll get the whole story on Saturday when I collect the women. I'll get them settled in the house they've rented, and then I'll take them out for a pint. Let them experience an English pub.”

A pub was just what Pru needed at that moment. Perhaps she'd pop down to the Green Man on the corner for a bowl of soup.

Saturday late afternoon, Pru stood poised outside of arrivals at terminal five, Heathrow Airport, trying to catch her breath and concentrate on the people dribbling out the door from baggage claim. Had she missed them? Next to her, a man in a suit held a sign close to his chest—a driver looking for his customers. Perhaps she should have made a sign that read Austin Rock Garden Society. Pru had no idea what the women looked like, except for Ivory, whom she hadn't seen in twenty years. Short, African American, round. At that time, her hair had been shoulder length, straight, and glossy.

With the arrival of the six women, including ARGS president Twyla Woodford (
She's a doll!
), they at last would have some semblance of a real crew. And Pru would have someone to explain to her how it came to be that the Austin Rock Garden Society landed at the Chelsea Flower Show and why she was called in to “save their bacon” just before construction began.

She hopped out of the way as a laden luggage trolley narrowly missed knocking into her, and glanced behind her to the Costa Coffee counter, dearly wishing she could dash over to get a flat white.

The rain had returned that morning as she and Chiv had dug the trench for the serpentine wall. Iris and Teddy were making a day's journey to and from Hereford to the nursery—home base for A. Chiverton Gardens—to check on the plants, which wouldn't be shipped up to London for another week or so.

There had been no sign of Roddy, but their young sponsor, Forde Thomas Forde, had made an appearance and hovered near Pru's shoulder rabbiting on about financing, the control of ideas, and venture capital. He crept up to the edge of the trench, and Pru's heart leapt with joy when she looked at his feet.

“Forde, are you wearing steel-toed boots?” she had asked.

“Oh,” he said, stepping back, “should I be? I'm not actually doing any work.”

That's for sure
. “Sorry, yes, you do need them. If you're caught on the grounds wearing regular shoes, well, we could be in big trouble.”

Forde had apologized and promised he would go out shopping that very afternoon, because he didn't want to miss any of the garden creation. As he had hurried away, Chiv looked up at her, smiling.

“Did you not mention he could borrow a pair from the press office caravan?” he had asked.

“Silly me,” Pru had said, hitting her forehead lightly with the heel of her hand and smiling back. “It must've slipped my mind. Well, too late now.”

Chiv rested a foot on his spade. “You're a good worker,” he told her. “I didn't know if you'd be back after the first day—I thought you might be just for show.”

“I'm not for show,” Pru said. “I'm a gardener.”

“Sorry I let them loose on you—bloody MacWeeks and that boy. I should've warned you they wouldn't leave you be.”

She forgave him—just. Through phone calls, texts, and emails, she had become the repository of every request, comment, and boast from both the designer and sponsor of the garden. The night before, Forde had sent her the link to his student page at Newcastle University, which touted all his many accomplishments, and Roddy had texted to ask if she knew anyone working at the
Daily Mail
. But it didn't matter any longer, because she was about to hand off the entire kit and caboodle to Twyla.

But there had been no sign of Roddy that morning, and after lunch, as it neared time for Pru to start her journey to Heathrow, she grew reluctant to leave. Chiv had gone into meditation mode about the wall again—it apparently took a great deal of study before he laid a stone—and only waved at her when she left.

Another clutch of people now emerged from arrivals—men, well dressed in matching sport coats with
SUSSEX COUNTY CRICKET CLUB
on their luggage. She sighed as the crowd petered out again. Unconsciously, she put her hand deep into her cavernous canvas bag, feeling around for her coin purse, the need for coffee overwhelming her sense of responsibility. While her hand was lost at the bottom, her phone rang.

She couldn't answer, not now. She must focus on arrivals, greet the women. She was itching to be rid of all responsibility for the garden. She had thought she would be merely a stand-in for the Austin women, but the few days she'd been at the garden, she'd had little support from Texas. Chiv had sent her off to a meeting with the assistant show director, Arthur Nottle, when Roddy didn't show up; Forde seemed insistent on explaining to her something called molecular orbital theory; and she had learned that Iris abandoned whatever job she was doing to stand by her man if Pru and Chiv so much as said “good morning” to each other.

Now that would change. But her phone continued to ring. No, she wouldn't answer. Unless it was Christopher. Her hand wrapped round her phone and she looked at the screen.

Roddy.
Crap.
All right, then—this would be the last time she'd have to listen to him—let Twyla look after him from now on.

“Hello, Roddy.”

“Listen, Pru, here's the thing—I've a serious commitment to the Leicester council for a new landscaped public space near the common in that city and I'll need to just jet up there for a day or two.”

“What?”
Pru shouted, and a woman standing next to her flinched. Pru dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “You can't leave me. You have responsibilities.”

“I won't be away long, and you're doing such a fine job. Just keep it on the QT, will you?”

“Roddy, what am I supposed to tell people?”

“It won't be a problem, Pru.”

“You think Twyla will be your cover? I see now how much of a commitment this has been for you.”

Pru heard him suck in a breath. “Oh God, I forgot. Right, I tell you what—I'll be there first thing tomorrow. I wouldn't want to miss her. Them. You'll mention that, won't you?”

Pru rang off without answering. “I can't believe he's doing this,” she muttered, opening her bag and shoving the mobile phone to the bottom as if that would keep Roddy off her back.

Behind her, she heard a voice call out, “Pru Parke, you get your butt over here and give me a hug.”

Of course she recognized Ivory—she looked exactly as she had two decades earlier, apart from her hair, which had exploded in a halo of tight, frizzy black-and-gray curls that fell almost to her shoulders. Pru broke away from the waiting crowd and hugged her as several other women gathered, parking their wheeled suitcases that dangled with the detritus of a long journey—neck pillows tied to handles, half-empty water bottles stuffed into zippered compartments.

“Welcome to England,” Pru said to the group.

“Let me introduce you,” Ivory said. “You don't know any of these women, but they sure do know you. I've been telling them all sorts of stories about you—I remember the time you dyed the water in all the fountains at the Dallas Arboretum green for St. Patrick's Day. Okay now—here are KayAnn and Nell. They're the babies of the group.”

KayAnn and Nell looked to be in their thirties, about twenty years younger than Pru, Ivory, and the other Austin women. Both waved and said hi. One was pale with red highlights in ash-blond hair, the other with milky-brown skin, dark hair, also with red highlights. Apart from that, they could've been the Doublemint twins—they had identical hairstyles cut at such severe angles they looked as if they had puppy-dog ears. Their outfits matched as well—yellow sateen shorts over patterned black tights, brown sheepskin boots, and cardigans that reached just past their bums. Their nails were painted in red, white, and blue with a lone star.

“And this is Sweetie,” Ivory said.

Sweetie dropped her shoulder bag and flung her arms round Pru. A mass of layered salt-and-pepper hair tumbled into Pru's face, causing her nose to itch until Sweetie stepped back, dipped her head, and tucked a strand of the wildness behind her ear. “We are so happy to see you—I've never been outside of Texas before and I didn't know what we were gonna do when we got here.”

“Rosette Taylor.” Ivory nodded to the fourth woman. She was the only one of the group who didn't look as if she'd spent the past ten hours on a plane—buttoned-up jacket and fresh lipstick.

“Pru.” Rosette gave her a tight smile.

“Happy to meet you all,” Pru said, running through the names in her head and wondering which was KayAnn and which was Nell. “Oh, but not all.” She looked past them to the arrivals door. “Is Twyla still waiting for her bags?”

The group froze, cutting their eyes at Ivory, who locked her gaze on them as she spoke to Pru.

“Twyla didn't come.”