Page 68 of The Botanist's Assistant
“Not everything, but this, yes, is not a good thing to touch.”
“I have to stop the deal.”
“You should.”
“If I don’t come back, send my stuff to Canada. I’ll mail you the address,” he shouts and sprints from the room.
Margaret looks after him.
There is only one thing to be done.
She phones Veronica Ann Deaver, who tells her to come by the house at four o’clock.
Margaret is glad it’s too early for cocktails.
Veronica Ann answers the door in a pair of slim black pants with a sleeveless ebony blouse that looks like something a twenty-first-century samurai might wear. Both are made of cotton with a row of small red-and-black-speckled buttons along the outside seams of the pants. Thick ribbons of satin crisscross the shirt at the chest. Margaret half expects the woman to pull an ancient Japanese sword from behind her back.
“Come in,” Veronica Ann says. “Would you like tea or a glass of water?”
Margaret is still wary. “I’m fine.”
Veronica gestures toward the huge living room and Margaret makes sure to avoid the torture chair she chose before. She settles on a love seat with a pretty woven throw tossed over one of the armrests. It sits across from the white couch where Veronica Ann has arranged herself. Her long dark hair falls heavily over one shoulder and she wears pale lipstick. The scene is like a painting that might be titledBeautiful Widow on a Spring Day.
“First, I want to apologize for the last time I saw you,” Veronica Ann says. “I’ve been having such a hard time since Jon died, and seeing you, well, it triggered all kinds of memories of what Jon and I had before, and I just felt this sudden wave of rage that he’d left me like this. He was so wrapped up in his work and I was so wrapped up in regret, we stopped being able to see each other. We never had time to talk through things and apologize for hurting each other before hedied. I lashed out at you because you were handy and he admired you so much.”
“I understand,” Margaret says.
“Plus, it’s not true what I said about being glad Jon is gone. I’m not.”
Veronica Ann picks at an invisible piece of lint on the beautiful blouse.
“By the way, that yellow-red picotee begonia is one of my favorites. Jon brought it back from Belgium two years ago.”
Margaret ducks her head. “I shouldn’t have been taking cuttings without permission.”
“Don’t worry. I do it myself. You can’t be a plant lover and not be tempted by theft. I would say some plants even encourage stealing by being so beautiful or easy to root. Are you sure you don’t want a glass of water?”
“I’m good,” Margaret says.
She is not.
She is jumpy and nervous and humiliated at being discovered nipping someone else’s plant, even if it was a ruse to cover a more important mission. She only hopes no one reported seeing her peering over the neighbor’s fence like some Kilroy, the little graffiti man with the big nose from World War II.
Veronica Ann’s chest rises and falls in a soft sigh. “I also want you to know I’ve changed my mind. I want you to have your leaves.”
Margaret almost doesn’t believe her ears. “Oh, Mrs. Deaver. Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”
“I have one condition, though.”
Margaret’s thoughts pull up short.
“I’m going to make a bid to step into Jon’s place and head the Deaver Lab, and I’ll need your support in order to do it.”
Margaret opens her mouth to speak but Veronica Ann lifts a finger.
“I know it’s a long shot, but before you say anything, let me tell you why that will be good for you; good for the work.I know I mentioned how I recognized the potential of the stinging bush even before Jon did and how my thoughts focused his research. Well, that’s not the only time. I’ve been part of several of Jon’s discoveries. His initial work onHippeastrum stapfianum? I pushed him in that direction.Urtica dioicaas an anti-inflammatory? My idea too. I have the notes to prove it.”
Even on a good day, Margaret doesn’t like surprises. Why would anyone crave the unexpected jolt, the startle of recognition? Who, for instance, likes feeling duped by information you never suspected? Who enjoys knowing that you missed every sign of the surprise party being planned, which makes you question the fading power of your brain? No. None of that is appealing.
