Arabica, which covered about 80 percent of the world’s coffee production, was the A-list star of the show. Grown at higher altitudes and considered high quality, arabica was the source for specialty coffees. Robusta was grown at lower altitudes and for years had been the source of cheaper blends and the basis for instant and canned coffees.
Within arabica, there were two “original” varieties, Coffea arabica arabica (or typica) and Coffea arabica bourbon, out of which many unique forms had emerged, either through deliberate breeding or accidental mutations in the fields. Two such spin-off hybrids popular with farmers were Coffea arabica cattura and Coffea arabica catuai, both of which grew much shorter than the original varieties, so they were easier to harvest. They were also more resistant to disease.
Coffea stenophylla, however, was new to me, and I asked Ellie to tell me more about it.
“Historically, stenophylla was considered to be better than arabica,” she explained. “The plant was hardier, it had a higher fruit yield, and the final product had a better flavor.”
“You’re kidding? What happened then? Why aren’t today’s farmers planting that?”
“The English took it out of West Africa in the late 1800s and grew it in their colonies—”
“That would include Jamaica then? And Ric’s old home—Costa Gravas?”
“Yes, exactly. But rust disease was a huge issue back then. It wiped out many of the plantations cultivating it. The farms had no time to recoup their losses fast, and stenophylla takes nine years to mature. Even though it produces a hardier plant with higher yields, it was abandoned in favor of the arabicas, which take only five to seven years to mature and bear fruit.”
“Okay, I follow, but where does that fit in with Ric’s breakthrough?”
“The key to Ric’s hybrid decaffeinated plant is what he and I believe is a mutation from a surviving stenophylla plant. The plant itself wouldn’t have been useful to a coffee farmer. It still took nine years to mature, its yield was low, and it produced a decaffeinated bean.”
“I follow you. A decaf bean wouldn’t have been an advantageous trait until lately, since decaf drinkers only recently became a larger percentage of the market.”
“That’s right. It wasn’t worth a farmer investing time and effort into breeding a decaffeinated plant. But Ric never felt that way. When his family was driven off their estate, he smuggled this mutated stenophylla’s seeds and cuttings into Brazil. For years, he continued his experiments in crossbreeding using Coffea arabica plants, and finally he made his breakthrough.”
“So you’re saying the key to Ric’s hybrid is a plant he smuggled out of Costa Gravas? And the authorities there might have an issue?”
“Not just there. Brazilian officials are pushing for world sanctions on biopiracy in their own rain forests. They’d look like hypocrites if they granted protection to Ric, since Costa Gravas might very well charge him with biopiracy once the word gets out.”
“And that’s why you’re helping him file for protection outside of both countries?”
“Exactly. There won’t be any issues here in the United States. Ric’s horticultural work is real and visionary, and I can attest to its value and validity. He deserves the protection.”
“You’re his champion then?”
“Yes, I am.”
I was about to ask Ellie another question when a startled look suddenly crossed her face. “Oh,” she said. “Norbert, where did you come from?”
I turned to see Norbert standing near a potted plant, next to our table. Ellie and I had been conversing so intensely, we hadn’t noticed his arrival.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tilting his curly head. “I wasn’t sure how to interrupt you without appearing rude, but I wanted to drop off that little parting gift for your friend.” He held out a canvas tote bag with the words Brooklyn Botanic Garden embroidered on the side in forest green.
“Thank you.” I took it from him. “It’s very nice.”
“Anything else, Ms. Lassiter?” Norbert asked, rolling forward onto his toes a bit. “Anything at all?”
Ellie’s eyes met mine for a second and I could tell she was recalling my Eddie Haskell joke. I could also tell she was suppressing another laugh.
“No, Norbert. That’s all. Why don’t you take your lunch now, and I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Certainly, Ms. Lassiter. I’ll see you later. And goodbye, Ms....”
“Goodbye,” I said quickly.
Norbert nodded, giving me a forced smile, then turned and departed. I watched him like a hawk until he was well out of earshot.
“Ellie, what’s the story on your assistant?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s his last name?”
“Usher, why?”
“How long has he been working for you?”
Ellie looked to the sky, calculating. “About nine or ten months. He came on before this year’s spring season.” She sighed. “I know I’m a bit short and cold with him, but he’s got a bit of a crush on me, and I’m trying to discourage it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How deep a crush?”
She waved her hand. “He asked me out a few times over the summer. Not directly, just dropping hints that I might like to go here or there with him—an outdoor movie in Bryant Park, a Sunday drive with him to Cape May.”
“Doesn’t he know you’re married?”
“He knows. He also knows about Ric, unfortunately. You’ve seen how quiet he can be. He snuck up on us a few times out in the Garden. I thought we were well hidden, but he saw us... all we were doing was embracing, but...”
“But what exactly?”
Ellie shifted uncomfortably. “It’s hard to explain, but when I’m with Ric... I’m a different person. He does something to me, Clare... he changes me...”
Oh, boy, did that sound familiar. “He’s a drug?”
“Yes. He is.”
“And you’re addicted?”
“Yes. I am.”
The years seemed to melt off Ellie when she talked about Ric. Her expression was animated, her complexion more vibrant, her hazel-green eyes bright.
My gaze fell to the gold wedding band on her finger, and I wondered how far things had gone with her old beau. She said they’d just embraced, but was that really all? Was it just a mutual admiration society? Or was it a full blown affair?
“You know, Ellie,” I said, blatantly fishing, “I was always sorry that I missed your wedding. You had it here, didn’t you?”
Ellie looked away—toward two reflecting pools standing in front of a beautiful glass structure that resembled London’s famous Crystal Palace.
“Jerry and I took our vows on Daffodil Hill, in early April—the optimum time to see the blooms. The Garden staff was there, and Jerry’s entire lab came. We had our reception in the Palm House, and, of course, there was a Times listing. It was a perfect wedding.”
The words painted a lovely memory, but Ellie’s voice was a monotone. Her buoyant expression had gone blank.
“And how’s the marriage?” I asked carefully. “Every-thing still perfect?”
“You’re asking because of Ric?”
“You loved him so much years ago. You were devastated when he left without proposing. I remember how badly you cried.”
“I cried so much because...” Ellie glanced down. She looked pained. “I was pregnant, Clare.”
For a few seconds, I didn’t move, and I questioned whether I’d heard her correctly. “You were pregnant?”
Ellie nodded.
“But you never said anything... not to me, and we were close back then. Or at least I thought we were.”