Shelley and Jane took copious notes. The beginning was about soil conditions and was the first time Jane thought she might just eventually understand what grew in acid soil and what preferred alkaline conditions. She'd probably forget it later, but she'd have the clear listings in her notebook. Julie Jackson's voice, coming through Dr. Eastman's vocal cords, was clear and concise. Lists of common plants that liked acid soil in alphabetical order. What to do to alkaline soil to grow them well. Another list of sun and shade plants. Hostas, she said, could take more sun or shade than most people thought.
Dr. Jackson was theoretically opposed to strong chemicals, but admitted everyone needed at least one bottle of weed killer and described how, when, and where to use it, and not use it, and how to protect yourself, the good plants, and the pets and children from the poison.
Furthermore, she listed plants you didn't want to have in a garden if children or pets might try to eat them. The first on the list was monkshood. The second was oleander.
Jane was scribbling like mad and so was Shelley. They'd compare their notes later and fill in the blanks. Jane made a note to tell Shelley about the mystery she'd read once in which someone at a hot-dog cookout was given an oleander stick instead of a harmless one to skewer a hot dog. What was the name of the author?
Dr. Eastman had read Julie's speech so quickly that the class ended early on a somewhat breathless note. A couple of people wanted to backtrack and ask questions. "How do you have your soil tested?" Ursula asked.
Dr. Eastman explained that specialty nurseries might have testing kits, or one could contact the Agricultural Department to provide the material to do the testing.
Mention of a federal agency didn't go down well with Ursula. "How would I know if they were telling me the truth?" she said. "Everybody in the government lies.”
Dr. Eastman, who hadn't been subjected to as much of her philosophy as Jane had, merely looked at her with curiosity. "Why would anyone deceive you about soil acidity?”
Ursula waved this comment away with a gesture that dislodged a small disposable camera from somewhere on her person.
Stefan Eckert asked, "Do Dr. Jackson's notes say anything about water gardens? And the kind of plants that are best for this area?"
“I don't believe so," Dr. Eastman said. "But there's a lot of information available from thecounty extension office. Shall we adjourn the class and go see Miss Winstead's and Mr. Jones's gardens early?”
Charles Jones was on his feet at once. "Excellent idea.”
Jane murmured to Shelley that this was a good plan. It would allow them to get home early so she could arrange for the cooking lessons and be home when her "rented" garden arrived.
They rushed along to Charles Jones's house, which was as tidy and boring as he was. A front lawn as neat and well clipped as Dr. Eastman's surrounded a small, absolutely symmetrical, colonial-style home. The evergreen shrubs flanking the front door were clipped into absolutely perfect box shapes. The sidewalks and driveway hadn't so much as one errant leaf or blade of grass ruining their pristine condition.
“I hope my tires are clean enough to park here," Shelley said, pulling the van up the driveway.
Miss Winstead wasn't with them this time because her house was the second on the tour and she'd driven herself to class. She parked her car in her own driveway and strolled along the sidewalk to greet them. "Don't even think about walking on the grass," she advised. "The front yard is wired up somehow to turn on blinding lights to keep kids and dogs from daring to step off the walkways.
Charles himself arrived a moment later, and parked a boxy new Volkswagen on the street so his guests could use the driveway. "I'm so eager to show you everything," he said as Jane was levering herself out of the front passenger seat of Shelley's van.
“Should we go around this side of the house?" Shelley asked.
“No. There are no gates. We have to go through the house," he replied, waving them toward the front door. He opened a series of complicated locks and hurried ahead, presumably to turn off various alarm systems. Then he stood in the open door welcoming the others, who had all arrived at the same time.
Jane and Shelley looked around the living room. It was large but sparsely furnished, with neutral colors and bookshelves filled with computer manuals, and no ornaments whatsoever. The boxy furniture was stark and vaguely Scandinavian, and lined up like it was still on display in a furniture store.
Charles escorted them through a hall and into a kitchen that was as spotless as he was and out the back door into the yard.
There was very little grass back here. But many gardens. As sparse as the house itself. Vast areas of mulch highlighted individual specimen plants. The whole area was laid out like a grid, with square gray blocks as pathways, and each single plant was carefully labeled.
It was so Charles Jones.
Jane worked her way along a path and leaned forward to examine an interesting-looking perfectly round plant with deep red blooms and almost black centers with yellow stamens.
MONARCH'S VELVET CINQUEFOIL, the label said, fol‑ lowed by the unpronounceable Latin nomenclature. It was the single plant in the bed. There wasn't even a nice ground cover around it, just boring mulch. And the next bed was a small grouping of DELPHINIUM ASTOLAT, so the label read. Six tall spikes of ruffled pink flowers, all carefully staked. Again, isolated in their splendor and looking beautiful, but lonely.
“Why is this so depressing?" Shelley said quietly and sounding genuinely sad.
“Because it's so terribly regimented," Jane said. "The flowers are absolutely perfect and beautiful, but stand like soldiers in separate companies lined up for a picture. And look at the solid fence all around the yard. It's like a prison for the poor flowers, each in its own little naked cell.”
Ursula, across the yard, was looking downright mournfully at a plum tree that had been torturously trained to complete perfection. Miss Winstead was examining an enormous Bressingham Blue hosta with leaves that overlapped like a drawing of the ideal hosta. Her thin arms were crossed as if she were in some sort of pain. Arnold Waring was bending over to read a tag in an area where the plant was gone. Apparently executed and removed because it hadn't lived up to Jones's standard. "It was a peony," Arnie said to no one in particular.
“Probably one of those big gorgeous ones that flop around no matter what you try to do," Shelley replied.
Even Dr. Eastman, whose own garden was rigidly controlled to some extent, looked alarmed and disappointed.
Only Charles Jones was smiling. "Aren't they lovely?" he said to Stefan Eckert of a stand of hollyhocks in a vibrant red. Eckert merely nodded and moved on to the next little prison cell of flowers. A large yellow rosebush was held in place by a green metal cage and had given up fighting its confinement.
“I can't stand this," Jane said, heading back to the house to escape.
“We must find a way to thank the poor man for showing it to us," Shelley said, holding out an arm to steady Jane as she lurched along.
“I guess we must. He obviously loves what he's done," Jane said with sorrow. "Isn't that unbelievable?”
Seventeen I:.
jane was so depressed by Charles Jones's garden that all she wanted to do was go home and eat a whole lot of fudge and try to take a very long nap. She begged Shelley to run away with her, but Shelley said, "You'd be sorry if you missed Miss Winstead's garden."
“You mean she'd make sure I was sorry?”
Shelley laughed. "No, although she might. She and Charles both admitted that their gardens couldn't be more different." She kept her voice low as Miss Winstead was standing only a few feet away and urging everyone along next door.