Murder Crops Up (24 page)

“Time to do some college visiting, after all.”

“If she’s up to it.”

“She will be. She’s young and resilient. She’ll learn the lesson and forget the terror.”

“I hope so. I feel terribly guilty, like I let her get into trouble.”

“You had nothing to do with it.” Bridget noticed someone trying to pour wine from an empty bottle. “Excuse me. I’m going to get out the reserves.”

Claudia tapped her fork on her wineglass. It was time for the witty speech extempore, I supposed.

“Thank you all,” she said into the fresh quiet. “It is very nice of you to remember my birthday, although I wish some of you had remembered which one it is less well.” She looked at Melanie, who gave a coy wave.

“However, something more important than my birthday happened today.” Claudia pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket—a page torn from a magazine. “I opened up
Publishers Weekly,
and found a review of Bridget’s first novel.”

Everyone exclaimed. Bridget, emerging from the pantry with a bottle of wine under each arm, looked incredulous.

“It’s not even supposed to be out until January.”

“Reviewers are sent advance copies,” Claudia said, dismissing this with a wave of the paper. “This review is not simply good—it positively raves. ‘A luminous narrative,’ it says. ‘Montrose authentically captures the inner life of her characters.’ ‘A perfect achievement.’ It is a starred review, much coveted by authors. I congratulate Biddy. Here’s to seeing her book on the best-seller list!”

Emery gave Bridget a big hug and took away the bottles of wine before she lost her grip on them. Claudia thrust the review into her hands, and she began to read it, her face still wearing an expression of utter astonishment.

“Well, looks like Bridget might be able to pay for remodeling the kitchen,” Emery said, pulling the cork out of one bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

It was wonderful seeing Bridget so overwhelmed by her good fortune. I watched the energy of the party swirl between her and Claudia while I finished my salad. The carnation petals transformed their fragrance into the taste of vanilla in my mouth, and the peppery nasturtiums were like a series of tiny flavor explosions. I thought about the harvest I’d reap from the raised beds the next day, and the seed potatoes still waiting for me at the garden. I thought about Drake coming back from Seattle, about opening some of those doors I’d closed so many years ago.

It was almost eight o’clock. I gave Claudia a hug, and another one to Bridget, with whispered congratulations. We would talk about it all later, at the garden or in my kitchen or hers, without so many half-drunk poets around.

Then I set out into the damp, chilly night to walk the two blocks to my house—Drake’s house—and wait beside his telephone.

I had a lot to say to him.

* * * *

For the menfolks

* * * *

This book is set in one of Palo Alto’s community gardens, but no other similarity exists between real life and this work of fiction. No real people were harmed in the making of this book, since none of the characters are based on real people or resemble them in any way. (Hint: Real people don’t behave in a work of fiction. They want to go their own way. So I don’t allow them in.)

The actual community gardeners are just what you’d expect of gardeners—unassuming, nurturing, helpful to each other, and content to be left alone with their patch of earth and their seedlings. I thank them very much for the loan of their garden, and hope I give it back to them without the loss of one earthworm.