The Body in the Ivy Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Whatcan I smell?” Over the years she had perfected her olfactory acumen and could sit for an hour or more isolating the fragrance of her flowers, the smell of her vegetables, herbs, the scent of the grass, the trees, the shrubs, the soil, even—occasionally—an animal. She’d turned over one of the raised beds before she got sick, and it beckoned like Odysseus’ sirens with their irresistible song, “We know all things which shall be hereafter on the earth.” So apt. But the money beckoned with another chant that would have melted any wax.
    She was stunned when the author Barbara Bailey Bishop’s assistant had called in February and asked her to present a weeklong series of lectures on topics of her own choosing to a group of dedicated gardeners on Bishop’s private island, noted for both its cultivated and wild landscapes. She had not known that Bishop, an avid gardener, was a fan of the column Christine wrote for a small gardening magazine. Yes, she’d had articles in H&G and some other publications, but was best known by the cognoscenti for this column, “Young Herbaceous” (no longer as appropriate as it was when she’d started it). Bishop’s assistant had named a fee that instantly became a new greenhouse with all the bells and whistles. She’d said yes right away and had spent the intervening months planning the greenhouse and the talks, happily going through her slides. One would focus on Lady Salisbury, Britain’s preeminent historic garden designer, who had labored for over thirty years on those of her former home, Hatfield House, a Jacobean palace. Christine had corresponded with the Dowager Marchioness for many years, and whenever Chris was in England they chatted in person, spending many golden hourslauding organic insect control, despising pesticides, and above all, extolling the importance of talking to one’s plants— really talking to them. Another session would focus on dirt, a marvelously complex topic dear to every true gardener’s heart. Another, a full day of walking around the island, a kind of “what would you do if you were head gardener/landscaper?” day. A challenging, fun day.
    The panic hadn’t set in until last week when she realized that she was actually going to have to do it all. Go to a new place. Be with strangers. Talk to them. It was one thing to give a single lecture to a garden club. That was bad enough. Quite another to be the captive star attraction for an entire week.
    Besides, she wasn’t used to talking to that many people. Plants, yes, people, no. She took a deep breath. Her mouth and nose were filled with the scent of the garden. She picked Perdita to concentrate on, a fragrant apricot-colored rose from the British rosarian David Austin. It would continue to bloom all summer. “Rosarian,” a funny word—was Austin a Rotarian, as well? Her glass was almost empty. She stood up and stretched. Her friend Emily would keep a close eye on the garden. There, she did, too, have people to talk to besides plants.
    As quickly as it came, her mysterious illness would leave her. She could feel it ebbing away now as she drained the glass of ginger ale. She would be tired for several days, but she’d be able to control the nausea by eating lightly, virtually not at all. She could pass the whole thing off as a new diet she was trying. It was a group of women. They’d understand. Probably too well.
    It was almost eight o’clock. She’d be able to make the noon flight. Christine went into the house to make her call. She had to have that greenhouse.
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    Margaret Howard was ecstatic. At last, one of her major goals as Pelham’s president was about to be fulfilled: she was going to meet Barbara Bailey Bishop and she was going to accept the author’s most generous donation to date—an endowed chair plus funds for the renovation of the library’s writing center,