The Azalea Assault (2 page)

“Cammi! There you are! You look lovely!” Neil Patrick stepped onto the porch to greet her. He was host of this event, founding member of the Roanoke Garden Society, and a perfect blue-blooded Southern gentleman. Cam adored him in all ways but one: he insisted on calling her Cammi.
She would have thought, given his love for flowers, he would prefer Camellia, her full name. She preferred that to Cammi herself, though she liked Cam best. She chastised herself. Most men her father’s age got a free pass, but Neil’s young wife, Evangeline, had changed her charitable attitude. A man married to someone born in the same decade as Cam should be more attentive to her preferences, but, as usual, she bit her tongue.

“Mr. Patrick, it’s wonderful to see you. Have you met my friend Annie? She’s helping Petunia with some of the catering.”

“Oho!”

Mr. Patrick looked as if he’d never seen anything quite as outrageous as Annie. Cam felt a little defensive, though Annie probably should have known the nose ring wouldn’t fly with this crowd. Her clothes were actually rather conservative, so far as Annie went—a gypsy skirt, Birkenstocks, and a peasant blouse.

Fortunately, Annie was unfazed by anyone else’s judgment. She’d decided as a teen she didn’t care for anyone’s approval who judged on first impressions.

“Where would you like me to set up breakfast, Mr. Patrick?” Her smile was straight and sincere, and it had the effect it always did. Mr. Patrick’s short white mustache twitched in a smile.

“There’s a tent off the patio, just through there.” He gestured and Annie began to carry the various trays through the house, leaving Cam to Mr. Patrick.

“You have a lovely home, Mr. Patrick.” It was true—classic Georgian architecture, perfectly decorated. “The magazine crew should be here in an hour. I hoped we could make a list of ‘can’t miss’ features before they get here. Does that sound good?”

He nodded, smiling, less shy than usual, probably because there was no media spy pestering him about his marriage to the youthful former Miss Virginia.

“Let me show you something.”

He looked like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar. His blue eyes twinkled as he held out his elbow for Cam. She allowed him to guide her up the stairs, realizing halfway up how it might be misinterpreted if a photo were snapped. When she reached the top of the stairs and saw all the natural lighting through the French doors, though, she pushed ahead of her host into a room with a full wall of windows. It was a drawing room of sorts, but the focus was obviously the natural beauty behind the glass; the garden below spanned an acre, at least. When Cam threw open the other set of French doors and gasped, Mr. Patrick chuckled.

She looked down on his property and the majestic background.

“I’ve never seen such a thing. It’s amazing!”

Mr. Patrick led Cam onto the balcony.

At the center of his garden was a fountain with streams of water shooting up like stamen; the yellow water lilies floating in the fountain’s pool looked, from a distance, like the pollen at the center of a flower. The arrangement radiated outward, a pattern of flowers that, from this height, created a perfect mural of a stargazer lily. Whites, reds, and pinks were perfectly distributed, allowing the bushes and smaller plants to create a breathtaking illusion.

Cam was surprised, then, when Mr. Patrick leaned forward over the rail, pointing to a near corner, not part of the magnificence at all. “That trellis over the sundeck was built by none other than your daddy.”

“Really? I didn’t know you knew my father.” Now that she’d noticed the trellis through the lush wisteria, she could see the beautiful craftsmanship; it had just been humbled by the extravagant floral display.

“I don’t, really, not well. He built it when my father lived here.”

Cam admired it a moment and then focused on the main garden again.

“We’re lucky it’s been an early spring. This is a lot more advanced than normal for April, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“We’ll definitely need shots from here, probably at several times of day, as I’m sure that view changes with the sun.”

“Oh, that’s true. It’s spectacular at sunrise. You don’t suppose that fancy photographer would come for sunrise, do you?”

He looked so hopeful that Cam couldn’t bring herself to answer honestly. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.”

The truth was, it was a huge coup for the Roanoke Garden Society to have lured Jean-Jacques Georges to do the photography shoot. It was an effort somehow managed by Samantha Hollister, the current RGS president, but Cam had heard he could be a bit difficult.

Garden Delights
was the premiere national magazine for garden lovers, and Cam had been courting them for seven months. Jean-Jacques was exactly the enticement they had needed to believe RGS had a package worth presenting. A famous photographer would do nothing to hurt their circulation, so they agreed to come to Roanoke for the feature. Cam was sure it would be worth it.

“Show me ‘Summer.’” She smiled at Mr. Patrick. One of the reasons the Patrick estate, La Fontaine, had been chosen for the shoot was a row of three greenhouses kept in specific conditions to display the region’s finest foliage of all four seasons, with the fourth displayed outside—a full year of Virginia’s glory on any given day.

He led her down the stairway at the side of the balcony that allowed access to the gardens directly from the upper level. The house had definitely been adorned with all the details to allow maximum garden enjoyment.

As they approached, Cam could see none of the greenhouses had a spot of discoloration, though the “Summer” house did have the telling haze of humidity gathered on the roof. The greenhouses always held samples of in-bloom flowers for each season. It was labor-intensive, but Neil Patrick had a fabulous gardener. Mr. Patrick also helped maintain the grounds. He loved gardening, and he spent time
pruning and preening almost every day. Cam doubted he spent much time weeding, though. His nails looked too well manicured for that.

After the greenhouse tour, a woman approached them. “Monsieur, the magazine staff have arrived.”

“Thank you, Giselle.”

Cam frowned as Giselle walked away. The woman’s Southern drawl was not French, whatever pretending she tried. “She’s not really a Giselle, is she?”

“No. Sally, I think. I find the staff is more content if they feel they’re playing a role.” He smiled indulgently. “It was Evangeline who taught me that,” he said as he led her in.

Cam smirked at how adoring Mr. Patrick was of his young wife. She supposed she was happy for them, no matter how odd the age difference seemed to her.

“You’re here! Wonderful!” Mr. Patrick bellowed a few moments later as he met the new arrivals in the foyer. “I’ve got you in the servant’s house!”

The servant’s house was opposite the greenhouses, and quite nice, but Cam could see the magazine staff was a little put out, so she added, “It’s beautiful, and closest to everything you’ll be shooting. You’ll love it.” She hoped they would believe her, then realized she needed to introduce herself. “I’m Cam Harris, the RGS public relations representative.”

The taller man wore his hair in spikes that were bleached at the ends. He held out his hand but didn’t smile. “Ian Ellsworth, photo editor.” He then introduced his lighting man and his assistant. Cam wished he at least had the courtesy to make eye contact with Mr. Patrick.

“Mr. Patrick, would you like me to do the tour?” Cam asked, feeling it unwise to pit artistic arrogance against privilege.

“Do! Do!” He shooed them away. “I’ve got three board members arriving soon, so you kids go ahead and get to work.”

Cam gave a reverse-order tour, thinking the mosaic of
flowers from the balcony was a wonderful finale. She explained the seasonal greenhouses as she led them on a sweep through, pointing out the highlights. “Winter” included several varieties of berries on decorative bushes and evergreen shrubbery; “Autumn” held caryopteris, scotch heather, and witch hazel; and “Summer” had such variety that Cam felt lightheaded from the brightness and aroma just entering.

She addressed the highlights she and Mr. Patrick had discussed. Ian largely ignored her, never acknowledging her suggestions. He pointed out other items of interest, though “interest” seemed the wrong word, based on his bored expression. The assistant, Hannah, made copious notes while Tom, the lighting man, just squinted and alternately nodded or frowned, mumbling about the amount of work needed to put various selections in optimum lighting.

They exited the last greenhouse and began walking the “lily leaves” of the garden, Cam stopping at the collection of rhododendrons and azaleas. The areas of brightest coloring had rhododendrons at the center, surrounded by the azaleas, which then tapered toward the white of tulips, hyacinth, and assorted flowering ground cover.

Hannah, the assistant, was drawn farther up a tributary, so the rest followed her.

“It’s too bad we can’t do scratch-and-sniff photos. This is heavenly!” she said.

Cam agreed, explaining that the most fragrant flowers had been segregated. She and the magazine crew now stood among the sweet olive, a deep green bush with small, wonderfully scented white flowers.

“It’s so visitors can enjoy each, rather than having their senses saturated to the point where they don’t notice the fragrances anymore.”

As she shared the information, she guiltily thought this had only been a rumor. She would double-check with Mr. Patrick later. Unfortunately, the photo editor and lighting
man didn’t seem to share their girl Friday’s fascination with aroma.

As noon approached, Cam decided it was time for the finale, so she led them up the outside stairway to the balcony. They followed diligently, though the lighting man now looked as bored as his boss. As they reached the top of the stairs, though, Ian threw his arm out, stopping the rest, and went to the balcony rail alone. Finally, after what seemed a long time, he looked back at Cam.

“That’s spectacular.”

“Isn’t it? Mr. Patrick said it’s best at sunrise, but I think it’s
always
spectacular.”

“I’d have to agree. It’s high noon, and though the white reflects too much to photograph right now, it’s still phenomenal.”

Cam asked about getting a sunrise shot, and Ian, without refusing, confirmed her fears about Jean-Jacques Georges and how prickly he could be. Tom, though, pointed out a true artist knew the magic of timing and would surely cooperate. It was the most she’d heard him say—out loud, at least.

Hannah looked vaguely adoring, and Cam wondered if the mousy girl had a crush on this odd, quiet man.

Ian spoke hesitantly, breaking the moment. “I don’t know… Jean-Jacques is used to fashion models and artificial settings.” It was the first break in Ian’s confidence she’d seen.

Cam bit her lip. “Can’t hurt to ask?”

Tom nodded and Ian shrugged. Cam could tell the request fell to her. She had been hoping for an ally, but Ian looked afraid.

When they went downstairs, her sister, Petunia, was bringing in lunch. Petunia seemed all elbows as she maneuvered trays. Cam was thin, but Petunia was positively skinny. Fortunately, she was stronger than she looked.

Several tables had been set up on the back patio under the shade of the balcony, and to the side was the tent with
fans to keep the area cool. It was furnished with a buffet table. A handful of Garden Society members milled about, filling plates or holding drinks. After curious glances at Cam and her guests, they went back to their conversations.

As they reached the back patio, Hannah sniffed deeply again, returning to her scent heaven. “Another fragrance!”

Neil Patrick walked out just then and smiled. “Just so! Don’t get too close. The bees love the wisteria, but did you know it was Cammi’s father who built that trellis so that seventy-year-old tree could continue to thrive?”

Joseph Sadler-Neff, the RGS historian, who’d been sipping sweet tea and watching from the edge of the patio, launched into a long lecture on the year, the building materials, the time it had taken to construct, and the history of the tree. This was common for Joseph. Most people who knew him only half listened, though they were polite colleagues, so at least they faced him and pretended. Cam quickly explained to the magazine crew who he was and why he knew so much.

Ian, listening to neither Joseph nor Cam, gave the trellis and wisteria his full attention.

He circled the structure with an artist’s eye. “It would be great to get a shot of the builder next to the trellis. Most well-meaning builders do some damage to the tree, but this looks perfectly executed. Is he still alive?”

“Yes, but he has a busy social life,” Cam answered uncomfortably. Cam’s father seemed to unintentionally become the center of any gathering he attended, and she wanted this to be a Garden Society event. She was vetoed, though, when Neil Patrick spoke.

“Oh, Cammi! You’ve got to invite him to the party tomorrow night. We’ll convince him to do the photo shoot! It’s a wonderful angle.”

“Um… I’ll see if he’s free.”

Petunia, who’d just deposited a dessert tray that appeared to be her last, met Cam’s gaze, an eyebrow raised under her blonde bangs. Cam knew her sister read her thoughts, but
there was no helping it. She would have to invite her father to the festivities and hope he was busy. Cam mouthed “thank you” as Petunia turned to leave. When Petunia reached the door, Evangeline Patrick emerged, making a beeline for Joseph. Petunia scowled, or maybe it was only a face caused by the difficulty she was having balancing, since she was removing the breakfast remains as she left.

Evangeline and Joseph began bickering, but in a moment their tone was cordial again.

“Don’t mind them, hon.” Samantha Hollister put a hand on Cam’s, mistaking her frown for a response to the bickering. “Evangeline wants progress, and Joseph feels called to preserve history. They’re both right in small doses, but they sure have trouble finding balance. They get into it all the time.”

That would have made sense, had Petunia’s scowl not left Cam with the distinct feeling she was missing something.

T
hat afternoon the magazine crew began testing the lighting in the various locations they had discussed, a task that would take the next day and a half. Cam made notes. When the photographs were complete, she wanted to be able to hand off a press packet with the information about the plant types and their origins, including the history of the particular plants in Mr. Patrick’s collection, to the reporter. Jane Duffy was rather prestigious in gardening circles and would interview the Roanoke Garden Society members. It was Cam’s job to make sure the background details were easily accessible so Ms. Duffy could concentrate on the story.