The Greenhouse

A buried past between a botanist and a doctor emerges before a dinner.

Dr. Skip Warwick donned his finest black suit and golden pocket watch for dinner at the Goldenrod house. He paired the suit with a maroon vest, a dark shirt, and a temperate tie. The butler announced the taxi’s arrival just as he finished his grooming, and once in the cab, Skip double-checked himself. His fingernails were cut, his mustache was free of unpleasant odors, and he smelled like clean lather. However, there was a small stain on the edge of his lapel that his cleaner failed to remove; he damned himself for missing it. He polished his pocket watch until it gleamed, then polished the face and asked the cabbie for the time. His watch was off by a minute. He adjusted it quickly.

The Goldenrod house was a two-story Colonial brick house with a winding front path moving through an expensive, manicured garden. To the left was a greenhouse lit by dim yellow lights. She’d be in there at this hour. Skip took a long moment to collect himself before exiting the taxi. In the entryway, a red carpet stretched down the hallway. Curving to the second floor was a banister so white it could have been made from bone. The floors and walls were red and trimmed with white, and the gold-tinted door handles, furniture, and carpet tassels shined under the evening light. Sam Goldenrod greeted Skip as an old friend, pressing their hands together and clapping him on the shoulder. They settled easily into the living room and talked of meaningless things.

Half an hour later, a servant entered the room and announced that dinner would be ready soon, and that Sam had a call from the office. Sam excused himself, but not before letting Skip know that Annabelle was in the greenhouse. “Would you go get her, please?” he said as he lingered in the doorway. “I’m afraid this call is something that can’t wait.”

After Sam had gone, Skip did not move. He was about to be alone with her again. He smoothed the pressed trousers, tightened his tie, and checked his mustache and body for any offensive smells. Still finding none, he moved carefully through the house and entered the greenhouse. The room was inexcusably hot for autumn. There were tall rows of baby palms, pitcher plants, ferns, and daylilies. By the time he reached the third row, he was wishing for a handkerchief. And then he saw her.

Annabelle wore a lavender dress with white lace trim and a white garden smock. She was slightly bent over a lily, shears slowly snipping through the center stalk. Grey gloves covered her thin fingers and her glasses were held on the edge of her nose by a thin gold chain. Her curly brown hair was held behind her head in a ponytail. She looked at him only for a second, then returned to her cutting. Skip’s voice stayed wedged in his throat.

“I hope you received my letters,” Annabelle said.

Skip found his nerve enough to say, “I did.”

“Odd you never replied.”

“I was afraid to write.”

She regarded him over the edge of her glasses. The light caught the rim and threw a thin glare. Annabelle stood upright and took off her gloves. “Good to know you never change.” Then she busied herself with cleaning up the little area of garden.

Fifty years ago he might have had a chance. Now there was a bitterness ingrained in her bones. Skip didn’t blame her. He moved nearer with supplicative hands. “I know you’re angry,” he said. “You’re angry and hurt because of me.”

Annabelle stared at him and waited for more.

“My failings should not prevent you from having a happy life.”

“Oh, trust me. They aren’t.”

Skip sighed. She was difficult in this mood, but not impossible. Very slowly he took Annabelle’s hand in his and then covered it with his other. “My failings,” he said again, “should not prevent you from having a happy life.”

Annabelle twisted her lip. Her eyes were narrow and glassy.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.” She blinked and wiped her eyes. “Yes, I do. He’s good to me.”

“Then don’t spare any more anger for me. I’ll leave you alone after tonight.”

Annabelle wrenched her hand free and slapped him. The outburst took her voice for more than a moment. “You don’t get to slink away,” she said. “Not again. Not this time. As miserable as you are I still want you in my life. Don’t you dare look at me like some hurt dog. You were the one who—”

“Anna,” Skip said.

They stared at each other in a long silence, sharing in the years that had passed them both so quickly, and knowing that each was responsible for the other’s pain. They were too old for reconciliation. It would always end like this, but Skip knew it didn’t have to. Not anymore. Annabelle dried her frustrated tears.

“Fire your cleaner,” she said. She pointed to the spot on his lapel. “If we had married I wouldn’t have missed that.”

Skip smiled. Annabelle finally smiled, too. “I was told to fetch you for dinner,” he said.

“So Sam already has you running errands?”

“Like a loyal dog.”

“Well,” Annabelle murmured. “We might have use for a dog around here.”

Skip lent a hand, which she took, and together they moved toward the exit of the greenhouse. Annabelle moved with purpose and poise toward the dining room. Sam was already seated and conversing loudly with a servant. Skip halted before he went in. “Almost forgot,” he said. He leaned down. “You’re still wearing your smock.”

Annabelle looked down at herself as Skip moved into the room and shook hands with Sam. She threw the smock into the hallway and as she settled into her seat, they shared a playful smirk. It wasn’t enough to fix the past, but it was a nudge in the right direction.