is there
was
one.
“It wasn’t until the fifties that the real bonanza kicked in. That was when Dalton Garrison took over and decided to make a contribution to mankind—while expanding the family’s assets, of course. He hired horticulturists from universities around the country to plant gardens here. Azaleas were the specialty; they put in every species there was, including several new hybrids they developed. Mr. Dalt was the one who built that greenhouse in the Gardens and stocked it with orchids and all those other exotic plants. If you haven’t seen it yet, you really should before you leave.”
“I’m not much of an exotic-plant person.”
“Pity. We have some of the best. He also put in that huge vegetable garden that’s been on TV, he had a lake built, and he put in the hiking and biking trails that go through the forest.
“He named the whole thing Garrison Gardens, and in a gesture that was as noble as it was shocking he opened it to the public.”
He smiled as he fed her her cue. “Shocking because?”
“He let the peasants in. For the price of a quarter, a family could park in the public parking lots, picnic on the lawns, swim in the lake, and visit the nurseries where the botanists grew the Garrison Azalea and the Charles Valley Rose. Children got lectures on how flowers are cross-pollinated. New techniques for growing corn and tomatoes were demonstrated at the vegetable garden. Schools sent their kids to the Gardens on field trips. Educators applauded. The lodge became the big pissy hotel you’re staying at. Less expensive A-frame cottages were built for guests who couldn’t afford the hotel. A campground was set up for those who couldn’t afford the cottages. It was democratic as hell. And profitable?”
She let out a little laugh. He laughed along with her.
“Money was rolling in. And Charles Valley, no matter how it felt at first, wound up being grateful. Most country folks were watching their kids run to cities in the North as soon as they graduated from high school, but parents here could tell the young ’uns to stay home and go work for the Gardens. So even if Mr. Dalt rigged the occasional election and made the zoning board keep out new businesses, at least a man would get to know his grandbabies and they wouldn’t grow up talking like Yankees. And because of that, people were willing to forget they had never been anything but waiters and bellboys. Except the family of the old cuss.”
“Good. I was hoping we’d get back to him.”
“Actually, he died in a bar fight that was such a Willie Nelson cliché it’s embarrassing to talk about it. But he left his land—two acres, including a right of way to the road—to his son, who left it to
his
son, and so on down the line.”
“The end of that line being . . . ?”
“Me.”
“And the land?”
“You’re sitting on it. Right smack in the middle of the beautiful Garrison Nature Preserve, where it sticks in their craw and screws up the bucolic landscape. Over the years, my people have sold junk on this land and turned it into an unauthorized trailer park and a used-car lot. I’m a better neighbor than the others, I just have a habit of shining bright lights into the woods and banging pots and pans to alert the deer during hunting season. The Garrison Trust has tried to buy this place time and again, they even offered fair market value for it, but no matter how broke or desperate or drunk we might be, we have never ever considered selling. Praise Jesus and Amen.”
She resisted an impulse to bow. Josh stood up. Somehow she wound up much closer to that bare chest than she intended to be. She told herself.
“Are you still mad at me for not . . . ?” He trailed off.
“Finishing what you started? I never said I was mad.”
“Yeah, you did. Sort of.” He grinned at her, but there was something sad in it. “I always know when smart, angry girls are mad. They’re a specialty of mine.” She noticed she hadn’t moved
was
one.
“It wasn’t until the fifties that the real bonanza kicked in. That was when Dalton Garrison took over and decided to make a contribution to mankind—while expanding the family’s assets, of course. He hired horticulturists from universities around the country to plant gardens here. Azaleas were the specialty; they put in every species there was, including several new hybrids they developed. Mr. Dalt was the one who built that greenhouse in the Gardens and stocked it with orchids and all those other exotic plants. If you haven’t seen it yet, you really should before you leave.”
“I’m not much of an exotic-plant person.”
“Pity. We have some of the best. He also put in that huge vegetable garden that’s been on TV, he had a lake built, and he put in the hiking and biking trails that go through the forest.
“He named the whole thing Garrison Gardens, and in a gesture that was as noble as it was shocking he opened it to the public.”
He smiled as he fed her her cue. “Shocking because?”
“He let the peasants in. For the price of a quarter, a family could park in the public parking lots, picnic on the lawns, swim in the lake, and visit the nurseries where the botanists grew the Garrison Azalea and the Charles Valley Rose. Children got lectures on how flowers are cross-pollinated. New techniques for growing corn and tomatoes were demonstrated at the vegetable garden. Schools sent their kids to the Gardens on field trips. Educators applauded. The lodge became the big pissy hotel you’re staying at. Less expensive A-frame cottages were built for guests who couldn’t afford the hotel. A campground was set up for those who couldn’t afford the cottages. It was democratic as hell. And profitable?”
She let out a little laugh. He laughed along with her.
“Money was rolling in. And Charles Valley, no matter how it felt at first, wound up being grateful. Most country folks were watching their kids run to cities in the North as soon as they graduated from high school, but parents here could tell the young ’uns to stay home and go work for the Gardens. So even if Mr. Dalt rigged the occasional election and made the zoning board keep out new businesses, at least a man would get to know his grandbabies and they wouldn’t grow up talking like Yankees. And because of that, people were willing to forget they had never been anything but waiters and bellboys. Except the family of the old cuss.”
“Good. I was hoping we’d get back to him.”
“Actually, he died in a bar fight that was such a Willie Nelson cliché it’s embarrassing to talk about it. But he left his land—two acres, including a right of way to the road—to his son, who left it to
his
son, and so on down the line.”
“The end of that line being . . . ?”
“Me.”
“And the land?”
“You’re sitting on it. Right smack in the middle of the beautiful Garrison Nature Preserve, where it sticks in their craw and screws up the bucolic landscape. Over the years, my people have sold junk on this land and turned it into an unauthorized trailer park and a used-car lot. I’m a better neighbor than the others, I just have a habit of shining bright lights into the woods and banging pots and pans to alert the deer during hunting season. The Garrison Trust has tried to buy this place time and again, they even offered fair market value for it, but no matter how broke or desperate or drunk we might be, we have never ever considered selling. Praise Jesus and Amen.”
She resisted an impulse to bow. Josh stood up. Somehow she wound up much closer to that bare chest than she intended to be. She told herself.
“Are you still mad at me for not . . . ?” He trailed off.
“Finishing what you started? I never said I was mad.”
“Yeah, you did. Sort of.” He grinned at her, but there was something sad in it. “I always know when smart, angry girls are mad. They’re a specialty of mine.” She noticed she hadn’t moved
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