Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(17)

Now seated at a small round table near a bank of windows in the park’s tearoom, Ella leaned back in her chair, face to the ceiling, arms spread wide, lips puckering over and over again like the fish they’d seen in the koi pond outside the tearoom. Holly showed Ella Plume’s picture. Plume stood with her tail feathers down, trailing behind her like the train on Kate Middleton’s wedding gown, not up and spread fanlike like you’d expect. Plume was a noble peahen at rest, pausing to appraise surrounding topiaries, a giant among lesser plants.

“Says here she’s twenty-five feet tall, forty feet long, and the widest point of her tail is at the end, where it spreads to a whopping twenty-four feet. Wow, Ella.” Holly had to give it to Primm. No wonder neighboring towns couldn’t keep up. “That’s some bird.”

Eventually, they finished their drinks—milk for Ella, hibiscus tea for Holly—then headed next door to the gift shop to inquire about the Feathered Nest Realty gift Penelope’d mentioned the day she paid a visit to their home on Petunia Lane. Entering the Topiary Park Gift Shoppe was like stepping inside an enchanted music box lined with peacock feathers—emerald greens, soul-piercing blues, Plume everywhere. On T-shirts, scarves, jewelry, umbrellas. The only thing missing from the gift shop was a prominently displayed picture book retelling the Tales of Primm, a certain beloved peahen adorning the cover. Surely, Primm was home to a children’s book author hidden in a turret somewhere or in a dusty attic room above the village bookstore. Holly was a newcomer, but as far as she could tell, the topiaries across town paid tribute to Plume, linking the villagers to the Topiary Park, pointing the way to the blessed bird like tiny lines on a compass. Plume. Holly wondered, checking her map, Where is this Plume? Holly wanted to see Plume.

When Holly had told her mother she was getting a topiary plant as a housewarming gift from Penelope, Greta asked if she could name it. Holly thought Ella should name it, but she said fine. So without even seeing it, Greta named their topiary Anna Wintour, equating the care and keeping of topiary with the serving of an aloof fashion icon. Holly couldn’t help but agree with Greta; the editor in chief of Vogue often did look like an elitist insect because she was always wearing those dark, bulbous sunglasses indoors and in dim light, giving her the distinct appearance of a fly, magnified. Holly had heard the compound eye of a fly was actually thousands of teeny tiny eyes, giving the fly a broad field of vision. Eyeballs and insects gave Holly the creeps. Eyeballs on insects? Holly shuddered just thinking about it. Topiaries, on the other hand, reminded her of Edward Scissorhands. Holly loved Tim Burton. Loved every film he’d ever created—wished she could crawl inside his brain and have a look around. She’d probably find crazy things like spools of thread and an opera singer. Maybe an octopus. Holly decided she’d renew her subscription to Filmmaker Magazine when she got home. To keep tabs on what Tim Burton was up to. And Vogue. She’d subscribe to that too. Why not? Wouldn’t hurt to see what the elitist insect was hocking as fashion this season.

“I’m excited about our special gift from Penelope, Ella. Aren’t you?” Holly squeezed Ella’s hand, then presented the gift certificate Penelope had given her to the woman behind the counter.

“Oh, you must be the Banks family.” The woman placed her hands in a position of prayer, elbows out, the way a woman working in a bird sanctuary would, as she escorted Holly and Ella to the picture window, where a round cloth-covered table sat. “You’re the last of the new families to arrive.” She swept her arm toward the waiting topiary. “Here you are. Your very own Village of Primm topiary.”

There, in the middle of the Feathered Nest Realty table, stood a three-foot-tall topiary with a single twelve-inch ball tightened with tiny vibrant green leaves—perfect in every way—sitting pretty, perched on top of a sturdy wooden triple-ply trunk. How’d they get that trunk to braid like that? Painted on the white, packed-with-moss porcelain cachepot was their family name:

BANKS

PETUNIA LANE

VILLAGE OF PRIMM

Holly wanted to pinch herself. In Boulder City, it was buckbrush, prickly pear cactus, and prairie sage. But here, in Primm . . .

“Is it real?”

“Oh, yes.” The woman with the hands held in prayer nodded. “She’s real. Same base-plant material as Plume.” She broke her statuesque posture to rest a hand on Holly’s arm. “Your family name was hand painted by the park calligrapher. He created the sign on the ivy-covered gate at the entrance.”

“Yes, I remember that sign.” Holly placed a hand against her heart.

“Is she—” Ella whispered, tugging on Holly’s shirt. “Is she ours? Our very own poodle plant?”

“Ella, honey. That’s Anna.” Holly gave Ella a squeeze. “That’s Anna Wintour, Ella. Our special topiary.”

“Wow,” Ella said against Holly’s side, pressing herself into Holly’s leg, wrapping her arms around Holly’s waist. “Is that Plume’s baby?”

“I suppose she is.” Holly nodded, reaching for the white parchment envelope propped against the topiary. “May I?” Holly asked.

“Yes, of course,” the woman said with a slight, slow nod. “Open it.”

On the outside of the envelope, in the same lettering as on the topiary pot, was their family name, along with the words Petunia Enclave. We live in an enclave! According to Penelope, Southern Lakes didn’t have any enclaves. Southern Lakes had boroughs.