Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(72)

Employees of all rank and order were huddled around her—maintenance and groundskeepers carried ladders, buckets, and rags; others from the horticulture office wore white aprons embroidered with the Topiary Park logo in gold thread. Clearly, it was “all hands on deck” to save the giant bird. A cluster of three, one woman and two men in suits, consulted with a horticulturist as the horticulturist pointed to the peahen’s crest. Frantic, the horticulturist gripped a stapled pack of tattered papers, pointing to something on the paper, apparently explaining to the two in suits the insurmountable task that lay before them.

This magnificent twenty-five-foot-tall peahen stood proud in her greenery, with an outrageously long tail that cascaded the length of her body, spilling out onto the sidewalk; a plunging waterfall of delicate flowers tumbled in breathtaking sweeps of emerald, vibrant blue, and gold—with only the occasional touches of white flowers and red pepper berries. Plume was more than topiary. Plume was sculpture. Art. The peahen’s elegant neck was positioned with a slight turn over the shoulder, like a bride posing for a portrait. Plume’s head was angled as if to glance back in response to the slight touch of someone in the courtyard behind her. Perhaps, on another day, that touch would come from a child or a patron, someone mesmerized by her beauty, held captive by her vibrant covert feathers and eye-spotted tips that graced the length of her tail. But today, that touch came from a team of specialists, assembled for triage. Men and women working overtime to install scaffolding and netting, others readying rag-draped buckets to wage war against—what did Mary-Margaret call those bugs? Chicken strips?

“Excuse me.” Holly touched the arm of an apron-clad woman standing before the peahen. The woman held a ladder and was pensive, worried.

“What’s happening?” Holly asked.

“We took her drape off last night to reattach what we could of her stomach. Now we’re wrapping her up again. She’s completely infested.”

“With chilli thrips?” Holly asked.

“Yes.” The woman paused. “How did you know that? Only park officials know that.”

Holly shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Rumor, I suppose.”

“Well, it’s horrible. Horticulturists far and wide have dedicated years of their lives tending to the upkeep of this peacock, and then whoooooooosh”—her fingers snapped—“a flying yellow bug from Asia shows up. And no one can figure out how the bugs got here. We contacted State Ag, and they have no record of them. It’s like someone walked up and shook a box of them on Plume.”

“I’m so sorry,” Holly said. And she was. “I wish there was something I could do. They won’t infest the whole town, will they?”

One look said it all: If they haven’t already, they soon will.

“For the most part, the bugs that are on Plume now will stay on Plume. But yes, other bugs are infesting other topiaries. Blythe and Peloton seem to be bearing the brunt of it,” the woman said. “But there has to be a source where the bugs are coming from. A tree. Another plant. Fruit. Something is causing the bugs to travel across the village. I keep thinking it’s the vineyard. But they seem to be up in arms about this whole mess. And who can blame them? They risk losing award-winning vines. Maybe the insects came from the pumpkin patch in Southern Lakes, but it’s a bit early for pumpkins. Maybe they’ll leave when the pumpkins are on the vine. I just don’t know if Plume can wait that long.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I need to get back to work. Sorry. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, sure, of course,” Holly mumbled, unable to pull her eyes from the magnificent bird. Poor Plume. Poor peahen—peacock—doesn’t matter. What was happening to Plume was so unfair. Pumpkins?

The woman flashed a quick smile, then gestured for Holly to keep walking so they could clear the area and return to work. So Holly moved along, curving her way around the outer perimeter of the courtyard, arriving at the front side of Plume’s face. Half of it was sunken in, dried, and browned. And a sickness had crept down her neck, killing everything in sight. Holly didn’t wish ill on a pumpkin patch, but the sight of Plume was so utterly sad. One-half of her face was completely gone, nothing but dark-green wires revealing facial contours where flowers once were.

For a brief moment, Holly imagined Plume the way she assumed most children imagined her—alive and well, strutting around the park. Holly lifted her chin and glanced back, over her shoulder, her posture now matching Plume’s. Holly thought of Anna Wintour, back home on their kitchen table. Thought of Jack. Of Mary-Margaret and My Love. Plume, the face of the Village of Primm, for all its beauty, was caving in on itself, and somehow, they were all at the center of it.





28


At long last



The PTA meeting was being held in the atrium in a Topiary Park boardroom that overlooked handcrafted bookshelves filled with landscape design books. Mary-Margaret had positioned herself at the door, greeting moms as they entered. At the front of the line near Mary-Margaret, Holly saw Pie Moms Jhone, Peyton, Suong-Lu, and Emily.

“Emily! Sweet, eager-to-please Emily,” Mary-Margaret cooed, grabbing Emily by the shoulders to give her a little kiss-kiss on the cheeks. “Welcome, welcome. I hope you’re baking!”

And then, “Suong-Lu. Hey, you.” A kiss and a smile. “Have a seat. Have a seat.” Mary-Margaret moved her along. “There you go . . . yup. Buh-bye. So long, Suong-Lu!” chimed Mary-Margaret. “You too, Peyton. Why ya waitin’, Peyton? Have a seat. Have a seat.”