of a green pot-holder, bordered by a ragged fringe of bright yellow day lilies. The house itself is weathered gray, with red shutters that could use a coat of paint and a green screen door with the bottom cut out so Winnie’s multitudinous cats can come and go. What is special and different about Winnie is hidden behind the house, where it can’t be seen from the street.
Ruby knocked at the front door, waited a few minutes, then opened it and called. “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?” When no one answered, we went around to the picket fence at the side and Ruby called again. “Winnie, we’re here.”
“Come on in,” a deep, almost masculine voice boomed out. “And mind you latch the gate. I haven’t got around to fixing the hinge.”
Winnie has been meaning to fix that hinge for years. But a sagging gate doesn’t detract from the beauty of the rose bower overhead, covered by delicate butter-cream blossoms brushed with apricot, and beyond that, a garden glowing with the pale, muted pastels of old roses, blended with the abundant soft blues and greens of Winnie’s carefully tended perennial borders. It’s like stepping into a jewel box heaped with magnificent opals and pearls and topazes.
“Oh, lovely!” Ruby exclaimed, gazing up at the rose-covered arch. She took a deep breath. “And what a wonderful scent!”
“Fine, isn’t it?” Winnie said happily, coming toward us down the gravel path with a basket of spent blooms in one hand and clippers in the other, trailed by a black cat and three black-and-white kittens. She was dressed in baggy khaki pants and a faded green shirt with one sleeve ripped at the elbow. Her straggly gray hair was half-covered with a red bandanna, and she wore another one, loose and damp with sweat, looped around her neck. Her face was sun-browned and freckled, and her skin was almost as weathered as the shingles on her house. Winnie pays more attention to her plants than to herself, but beneath that seasoned exterior is a sharply tenacious intellect. I didn’t think Coleman would have been dumb enough to have tried for her vote, but she might know something that would help us.
I sniffed at one of the climber’s musky blossoms. “I’d love to have a few of these for my bouquet, Winnie.” I spotted some lavender and picked several stems. Sniffing it can sometimes help a headache.
“Take all you like. It blooms like a sonofagun right up to frost.” She reached up to clip a couple of spent flowers and dropped them into her basket. “It came from my granny’s garden in South Carolina. Dates back to before the Civil War. It’s a Juane Desprez.” Winnie pronounced it Zhohn day-pray.
“Amazing.” Ruby’s eyes widened in surprise. “It looks awfully healthy to be almost a hundred and fifty years old!”
“Not this plant, Ruby.” Winnie grinned, showing a chipped front tooth. “Although this one is no spring chicken either.” She stripped off her gloves and dropped them into the basket. “My momma brought it back as a cutting from Charleston after Pearl Harbor, when she went East to see my daddy off to war.” She glanced at me and frowned. “What’d you do to your nose, China?”
“I walked into a door,” I said briefly.
She came closer, squinting at my face. “People’ll think somebody socked you a good one.”
“That’s their problem,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? Could be yours. Well, are we going to stand out here in the sun, or are we going to sit on the porch and have a cup of tea like civilized folks?” She brushed a bee aside. “I can give you some rose petal jam cakes. I made them for tomorrow’s herb guild meeting.”
“Jam cakes?” Ruby said quickly. “Terrific!” Winnie’s rose petal jam cakes are unique. She swears she’ll die clutching the recipe, and the only way anybody will get it is to pry it out of her dead fingers.
“Good,” Winnie said and added, with a glance at me, “And maybe we can fix it so you can stand up in front of Maude
Ruby knocked at the front door, waited a few minutes, then opened it and called. “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?” When no one answered, we went around to the picket fence at the side and Ruby called again. “Winnie, we’re here.”
“Come on in,” a deep, almost masculine voice boomed out. “And mind you latch the gate. I haven’t got around to fixing the hinge.”
Winnie has been meaning to fix that hinge for years. But a sagging gate doesn’t detract from the beauty of the rose bower overhead, covered by delicate butter-cream blossoms brushed with apricot, and beyond that, a garden glowing with the pale, muted pastels of old roses, blended with the abundant soft blues and greens of Winnie’s carefully tended perennial borders. It’s like stepping into a jewel box heaped with magnificent opals and pearls and topazes.
“Oh, lovely!” Ruby exclaimed, gazing up at the rose-covered arch. She took a deep breath. “And what a wonderful scent!”
“Fine, isn’t it?” Winnie said happily, coming toward us down the gravel path with a basket of spent blooms in one hand and clippers in the other, trailed by a black cat and three black-and-white kittens. She was dressed in baggy khaki pants and a faded green shirt with one sleeve ripped at the elbow. Her straggly gray hair was half-covered with a red bandanna, and she wore another one, loose and damp with sweat, looped around her neck. Her face was sun-browned and freckled, and her skin was almost as weathered as the shingles on her house. Winnie pays more attention to her plants than to herself, but beneath that seasoned exterior is a sharply tenacious intellect. I didn’t think Coleman would have been dumb enough to have tried for her vote, but she might know something that would help us.
I sniffed at one of the climber’s musky blossoms. “I’d love to have a few of these for my bouquet, Winnie.” I spotted some lavender and picked several stems. Sniffing it can sometimes help a headache.
“Take all you like. It blooms like a sonofagun right up to frost.” She reached up to clip a couple of spent flowers and dropped them into her basket. “It came from my granny’s garden in South Carolina. Dates back to before the Civil War. It’s a Juane Desprez.” Winnie pronounced it Zhohn day-pray.
“Amazing.” Ruby’s eyes widened in surprise. “It looks awfully healthy to be almost a hundred and fifty years old!”
“Not this plant, Ruby.” Winnie grinned, showing a chipped front tooth. “Although this one is no spring chicken either.” She stripped off her gloves and dropped them into the basket. “My momma brought it back as a cutting from Charleston after Pearl Harbor, when she went East to see my daddy off to war.” She glanced at me and frowned. “What’d you do to your nose, China?”
“I walked into a door,” I said briefly.
She came closer, squinting at my face. “People’ll think somebody socked you a good one.”
“That’s their problem,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? Could be yours. Well, are we going to stand out here in the sun, or are we going to sit on the porch and have a cup of tea like civilized folks?” She brushed a bee aside. “I can give you some rose petal jam cakes. I made them for tomorrow’s herb guild meeting.”
“Jam cakes?” Ruby said quickly. “Terrific!” Winnie’s rose petal jam cakes are unique. She swears she’ll die clutching the recipe, and the only way anybody will get it is to pry it out of her dead fingers.
“Good,” Winnie said and added, with a glance at me, “And maybe we can fix it so you can stand up in front of Maude
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