My Very Best Friend by Cathy Lamb Page A

villages, cities, and everywhere in between. It’s subtle and it’s blatant. Tonight, it was Lorna.
    “Gitanjali’s food is delicious,” Kenna said.
    Lorna waved a hand. “We prefer our own .”
    “Now I understand why there is violence in this garden club sometimes,” I said.
    “Don’t make others bleed is my motto,” Rowena said. “Unless it’s The Arse.”
    “If there’s blood, I would sew most of you up,” Kenna said.
    “Let’s begin tonight’s discussion about garden design,” Olive interrupted, glaring at Lopsided Lorna. She was obviously agitated. She stood up and handed each of us a slice of iced cherry cake, then started pouring tea. “What should we think of when we are designing a garden or redesigning an existing garden?”
    “A garden must be proper. Orderly. Organized,” Lorna said, her voice brooking no discussion, as if she was the Holy Holder of All Garden Information. “You must not allow any infiltrations by any plants that do not belong. Weeds must be pulled immediately. Native plants flourish best as individuals and for the whole.”
    Was she still on the India/Scotland/Immigrant thing?
    “One’s home and garden is a reflection of how you see yourself and how others will see you, therefore it must be perfect,” Lorna droned on.
    Whew. “Perfect? How can nature ever be perfect?”
    She laboriously turned toward me, so put out at this interruption, and lifted a gray eyebrow. “You must tame nature. A Scottish garden must show control. A profusion of color is fine, as long as it’s in the correct place, and not wild.”
    “I like wild,” Olive said, her inebriated frog swinging. “My climbing roses are in charge of their own destiny, my dahlias grow wherever they choose, and I think my morning glory would take over my entire garden and cackle about it if I turned my back and got rid of my machete. Wildness everywhere!”
    Lorna sniffed. “I am merely saying that a garden must be subservient to its owner.”
    “Oh, bother,” Rowena said. “I don’t like the word subservient . Gives me the shudders. For some reason it makes me think of whipping The Arse.” She tapped her fingers together. “I like that image.”
    “Subservient. Submissive. Submit,” Kenna said. “All words that should be illegal worldwide.”
    “Except,” said Rowena, flipping that thick red hair dramatically as she laughed, “I would be subservient to Tom Selleck in bed.”
    “Bring me that man and his hindquarters,” Kenna gushed. “He could do anything to me and I would agree and smile. I would dress in black leather and ask my husband to leave for the night.”
    I laughed out loud.
    “I’ll take Robert Redford,” Olive said. “He’d take charge and I’d let him woo woo woo me.”
    “But that would be the only time I’d be subservient,” Rowena said. “Tom Selleck and I.”
    Malvina kept her head tilted down.
    “I not do that servant thing again,” Gitanjali said. “No. Not me. That man, that great uncle I force to marry for cows? He yell the word submit to me. Submit! Then he hit me with cane.” Her dark eyes filled with tears. “I submit to him for years. I had to submit to his mother, who hit me, hit again. I had to submit to his father. That was bad submit.”
    “If I could explain myself, ladies,” Lorna said, disdain dripping from her words like garden slugs. “A garden should submit to your will. You can tend it carefully, water it well, and fertilize, but you must be in control.”
    “No woman, no garden,” Gitanjali said. “I say with pleasant words, no submit. I no ask my garden submit.”
    “I agree,” I said. “Submit is not in my vocabulary. I won’t submit to anyone and I don’t want anyone or anything to submit to me.”
    “Me either,” Olive said. “Never.” She reached over and hugged Gitanjali.
    “Please, all the ladies,” Gitanjali said as she wiped her eyes. “This is garden gobbling club and I am crying. Go on with your talking conversation