expected, SlugFest drew the biggest crowd. The packaging, kept under wraps for days, had finally been revealed with a flourish—the ceremonial undraping of a mounted poster on an easel. It was a clever rendering of a slug, similar to the chalk outline police used to mark the place where a body was found, only instead of chalk the outline was drawn in silver, like the trail left by a slug. Market research had probably shown anything was better than putting an actual slug on the package, although slugs were making a comeback. There were places on the West Coast where slugs, particularly banana slugs, were considered cute. But most gardeners would be hard-pressed to find any slugs cute.
Lauryn Peete and two of her students were at the bar and I overheard the teacher say to the bartender, “Memorize these faces. Don’t serve them alcohol. Not even if they say it’s for me. Understand?” It sounded as if she’d said it before, perhaps at each of the bars dotting the floor of the convention center. But the message was delivered with good humor and the kids didn’t seem to mind—or maybe they’d already made their own beverage arrangements. Their uniforms for the evening were black T-shirts and black pants, even Lauryn, and for a moment I wished I were one of them and not a woman in a borrowed spandex dress that required her to hold in her stomach for the next four hours.
The high school’s garden was a triumph, one of the most innovative at the show, with plants growing out of rusted lard cans and trailing from seemingly abandoned grocery shopping carts. Working streetlights and neon signs flickered all over the double-wide display garden. The centerpiece was the fire escape, flanked on either side by iron bins that looked like mini Dumpsters. Primo’s found-object creations would have fit right in.
Nikki was still missing in action but her husband, Russ, unexpectedly showed up in the nick of time to cover their booth and handle queries. Just as she’d predicted, he proceeded to move everything except the sarcophagus. Perhaps the urge to rearrange things was what had brought them together at a support group meeting like AA or Dieters Anonymous. Maybe it was a nervous habit.
I wasn’t nervous. After all, my livelihood did not depend on what happened here over the weekend. I’d already made enough on the one sale to the Anzalones to cover Primo’s tab at the Paradise Diner for the next two years. And powering toward me with her two suitors in tow was Mrs. Jean Moffitt.
David took my plastic glass and spun away. “Smile.”
Rick and Mrs. M. drew near, but Jensen kept his distance, taking pictures of Primo’s sculptures from every conceivable angle.
“Thank you for coming back,” I said. By example, David again reminded me to smile. I did, but I felt like an idiot, grinning for no apparent reason. It had been a long time since I’d had to glad-hand and wear an insincere expression solely for business purposes. I’d already resorted to flirting to make a sale, so perhaps merely smiling could be considered raising the dialogue.
“Instead of Mr. Jensen taking pictures, I’d be happy to burn a CD for you right now or e-mail you the images,” I said, grinning like a beauty queen.
“Jensen enjoys his hobbies. Photography is one of them. He’s quite accomplished. They’re more for his amusement than my own, although he does keep a record of the significant displays at the shows, so that we don’t inadvertently repeat someone else’s concept. We wouldn’t want to be accused of plagiarism or whatever the botanical equivalent of that would be. What crime would you call that, Miss Holliday?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Graft?” It was weak, but she appreciated my willingness to play along and laughed more than the joke merited.
“Do send your pictures along. Rick will play them for me.” She motioned to the bag hanging on the back of her chair and Rick pulled one of his employer’s cards out of a thin silver case. For the second time I was close to getting the coveted card. In the meantime I started the slide show on my laptop and she was intrigued enough to stay, even though Jensen had moved on. Mrs. Moffitt asked me to pause the presentation three times for closer looks at the pieces.
“That one,” she said. “Go back.” I hit the back arrow and then realized the piece she was interested in seeing was the one I’d sold to the Anzalones.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to update the presentation; that one has already sold.”
“I find that exceedingly irritating. I was beginning to like you.”
“I just made the sale, ma’am. At the show.”
Rick reminded her that I’d offered to play the PowerPoint presentation for her two days earlier before the show had opened, but she didn’t want to wait.
“If Rick says so, then I must forgive you. He is the most honorable and moral young man I know. Sometimes it’s quite tedious. May I ask who the buyer was?” I didn’t see any reason not to tell her, so I did.
“The Coney Island garden? Jensen mentioned Mrs. Anzalone to me. One of my competitors in the beach garden category. Jensen called it rough but charming.”
“That’s a lot like the lady herself. Should I find out if the artist is willing to make another piece like the one Mrs. Anzalone bought?”
“Gracious no. I wouldn’t want that. Then it wouldn’t be unique. Rick and I will test the waters to see how attached the lady is to her purchase.” That was his cue to unlock the brake on the wheelchair. Mrs. Moffitt’s card was still in his hand and I saw my sale slipping away or, more accurately, rolling away. She motioned to Jensen, who was again nearby, taking photos.
I’d clicked through most of the slides of Primo’s work, when I remembered that I had uploaded them in ascending order by price. There were two more pieces after the one the Anzalones had purchased. I cleared my voice and tried not to sound desperate.
“There are two other important sculptures no one else has seen. May I show you?” Exclusivity. It was the old quantities limited, act now routine. Old as dirt, but still effective. And
I waited for his return before advancing the slide show to the last, biggest, and most expensive piece in Primo’s collection. Jensen waited a beat, then asked me the dimensions and copied them down in a black Moleskine notebook much like one I owned. He stared at the numbers as if visualizing the item’s placement. Rick wheeled Mrs. M. a discreet distance away, and the woman and her gardener conferred. When they returned, they pronounced it perfect for the Montauk garden. How many homes did this woman have? She wasn’t going to let this one get away. And neither would her two employees, who would do just about anything to keep her happy.
Thirty-one
While we did the paperwork on the sale, the judges announced the winners of the major display garden prizes. Best Suburban Garden: Fran Strauss, Glen Landing. Best Beach Garden: Pamela Choy, East Hampton. Best City Garden: The Sticks and Stones Garden of High School 240, Brooklyn. Best Country Garden: Mrs. Jean Moffitt, Sleepy Hollow. Best Overall Garden: Mrs. Jean Moffitt, Sleepy Hollow.
I didn’t know if the winners had been informed before the rest of us, but Mrs. M. didn’t seem surprised and neither was Jensen. All she said was, “I refuse to let them call me
Jensen and I ironed out the shipping details and Rick and Mrs. M. rolled away to celebrate and prepare for the obligatory photos.
“That’s it,” I said to David. “I’m done. I can’t take any more smiling for a while. My face muscles need to relax. This is my neutral face. How does it look?”
“Grim but good. Like Victoria Beckham. Does that woman ever smile? With her dough, it can’t be bad teeth —must be fear of wrinkles.” We agreed that wrinkles or not, if either of us was with David Beckham, we’d be smiling. A lot.
“Take a break,” he said. “Get something to eat and explore the show before the hordes come tomorrow. Member night is like visiting the museum without all the tourists and group leaders with green umbrellas. But don’t take too long. You’ve got a few more hours of this.”
It was a good suggestion. I knew people to congratulate, but first I went to the buffet table to fortify myself.
