"PETALS AND THORNS"
Beth is starting to wonder if she's miscalculated. And it's so hot in the sun. If Kate doesn't come home soon, the roses will have wilted, and she'll have to find another excuse to ambush her. Maybe she could feign sunstroke—maybe she won't even have to pretend—collapsing by the driveway with the roses scattered around her in a lovely pattern. Problem is,Beth thinks, chopping off a rose hip with an energetic snap of her clippers, letting it lie where it falls, Kate won't even notice—not unless the petals form a picture of Wade Stuart. Where is that girl, anyway? Mondays, she always comes straight home after work.
Then Beth hears the music, that noisy, tuneless stuff young people listen to. Kate must be turning into the drive. Beth bends halfway down, takes an American Beauty in hand, acts absorbed in her roses. As Kate's Toyota--tinny, little, Jap car--rounds the curve, Beth looks up, smiles, straightens, waves. How sweet! What a coincidence!
Kate sees the short, thin, old woman waving at her, clippers in hand, rose basket at her feet, wide-brimmed, straw sun hat perfectly centered on her steel gray, thick, expertly but matronly coiffed head of hair, designer sunglasses covering her deep-set, shrewd, hazel eyes. "Oh, no," Kate sighs. She smiles though, waves back but doesn't stop. She mustn't be rude—Beth is her landlady—but she doesn't want to encourage her, not now. She's sure Wade will be calling to take her out, knows tonight will be something special—it's about time! She has to get ready. Last thing she needs is Beth bending her' ear.
"Hello, Kate dear," Beth effuses, having made record time from the rose garden to the cottage.
"Hi, Beth," Kate monotones, gathering up her purse, sliding out of the car. "What's up?"
Besides your skirt? Beth thinks behind her smile. "I thought you might like some roses." She holds up her basket overflowing with frosty pinks, fiery scarlets, reds so dark they're black, but mostly yellows, ranging from misty pastel to commanding gold. Yellow roses had been her father's passion.
"Thanks, they're gorgeous. C'mon in." Kate knows there's no escape; her only hope is cutting it short.
Beth follows Kate through the foyer into the kitchen, assesses how well Kate’s short, thin, tight, sky blue skirt hugs her trim hips. No panty line, must be wearing a thong. “How do you manage to look so cool and crisp in this heat wave?” she asks the younger woman, noting her clinging, brilliantly white blouse embroidered with a necklace of lavender flowers--scooped enough to have the men buzzing at those flowers but not enough so she should set a red light over her desk.
“I’d die without the air conditioning, even if we only need it for a few days,” Kate responds automatically. “You don’t seem to have any trouble with the heat, though. That’s a lovely sun dress. I love that orchid pattern. From Hawaii?”
“Thank you, dear, but, no, it’s something I got at I Magnin’s, years ago, when it was still the place we all had to shop.”
If we had that kind of money, Kate thinks as she reaches the kitchen.
Though the smaller of the two guest houses, Kate's cottage still has generous proportions. Beth's father built the cottages at his wife's insistence, even though their mansion already had six guest suites. Victoria Hartford Bishop had returned from her one weekend at William Randolph Hearst's palatial San Simeon estate convinced that elegant entertaining requires guest cottages stuffed with antiques. She never forgave her husband for filling these showcases with flower-garden eccentrics tracking mulch across the Oriental carpets. When Beth inherited the estate, early in the fifties, she felt like a fish with a bicycle. She didn't share Victoria's conviction that cultivating elegance is the calling of women born to leisure. But she couldn't dismantle her mother's personal testament, either. She thought about moving her nursery school into the mansion and herself into one of the cottages, but she could neither keep her father's beloved rose bushes where children race and tumble nor destroy that beautiful, memory-rich garden. So, even after having and losing her own family, Beth rattles around the biggest house in town, maintaining her parents' achievements for the historical society and garden club tours.
"Put them on the counter," Kate says, motioning toward the sink. She goes into the dining room for a couple of Victoria's cut glass vases.
Beth peers into the living room. Looks clean enough. Who'd have thought it, the way she dresses. As Kate returns with a vase in each hand, Beth says, "I can still see Mama bringing those back from Nevada City. They come from Austria, bought by a gold miner who struck it rich. Then his heirs had to sell them, after the market crashed."
"Have a seat." Kate carefully sets the vases in the sink. "Don't you worry about leaving things this valuable here, y'know, for us renters? If they were mine, they'd be locked up tight."
"Everything Mama put here was meant to be enjoyed—not locked away. So far, none of my girls has so much as chipped a saucer of the Wedgewood."
That's because we've all walked on eggshells and used the plastic plates in the cupboards. Running water into the vases, Kate lays it on, "Well, it's a privilege living with such lovely things. Your mother did a fine job."
"Hearing you say that would've made Mama's day. . . . What a different world that was," Beth concludes with a sigh.
"Is that why you rent out this cottage?" Kate stops the water, leans back against the counter. "I mean, you don't need the money, and you're not a lonely, little old lady. All the political stuff you do, you're busier than any of us. So, do you do it for your mother, keeping her memory alive?"
"Maybe that's part of it, . . . could be. But that's not what I had in mind when I started renting. I was on the School Board then, thirty-some years ago, and I felt like a mushroom."
"A mushroom?"
"Yes, school administrators cultivate Board members like mushrooms: they keep us in the dark and bury us in manure."
Kate laughs.
"I fought back by renting out my cottage to teachers. I learned more about what was happening at school right here, in this kitchen, than I ever did at those scripted Board meetings."
"But I'm not a teacher, and neither were the last couple of renters. Claire worked at City Hall."
"Once I was elected County Supervisor, my horizon expanded."
"But you own the company I work for. They can't treat you like a mushroom."
"Oh, you'd be surprised. Anyway, I'm not the sole owner anymore. Just a member of the Board again. ,.
"And here I thought you asked me about work because you wondered how I'm doing," Kate says, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"But I do. I've always cared about my girls, personally and as co-conspirators."
Kate doubts that's the right order but lets it pass. "Do you ever rent out the other cottage?"
"No, that's for family. After I married Henry, I had to entertain a flood of his relatives. You know, long-lost aunts, uncles, cousins—whatever—who suddenly remembered how much they loved Henry, now that he'd married money. I put them up over there.”
"How long did that last?"
"Each got a week's bed and board—that's all. No money for their schemes, no cushy job in Daddy's company. Oh, Henry wanted to spread the wealth—wanted to play the big shot is what it was—but I held the purse strings. They learned fast—I have to give them that—and slithered back where they came from."
"So, that cottage has been empty since Henry . . . uhhh . . ."
"'Left', that's the word you're looking for. Don't worry about saying it. The whole town knows: Henry ran off with a hot little number named Isabel Suarez,” who dressed just like you, though she had waves of long, black hair and saucy dark eyes to your mop of blonde curls and laughing blues. . . . And what did I get? Beth forces herself back to the present, to maintaining the brave front she’s put up for years. "You can't have the biggest house in a small town without people knowing your secrets. . . . Anyway, that's ancient history."
Like a dormant volcano, Kate thinks, ducking her chin so Beth can’t see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth .
"Now that cottage is reserved for Joanna and my grandkids. They visited just before you moved in.
"How often do they come?"
"Every year, more or less," Beth asserts like a traffic cop commanding motorists.
"What about Henry, Jr.?" Kate asks, trying to sound innocent, feeling a smile tugging again.
"May I help you with the roses?" Beth responds without hesitation, looking Kate directly in the eyes, daring her to repeat her question, knowing she wouldn’t dare.
Oooh, that volcano's hot, Kate thinks, meeting Beth’s eyes for a moment, but just a moment before dropping her gaze. She's heard Junior is gay. "Sure. You take this vase for the pinks and paler yellows. I'll mix the reds and golds."
"Yes, ma'am," Beth says, moving to the counter. "You are a take-charge woman, Kate McLain. I like that in my girls."
The two women busy themselves filling the vases, oohing and aahing over the roses as they empty the basket of its fragrant harvest.
"Why don't you put your vase in the bedroom, while I find a place for this one in the living room," Kate says.
"Sounds good to me."
Beth puts the vase on the dresser, notes the bed is made, no mascara on the carpet, no undies hanging in the bathroom.
As Beth returns, Kate is already back in the kitchen, pushing the trimmed leaves into the garbage disposal. "Everything look okay?"
"What?"
"Did I pass inspection?"
"Well, . . . I . . .," Beth stammers, caught off guard, a novelty for her.
"Oh, Beth, if this were my place, a monthly inspection is the least I'd do," Kate says with a little laugh, turning to face the older woman, feeling good about having the upper hand for a moment, for a change.
"That obvious?" Beth says with a smile, regaining her composure, acknowledging Kate’s little victory, not begrudging her it but not forgetting it either.
"Don't worry about it," but do run along now.
"Could you spare an obvious old lady something to drink?"
Damn. "Of course. Where are my manners?” Kate says quickly, too brightly, hoping her annoyance isn’t showing. “What'll it be? Soda? Perrier? Wine?"
"A glass of white wine would be lovely," Beth says oh-so-sweetly, knowing Kate wants her gone, knowing she’s back in charge, which, since she’s the land owner here, she should be.
"Great! Make yourself comfortable in the living room.”
"Let's sit here, at the table. I enjoy looking at the cool shade of the pines," Beth responds, reasserting her command of the situation, of what’s going to happen.
"Make yourself at home." Kate wonders what Beth is up to, doesn’t have a clue, fills two glasses from the bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonay in the refrigerator, brings them over to the table, hands one to Beth, slides into the chair opposite hers. "Here's to your father's beautiful roses. May they live forever. " She extends her glass.
Clinking glasses, Beth adds, "May all that's beautiful live forever."
They sip their wine. Kate looks out the window, hoping Beth will drink fast and be gone, knowing that’s not going to happen. What does she want?
"You know, I remember when Daddy planted those pines. They're not Shore Pines, not even Bishop Pines—which aren't named after Daddy, by the way. Those're Japanese Black Pines, the very first ones planted on the North Coast. Daddy was afraid the ocean wind might burn them, but they're tough enough. Grow slower than the native varieties, though."
"Mmmm," Kate responds, looking at the giant trees shading the cottage. Like I was dying to know that.
"Yes," Beth sighs, "when you get to be ancient, you find yourself thinking more and more about all the things—people, too—you've seen grow and change, over the years."
"You should write down your memories. Hasn't anyone from the university—someone working on a history degree, I mean—haven't they come to talk to you? I'm sure your stories of growing up here would make great reading." You can go home and start on them right now!
"No, no one ever has. Maybe they will, though, once they realize this fossil's about to disappear into that history." Beth studies Kate, wondering if she really cares about history. Doubts it.
Do old people always fixate on death? Is that how I’m gonna be? Kate shudders, then comes up with the obligatory, "Oh, Beth, you're still going strong. Those historians have plenty of time to catch up with you, but they'll have to run hard to do it.”
"Thanks, dear," Beth says automatically before taking another sip of wine. Then, gazing out the window, she says, "You know what was the best time here, . . . the very best?"
"What?"
"World War Two."
"You're kidding."
"Surprises you, doesn't it?"
"I rank war down there with AIDS and poverty."
Beth chuckles. "Me, too. I didn't say all wars are good, now did I? It was a war started this country unraveling—the Vietnam War. So, no, I'm not recommending war. I'm just saying the very best time here was during World War Two." She stops, flashes a sly little smile, inviting Kate to prod her for more.
"Okay," Kate says, her interest aroused, "but let me bring the bottle over before you explain that to me." She tops off their glasses. "All right, I'm the straight man: Why was World War Two the best of times?"
"You know the big lawn on the other side of the house?"
"Sure."
"Well, there wasn't always a lawn there. Oh, it was a lawn before the War—I remember playing on it—but during the War, Daddy had it plowed under. We were supposed to help—here at home—by growing our own vegetables. 'Victory Gardens', they were called. Now, Daddy wasn't about to replace his rose bushes with tomato plants, but he did sacrifice the lawn. He even selected the seeds to plant personally. Our cool summers aren't the best for vegetables, y'know.”
“I imagine not,” Kate responds, still playing straight man.
“And how many people do you think that lawn full of veggies fed?" Beth continues, clearly enjoying her trip down memory lane.
"How many?" Kate responds, starting to tire of being an old woman’s audience, remembering why she had not wanted Beth to stay and talk about the past, eager to get on with her future.
"There were only two of us living here, during the War. Mama passed away just before."
"I heard she died kind of young." Drank herself to death.
"Don't believe everything you hear,” Beth responds quickly, knowing what Kate must be thinking. “Mama had a hard life—not financially, of course, but a lota disappointments. That's what killed her, all those disappointments."
"Mmmm," is all Kate can think to say, turning her eyes back to the trees, avoiding Beth’s eyes. Just another poor little rich girl.
"Anyway,” Beth responds, satisfied that Kate won’t look her in the eyes, honestly question her cover story, but resigned to her repeating the drunk stories later, with other people, behind her back, just like everybody else. “Where was I? Oh yeah, Mama had passed away, so it was just Daddy and me here when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. You think two of us could eat that whole lawn full of veggies? I mean, we had carrots and zucchini, potatoes, beets, turnips, squash, beans and onions--we had a lot. You think two of us could eat all that?"
"Not a chance," Kate says with a smile, wondering about Beth's running on, almost motor mouth. Is she getting drunk? Low tolerance could run in the family, I guess.
"Absolutely right!” Beth says with authority and a slight slur. “That lawn became a town project. Not just Daddy and the gardeners but people from allover town came to help plant and weed and harvest. I can still see men from the mill—they were too old or somethin' for the army—walkin' here after their shift—walkin', because gas was scarce—walkin' all that way to help with 'Bishop's Victory Garden'. Women came too, sometimes with kids, sometimes after workin' all day themselves. Daddy had tools for 'em, and I'd take care of the kids, keep 'em occupied while their mamas took their turn in the garden.
"And Daddy didn't keep any more for us than he gave to the townfolks, either, even though he bought the seed, supplied the land and water, as well as those tools, and put in as many hours as anyone tendin' the garden. Everyone who worked got an equal share. Daddy wouldn't have it any other way.”
"That must've been something," Kate says, refilling Beth's glass, sure now that Beth was getting drunk, wondering deliciously what getting the old lady drunk might lead her to reveal,
"Yes, it was.” Beth stares out the window but doesn't see what's there, sees instead what was there, behind her, fifty years before. "Somethin', all right: somethin' fine, somethin' American, somethin' to be proud of. Somethin' that brought us all together, y'know, one people.
"And that wasn't the only story, either. Women stepped in at the mill, replacin' the men who'd gone t' fight. Others of us took care of the kids, so those women could work. People helped out any way they could, all t' help the war effort. Fightin' together for America. It was great!"
"I can see that," Kate says, feeling she should say something, even though all Beth wants right now is a sounding board. "Back home in Port Astoria, we all get together for the Fourth of July, but that's over in a day. . . . How'd the fishermen do as gardeners, anyway? That must've been strange for them, pulling weeds instead of nets."
"Fishermen?"
"Yeah, the Cristobals, the Salangas, Juarels--all those folks. Weren't they here during World War Two?"
"Well, . . . yeah, I guess they were."
"Didn't they work in the victory garden?"
"Uhhh, no, they didn't, . . . of course not," Beth says, both defensive and defiant.
"Didn't they support the war effort?" Kate continues, puzzled.
"I suppose they did," Beth says, her voice flat, dismissive.
"But, uhhh, they didn't like gardening, is that it?" Kate offers this as a polite way out, finally realizing why Beth was surprised when she mentioned the fishermen.
"I'm sure you're right." Beth knows she should stop, but the wine has her tongue running way ahead of her. "That's probably why we never asked them. I mean, they had their own projects in their part of town, didn't they? Made their own contributions, y'know. I'm sure they pitched in. I mean, they were Americans too, now weren't they? So, even if they weren't with us—I mean, with us here, in our part of town—weren't workin' on our projects, they were doin' their part, in their own way, whatever it was. I just don't know what it was," she finally runs down.
"I see," Kate says without expression, then again tries to put the best face on what Beth said. "Well, at least everybody was working for the same thing—to win the war, I mean. Maybe different people went after that in their own way, but they all had the same goal. That's something we don't have today."
"You're one hundred per cent right about that." Beth grabs at the chance to change the subject. "But we can't give up. Oh, it's hard not to get discouraged—I know—when everybody's so selfish. The people on welfare only care about bigger benefits. The feminists wanna kill their babies.” Beth stops suddenly, looksat Kate, feigns embarrassment. “Oh, maybe I shouldn't've said that. You a feminist, Kate?"
"I don't like to label myself," Kate responds quickly, evenly with her usual evasive answer.
"Uh-huh. Well, then, like I was sayin', the blacks only care about playin' on white guilt. The same's true for the Mexicans. Even the Indians claim we owe 'em for everything."
"And the gays?" Kate can't resist stoking that volcano.
"The damned environmentalists, they're the worst. They put trees ahead of people. What they really want, though—just like all the others—Is the power t' take revenge on those who've had power over them. That's all we have in America today: power groups. Everyone of 'em out t' get what they want, and t' hell with the others."
"Sounds like you think we've gone from the best to the worst of times."
"Sorry to say. . . . But still, we can't be discouraged."
"After that long list?" Kate responds with a dubious smile.
"That's why we need to stay focused. . . . When you were at college—which one was that again, dear?" Beth says, a little too sweetly.
"Washington State."
"Right. When you were at Washington State, did you read a book called Candide?"
"Uhhh, yeah, we had to read a few pages of that in my French class. Voltaire, wasn't it?"
"Vol what?"
"Voltaire. He was a French writer, back around the time of their revolution. Probably got his head chopped off. I really don't remember. We had to go through so much stuff in college—most of it I forgot as soon as I turned in the final."
"I never went t' college. . . . Did you know that, that I never went?"
"It's no big deal. I mean, look at all you've accomplished, anyway." Maybe if you’d gone, gotten out of this little town, you’d have a bigger idea of what America’s all about.
"It wasn't easy back then, y'know, for a woman t' go t' college. Oh, if you were a wiz, you could pry the doors open. The rest of us, . . . well, for us college was a man's world. We did our thing at home, right out of high school."
"You've done a lot," Kate responds, knowing what’s expected of her.
"Still, I would've liked t' go t' college. . . . Anyway, where was I?"
On the way out the door, don’t I wish, Kate thinks, but aloud she offers, “Candide.”.
"Oh yeah. You wouldn't expect someone like me—someone who never went t' college—t' know about Candide, would you?"
"Beth, I'd only be surprised if you didn't surprise me." Kate pours the last of the wine into Beth's glass, grateful it's the last. "Be careful with that one; it almost overflowed."
"Thanks, dear." Beth carefully lifts the glass, drains the liquid down half an inch. "Well, you'd be right."
"About what?"
"I never have read Candide, not even a page, though I've thought about it a lot. . . . Daddy used t' refer t' that book. When people asked him if he didn't get bored workin' with roses—because he could've had a real career, y'know. He was a smart man, thoughtful, too. And he was rich and could've had power, if he'd only gone after it. But he never did, not once, no matter how much Mama pushed him.
"She even threatened him. Said she'd rip out everyone of those blankety-blank roses, if he didn't get out of his garden and go for the power. Get himself elected Mayor. Or really take control of the company he inherited--anything. Anything would've been okay with Mama, if he'd just used the gifts life gave him t' make his mark on this world.
"But he wouldn't do it. Not for her, not for anyone. The only mark he made—and it's something only a few people know is his—Is the Beatrice Bishop rose. Those're the gold ones you put in the living room. Beautiful, aren't they? Fragrant, too. But how many people know Nathaniel Bishop--my Daddy—bred that rose, nurtured it, and patented it? How many?"
Kate arches her eyebrows and spreads her hands in front of her to say, 'I don't know; you tell me.'
"Not many, not now that he's gone. When he was alive, he'd invite all kinds of garden clubs over t' talk flowers. They all knew he was the man made the Bea Bishop. But they're gone too. I'm probably the only one who remembers, now. Anyway, like I was sayin', he never tried t' put his stamp on the world. And you know what he'd tell Mama? What he'd tell the others, too, who asked him why he didn't. What he'd even tell me, when he tried to explain who he was, why he'd lived the life he had, when he was tryin' t' give his only child some guidance for life. You know what he'd say?"
"What?" Kate asks, interested in spite of herself.
"'Read Candide! It's all in there. The best thing a man can do is t' cultivate his own garden. If all of us took that little plot of earth we can maintain and control and made it the very best, the most beautiful place we can, the whole world would be the very best place it can be. That's all there is to it.'"
Kate thinks of Nietzsche's sheep congratulating themselves on being sheep, but says, "That hasn't been your philosophy. You've kept up your father's garden, all right, but you've done much more. Being County Supervisor, that's a lot of responsibility."
"Even the County's just a small slice of this big, big world. And maybe even it's too big a piece t' focus on, if we're not gonna get discouraged. That's what we were talkin' about—remember?—that got me thinkin' of Candide. We've gotta keep focused on what we can control and accomplish, if we're gonna make sure we do some good in this world.”
"I'm sure you're right," Kate agrees and starts to make getting-up motions. Go home, go home. You’ve had your say, played your role. My turn now.
"What I'm trying to tell you," Beth insists, her eyes fixed on Kate's, "is that we all have to concentrate on doing what's within our power to make the world a better place."
“I understand,” Kate says, figuring she needs to pacify Beth, worried Beth will carry on, a drunk filled with platitudes, unwilling to release her audience.
"I've chosen my place."
"That . . . that's terrific," Kate says lamely, giving clear signs now to Beth of wishing the old woman would go.
Beth gives Kate a knowing little smile, then drains her glass. "The only place a person can truly cultivate is the place he calls home. That’s the real lesson Daddy taught me, the lesson Candide taught him.
“Columbia is my home. I told you what a wonderful town this was when I was growing up. A real community. Real people working together to help each other out. Well, I’m going to make sure we don’t lose that. And I don’t mean save it in a history book. I mean keep it alive. Then, future generations of kids who grow up here can look back—when they become my age and they let their minds wander back and their tongues wag to the younger generation, just like I’ve been doing with you—and they’ll have the same wonderful memories I have of a great childhood in a town that was one big family."
"Oh," Kate responds, Beth's assertive tone and body language making her wary—all signs of having drunk too much vanished as soon as she started talking about Columbia.
"I’m not going to let anyone take that away from those kids. I know I’ve had too much to drink, but believe me, my mind’s in gear with my tongue when I say no one is going to transform this decent, family town into an extension of San Francisco, with its me-first lifestyle and shallow glamor."
Now Kate understands. Beth hasn’t been idly reminiscing, any more than she came just for an inspection. She came to deliver a message. Kate decides to play dumb: "Well, I hope you’re not planning to start World War Three."
"Not world war. This time the enemy's right here, next door even. She glances over her shoulder, past the sheltering pines, toward the Stuart estate. "There’re people who grew up here but who've grown away from us. They’d sell us out, turn their backs on who we are and what we stand for, just to make a profit and feel they're in control. So, those of us who really care about Columbia have to stand firm. We can't have anyone sleeping with the enemy . . . unless she can turn the enemy around that way."
Kate stiffens. “Spit it out, Beth,” she says, her voice hard and even but suffused with cold anger.
Beth pauses, leans back, feels and looks totally in control. "You and Wade have been seeing a lot of each other."
"Been keeping track, have you?" Kate interrupts. You old, puckered biddy.
"Is he as interested in you as you are in him?" Beth says with obvious, vindictive, demeaning pleasure, putting this young outsider from a no-account family in her place.
“As if that's any of your business. And who says I'm that interested, anyway?” Kate responds, knowing she’s too defensive.
"Are you saying you're not?" Beth gloats at the young woman’s fumbling.
"Well,"
“Oh, don't even bother saying it,” Beth cuts her short. “You're an ambitious woman—maybe the men lose track of that in all those curves, but I don't—and the only man an ambitious woman would want around here is Wade Stuart.
"And I know you girls are all so liberated these days, you're not even supposed to think like that—I mean, making your way on a man's arm. 'Get your Bachelor's degree and see the world.' That's your motto. But just like the guys who joined the Navy, once you've seen Paree, you still have to come back home. And back home, a woman needs an MRS. That B A's just a piece of paper; it's her diamond a woman dangles to show she's arrived. And around here, the only ring that'll get someone like you what she wants is the one that comes with the key to the Stuart mansion."
"Sounds like you have my life all planned out."
"No, dear, you're planning it. I'm just reading what you're showing. "
"Mmmm" is all Kate can manage. She looks away and takes a sip of wine to cover not knowing what to say.
"So, there we are. You're out to get Wade, . . . and so am I, though not in the same way," Beth says comfortably, the hard edge gone from her voice, feeling she can now afford to be generous in victory, even conspiratorial.
"So why don't you tell him what you want? He may be company President, but he still has to listen to the Board," Kate says easily, regaining control of her anger, trying to figure out what she can get out of all this.
"Oh, I have told him how I feel about his development scheme. I've made it clear Columbia's staying the great, all- American town it's always been, and he'd better plan accordingly. If he listens, his star'll continue to rise. And if you want to hitch your wagon to that star—and I don't begrudge you that, believe me, I don't—you'll make sure he listens . . . and forgets about his Frisco scheme. That's going nowhere."
"How do you know?" Kate responds quickly, before she can think what she should say.
"Because that's where I'm sending it," Beth responds immediately, with obvious satisfaction and not a scintilla of doubt.
"Who do you think you are," Kate erupts, "the Queen of Columbia? Daddy may have left you a rose garden, but he didn't leave you the whole damn town—and all of us in it, to go dancing down your memory lane. And you know what? The way this town was—and still is—is no Garden of Eden. That 'big family' spirit has never included everybody. I mean, even back in those good old war days, half the town wasn't even invited to join in. And there're plenty of others who've run from this town, people who've sought out San Francisco as a refuge. They aren't going to be invited back when we 'all' get together, now are they?"
Beth glares at Kate, straining to stay composed. "Well, Kate, these are important matters we've been discussing, very important," she finally says, her voice like cracking ice. "I think all that needs to be said right now has been said. I thank you for the wine. I'm sure I drank more than I should have, but no harm's been done. This has just been talk between friends, right?"
"Oh yeah, friends all right," Kate snaps back with a derisive little laugh.
"Good," Beth says, ignoring Kate's sarcasm. She gets up, collects her basket, heads out. Kate follows. Beth stops in the doorway. "I do like you, Kate, I really do. In spite of the way you dress. You know why?"
What the hell. Kate tries to sound casual, "Why?"
"Because a woman—though probably not a man—knows just what she's dealing with when she's dealing with a woman like you. That's a comfort, knowing exactly what you're dealing with. Enjoy the roses, dear." Beth leaves with a contented smile.
Kate is left standing in the doorway, mouth open, too angry to say anything, too conflicted to do anything. She wants to grab one of those rose vases and fling it after Beth, but she doesn't want to give Beth the satisfaction of seeing her lose control. So, she just watches Beth walk around the rose garden to her mansion. Shee imagines burning JUNIOR'S QUEER into Beth's lawn, right where that oh-so-wonderful victory garden was. Would that frost the dinosaur, or what? That thought breaks the tension, and she has to laugh as she pictures Beth trying to ignore that reference to her son.
Now, Kate's able to close the door without slamming it and turns back into the living room. Now, she hopes Wade doesn't invite her out tonight. Better just nuke some food and think things through before telling him what Beth's up to, she counsels herself as she bends over to inhale the luxurious bouquet of the roses. "I will enjoy these roses, Beth," she says with quiet confidence, "and everything else."
Then Beth hears the music, that noisy, tuneless stuff young people listen to. Kate must be turning into the drive. Beth bends halfway down, takes an American Beauty in hand, acts absorbed in her roses. As Kate's Toyota--tinny, little, Jap car--rounds the curve, Beth looks up, smiles, straightens, waves. How sweet! What a coincidence!
Kate sees the short, thin, old woman waving at her, clippers in hand, rose basket at her feet, wide-brimmed, straw sun hat perfectly centered on her steel gray, thick, expertly but matronly coiffed head of hair, designer sunglasses covering her deep-set, shrewd, hazel eyes. "Oh, no," Kate sighs. She smiles though, waves back but doesn't stop. She mustn't be rude—Beth is her landlady—but she doesn't want to encourage her, not now. She's sure Wade will be calling to take her out, knows tonight will be something special—it's about time! She has to get ready. Last thing she needs is Beth bending her' ear.
"Hello, Kate dear," Beth effuses, having made record time from the rose garden to the cottage.
"Hi, Beth," Kate monotones, gathering up her purse, sliding out of the car. "What's up?"
Besides your skirt? Beth thinks behind her smile. "I thought you might like some roses." She holds up her basket overflowing with frosty pinks, fiery scarlets, reds so dark they're black, but mostly yellows, ranging from misty pastel to commanding gold. Yellow roses had been her father's passion.
"Thanks, they're gorgeous. C'mon in." Kate knows there's no escape; her only hope is cutting it short.
Beth follows Kate through the foyer into the kitchen, assesses how well Kate’s short, thin, tight, sky blue skirt hugs her trim hips. No panty line, must be wearing a thong. “How do you manage to look so cool and crisp in this heat wave?” she asks the younger woman, noting her clinging, brilliantly white blouse embroidered with a necklace of lavender flowers--scooped enough to have the men buzzing at those flowers but not enough so she should set a red light over her desk.
“I’d die without the air conditioning, even if we only need it for a few days,” Kate responds automatically. “You don’t seem to have any trouble with the heat, though. That’s a lovely sun dress. I love that orchid pattern. From Hawaii?”
“Thank you, dear, but, no, it’s something I got at I Magnin’s, years ago, when it was still the place we all had to shop.”
If we had that kind of money, Kate thinks as she reaches the kitchen.
Though the smaller of the two guest houses, Kate's cottage still has generous proportions. Beth's father built the cottages at his wife's insistence, even though their mansion already had six guest suites. Victoria Hartford Bishop had returned from her one weekend at William Randolph Hearst's palatial San Simeon estate convinced that elegant entertaining requires guest cottages stuffed with antiques. She never forgave her husband for filling these showcases with flower-garden eccentrics tracking mulch across the Oriental carpets. When Beth inherited the estate, early in the fifties, she felt like a fish with a bicycle. She didn't share Victoria's conviction that cultivating elegance is the calling of women born to leisure. But she couldn't dismantle her mother's personal testament, either. She thought about moving her nursery school into the mansion and herself into one of the cottages, but she could neither keep her father's beloved rose bushes where children race and tumble nor destroy that beautiful, memory-rich garden. So, even after having and losing her own family, Beth rattles around the biggest house in town, maintaining her parents' achievements for the historical society and garden club tours.
"Put them on the counter," Kate says, motioning toward the sink. She goes into the dining room for a couple of Victoria's cut glass vases.
Beth peers into the living room. Looks clean enough. Who'd have thought it, the way she dresses. As Kate returns with a vase in each hand, Beth says, "I can still see Mama bringing those back from Nevada City. They come from Austria, bought by a gold miner who struck it rich. Then his heirs had to sell them, after the market crashed."
"Have a seat." Kate carefully sets the vases in the sink. "Don't you worry about leaving things this valuable here, y'know, for us renters? If they were mine, they'd be locked up tight."
"Everything Mama put here was meant to be enjoyed—not locked away. So far, none of my girls has so much as chipped a saucer of the Wedgewood."
That's because we've all walked on eggshells and used the plastic plates in the cupboards. Running water into the vases, Kate lays it on, "Well, it's a privilege living with such lovely things. Your mother did a fine job."
"Hearing you say that would've made Mama's day. . . . What a different world that was," Beth concludes with a sigh.
"Is that why you rent out this cottage?" Kate stops the water, leans back against the counter. "I mean, you don't need the money, and you're not a lonely, little old lady. All the political stuff you do, you're busier than any of us. So, do you do it for your mother, keeping her memory alive?"
"Maybe that's part of it, . . . could be. But that's not what I had in mind when I started renting. I was on the School Board then, thirty-some years ago, and I felt like a mushroom."
"A mushroom?"
"Yes, school administrators cultivate Board members like mushrooms: they keep us in the dark and bury us in manure."
Kate laughs.
"I fought back by renting out my cottage to teachers. I learned more about what was happening at school right here, in this kitchen, than I ever did at those scripted Board meetings."
"But I'm not a teacher, and neither were the last couple of renters. Claire worked at City Hall."
"Once I was elected County Supervisor, my horizon expanded."
"But you own the company I work for. They can't treat you like a mushroom."
"Oh, you'd be surprised. Anyway, I'm not the sole owner anymore. Just a member of the Board again. ,.
"And here I thought you asked me about work because you wondered how I'm doing," Kate says, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"But I do. I've always cared about my girls, personally and as co-conspirators."
Kate doubts that's the right order but lets it pass. "Do you ever rent out the other cottage?"
"No, that's for family. After I married Henry, I had to entertain a flood of his relatives. You know, long-lost aunts, uncles, cousins—whatever—who suddenly remembered how much they loved Henry, now that he'd married money. I put them up over there.”
"How long did that last?"
"Each got a week's bed and board—that's all. No money for their schemes, no cushy job in Daddy's company. Oh, Henry wanted to spread the wealth—wanted to play the big shot is what it was—but I held the purse strings. They learned fast—I have to give them that—and slithered back where they came from."
"So, that cottage has been empty since Henry . . . uhhh . . ."
"'Left', that's the word you're looking for. Don't worry about saying it. The whole town knows: Henry ran off with a hot little number named Isabel Suarez,” who dressed just like you, though she had waves of long, black hair and saucy dark eyes to your mop of blonde curls and laughing blues. . . . And what did I get? Beth forces herself back to the present, to maintaining the brave front she’s put up for years. "You can't have the biggest house in a small town without people knowing your secrets. . . . Anyway, that's ancient history."
Like a dormant volcano, Kate thinks, ducking her chin so Beth can’t see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth .
"Now that cottage is reserved for Joanna and my grandkids. They visited just before you moved in.
"How often do they come?"
"Every year, more or less," Beth asserts like a traffic cop commanding motorists.
"What about Henry, Jr.?" Kate asks, trying to sound innocent, feeling a smile tugging again.
"May I help you with the roses?" Beth responds without hesitation, looking Kate directly in the eyes, daring her to repeat her question, knowing she wouldn’t dare.
Oooh, that volcano's hot, Kate thinks, meeting Beth’s eyes for a moment, but just a moment before dropping her gaze. She's heard Junior is gay. "Sure. You take this vase for the pinks and paler yellows. I'll mix the reds and golds."
"Yes, ma'am," Beth says, moving to the counter. "You are a take-charge woman, Kate McLain. I like that in my girls."
The two women busy themselves filling the vases, oohing and aahing over the roses as they empty the basket of its fragrant harvest.
"Why don't you put your vase in the bedroom, while I find a place for this one in the living room," Kate says.
"Sounds good to me."
Beth puts the vase on the dresser, notes the bed is made, no mascara on the carpet, no undies hanging in the bathroom.
As Beth returns, Kate is already back in the kitchen, pushing the trimmed leaves into the garbage disposal. "Everything look okay?"
"What?"
"Did I pass inspection?"
"Well, . . . I . . .," Beth stammers, caught off guard, a novelty for her.
"Oh, Beth, if this were my place, a monthly inspection is the least I'd do," Kate says with a little laugh, turning to face the older woman, feeling good about having the upper hand for a moment, for a change.
"That obvious?" Beth says with a smile, regaining her composure, acknowledging Kate’s little victory, not begrudging her it but not forgetting it either.
"Don't worry about it," but do run along now.
"Could you spare an obvious old lady something to drink?"
Damn. "Of course. Where are my manners?” Kate says quickly, too brightly, hoping her annoyance isn’t showing. “What'll it be? Soda? Perrier? Wine?"
"A glass of white wine would be lovely," Beth says oh-so-sweetly, knowing Kate wants her gone, knowing she’s back in charge, which, since she’s the land owner here, she should be.
"Great! Make yourself comfortable in the living room.”
"Let's sit here, at the table. I enjoy looking at the cool shade of the pines," Beth responds, reasserting her command of the situation, of what’s going to happen.
"Make yourself at home." Kate wonders what Beth is up to, doesn’t have a clue, fills two glasses from the bottle of Kendall Jackson Chardonay in the refrigerator, brings them over to the table, hands one to Beth, slides into the chair opposite hers. "Here's to your father's beautiful roses. May they live forever. " She extends her glass.
Clinking glasses, Beth adds, "May all that's beautiful live forever."
They sip their wine. Kate looks out the window, hoping Beth will drink fast and be gone, knowing that’s not going to happen. What does she want?
"You know, I remember when Daddy planted those pines. They're not Shore Pines, not even Bishop Pines—which aren't named after Daddy, by the way. Those're Japanese Black Pines, the very first ones planted on the North Coast. Daddy was afraid the ocean wind might burn them, but they're tough enough. Grow slower than the native varieties, though."
"Mmmm," Kate responds, looking at the giant trees shading the cottage. Like I was dying to know that.
"Yes," Beth sighs, "when you get to be ancient, you find yourself thinking more and more about all the things—people, too—you've seen grow and change, over the years."
"You should write down your memories. Hasn't anyone from the university—someone working on a history degree, I mean—haven't they come to talk to you? I'm sure your stories of growing up here would make great reading." You can go home and start on them right now!
"No, no one ever has. Maybe they will, though, once they realize this fossil's about to disappear into that history." Beth studies Kate, wondering if she really cares about history. Doubts it.
Do old people always fixate on death? Is that how I’m gonna be? Kate shudders, then comes up with the obligatory, "Oh, Beth, you're still going strong. Those historians have plenty of time to catch up with you, but they'll have to run hard to do it.”
"Thanks, dear," Beth says automatically before taking another sip of wine. Then, gazing out the window, she says, "You know what was the best time here, . . . the very best?"
"What?"
"World War Two."
"You're kidding."
"Surprises you, doesn't it?"
"I rank war down there with AIDS and poverty."
Beth chuckles. "Me, too. I didn't say all wars are good, now did I? It was a war started this country unraveling—the Vietnam War. So, no, I'm not recommending war. I'm just saying the very best time here was during World War Two." She stops, flashes a sly little smile, inviting Kate to prod her for more.
"Okay," Kate says, her interest aroused, "but let me bring the bottle over before you explain that to me." She tops off their glasses. "All right, I'm the straight man: Why was World War Two the best of times?"
"You know the big lawn on the other side of the house?"
"Sure."
"Well, there wasn't always a lawn there. Oh, it was a lawn before the War—I remember playing on it—but during the War, Daddy had it plowed under. We were supposed to help—here at home—by growing our own vegetables. 'Victory Gardens', they were called. Now, Daddy wasn't about to replace his rose bushes with tomato plants, but he did sacrifice the lawn. He even selected the seeds to plant personally. Our cool summers aren't the best for vegetables, y'know.”
“I imagine not,” Kate responds, still playing straight man.
“And how many people do you think that lawn full of veggies fed?" Beth continues, clearly enjoying her trip down memory lane.
"How many?" Kate responds, starting to tire of being an old woman’s audience, remembering why she had not wanted Beth to stay and talk about the past, eager to get on with her future.
"There were only two of us living here, during the War. Mama passed away just before."
"I heard she died kind of young." Drank herself to death.
"Don't believe everything you hear,” Beth responds quickly, knowing what Kate must be thinking. “Mama had a hard life—not financially, of course, but a lota disappointments. That's what killed her, all those disappointments."
"Mmmm," is all Kate can think to say, turning her eyes back to the trees, avoiding Beth’s eyes. Just another poor little rich girl.
"Anyway,” Beth responds, satisfied that Kate won’t look her in the eyes, honestly question her cover story, but resigned to her repeating the drunk stories later, with other people, behind her back, just like everybody else. “Where was I? Oh yeah, Mama had passed away, so it was just Daddy and me here when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. You think two of us could eat that whole lawn full of veggies? I mean, we had carrots and zucchini, potatoes, beets, turnips, squash, beans and onions--we had a lot. You think two of us could eat all that?"
"Not a chance," Kate says with a smile, wondering about Beth's running on, almost motor mouth. Is she getting drunk? Low tolerance could run in the family, I guess.
"Absolutely right!” Beth says with authority and a slight slur. “That lawn became a town project. Not just Daddy and the gardeners but people from allover town came to help plant and weed and harvest. I can still see men from the mill—they were too old or somethin' for the army—walkin' here after their shift—walkin', because gas was scarce—walkin' all that way to help with 'Bishop's Victory Garden'. Women came too, sometimes with kids, sometimes after workin' all day themselves. Daddy had tools for 'em, and I'd take care of the kids, keep 'em occupied while their mamas took their turn in the garden.
"And Daddy didn't keep any more for us than he gave to the townfolks, either, even though he bought the seed, supplied the land and water, as well as those tools, and put in as many hours as anyone tendin' the garden. Everyone who worked got an equal share. Daddy wouldn't have it any other way.”
"That must've been something," Kate says, refilling Beth's glass, sure now that Beth was getting drunk, wondering deliciously what getting the old lady drunk might lead her to reveal,
"Yes, it was.” Beth stares out the window but doesn't see what's there, sees instead what was there, behind her, fifty years before. "Somethin', all right: somethin' fine, somethin' American, somethin' to be proud of. Somethin' that brought us all together, y'know, one people.
"And that wasn't the only story, either. Women stepped in at the mill, replacin' the men who'd gone t' fight. Others of us took care of the kids, so those women could work. People helped out any way they could, all t' help the war effort. Fightin' together for America. It was great!"
"I can see that," Kate says, feeling she should say something, even though all Beth wants right now is a sounding board. "Back home in Port Astoria, we all get together for the Fourth of July, but that's over in a day. . . . How'd the fishermen do as gardeners, anyway? That must've been strange for them, pulling weeds instead of nets."
"Fishermen?"
"Yeah, the Cristobals, the Salangas, Juarels--all those folks. Weren't they here during World War Two?"
"Well, . . . yeah, I guess they were."
"Didn't they work in the victory garden?"
"Uhhh, no, they didn't, . . . of course not," Beth says, both defensive and defiant.
"Didn't they support the war effort?" Kate continues, puzzled.
"I suppose they did," Beth says, her voice flat, dismissive.
"But, uhhh, they didn't like gardening, is that it?" Kate offers this as a polite way out, finally realizing why Beth was surprised when she mentioned the fishermen.
"I'm sure you're right." Beth knows she should stop, but the wine has her tongue running way ahead of her. "That's probably why we never asked them. I mean, they had their own projects in their part of town, didn't they? Made their own contributions, y'know. I'm sure they pitched in. I mean, they were Americans too, now weren't they? So, even if they weren't with us—I mean, with us here, in our part of town—weren't workin' on our projects, they were doin' their part, in their own way, whatever it was. I just don't know what it was," she finally runs down.
"I see," Kate says without expression, then again tries to put the best face on what Beth said. "Well, at least everybody was working for the same thing—to win the war, I mean. Maybe different people went after that in their own way, but they all had the same goal. That's something we don't have today."
"You're one hundred per cent right about that." Beth grabs at the chance to change the subject. "But we can't give up. Oh, it's hard not to get discouraged—I know—when everybody's so selfish. The people on welfare only care about bigger benefits. The feminists wanna kill their babies.” Beth stops suddenly, looksat Kate, feigns embarrassment. “Oh, maybe I shouldn't've said that. You a feminist, Kate?"
"I don't like to label myself," Kate responds quickly, evenly with her usual evasive answer.
"Uh-huh. Well, then, like I was sayin', the blacks only care about playin' on white guilt. The same's true for the Mexicans. Even the Indians claim we owe 'em for everything."
"And the gays?" Kate can't resist stoking that volcano.
"The damned environmentalists, they're the worst. They put trees ahead of people. What they really want, though—just like all the others—Is the power t' take revenge on those who've had power over them. That's all we have in America today: power groups. Everyone of 'em out t' get what they want, and t' hell with the others."
"Sounds like you think we've gone from the best to the worst of times."
"Sorry to say. . . . But still, we can't be discouraged."
"After that long list?" Kate responds with a dubious smile.
"That's why we need to stay focused. . . . When you were at college—which one was that again, dear?" Beth says, a little too sweetly.
"Washington State."
"Right. When you were at Washington State, did you read a book called Candide?"
"Uhhh, yeah, we had to read a few pages of that in my French class. Voltaire, wasn't it?"
"Vol what?"
"Voltaire. He was a French writer, back around the time of their revolution. Probably got his head chopped off. I really don't remember. We had to go through so much stuff in college—most of it I forgot as soon as I turned in the final."
"I never went t' college. . . . Did you know that, that I never went?"
"It's no big deal. I mean, look at all you've accomplished, anyway." Maybe if you’d gone, gotten out of this little town, you’d have a bigger idea of what America’s all about.
"It wasn't easy back then, y'know, for a woman t' go t' college. Oh, if you were a wiz, you could pry the doors open. The rest of us, . . . well, for us college was a man's world. We did our thing at home, right out of high school."
"You've done a lot," Kate responds, knowing what’s expected of her.
"Still, I would've liked t' go t' college. . . . Anyway, where was I?"
On the way out the door, don’t I wish, Kate thinks, but aloud she offers, “Candide.”.
"Oh yeah. You wouldn't expect someone like me—someone who never went t' college—t' know about Candide, would you?"
"Beth, I'd only be surprised if you didn't surprise me." Kate pours the last of the wine into Beth's glass, grateful it's the last. "Be careful with that one; it almost overflowed."
"Thanks, dear." Beth carefully lifts the glass, drains the liquid down half an inch. "Well, you'd be right."
"About what?"
"I never have read Candide, not even a page, though I've thought about it a lot. . . . Daddy used t' refer t' that book. When people asked him if he didn't get bored workin' with roses—because he could've had a real career, y'know. He was a smart man, thoughtful, too. And he was rich and could've had power, if he'd only gone after it. But he never did, not once, no matter how much Mama pushed him.
"She even threatened him. Said she'd rip out everyone of those blankety-blank roses, if he didn't get out of his garden and go for the power. Get himself elected Mayor. Or really take control of the company he inherited--anything. Anything would've been okay with Mama, if he'd just used the gifts life gave him t' make his mark on this world.
"But he wouldn't do it. Not for her, not for anyone. The only mark he made—and it's something only a few people know is his—Is the Beatrice Bishop rose. Those're the gold ones you put in the living room. Beautiful, aren't they? Fragrant, too. But how many people know Nathaniel Bishop--my Daddy—bred that rose, nurtured it, and patented it? How many?"
Kate arches her eyebrows and spreads her hands in front of her to say, 'I don't know; you tell me.'
"Not many, not now that he's gone. When he was alive, he'd invite all kinds of garden clubs over t' talk flowers. They all knew he was the man made the Bea Bishop. But they're gone too. I'm probably the only one who remembers, now. Anyway, like I was sayin', he never tried t' put his stamp on the world. And you know what he'd tell Mama? What he'd tell the others, too, who asked him why he didn't. What he'd even tell me, when he tried to explain who he was, why he'd lived the life he had, when he was tryin' t' give his only child some guidance for life. You know what he'd say?"
"What?" Kate asks, interested in spite of herself.
"'Read Candide! It's all in there. The best thing a man can do is t' cultivate his own garden. If all of us took that little plot of earth we can maintain and control and made it the very best, the most beautiful place we can, the whole world would be the very best place it can be. That's all there is to it.'"
Kate thinks of Nietzsche's sheep congratulating themselves on being sheep, but says, "That hasn't been your philosophy. You've kept up your father's garden, all right, but you've done much more. Being County Supervisor, that's a lot of responsibility."
"Even the County's just a small slice of this big, big world. And maybe even it's too big a piece t' focus on, if we're not gonna get discouraged. That's what we were talkin' about—remember?—that got me thinkin' of Candide. We've gotta keep focused on what we can control and accomplish, if we're gonna make sure we do some good in this world.”
"I'm sure you're right," Kate agrees and starts to make getting-up motions. Go home, go home. You’ve had your say, played your role. My turn now.
"What I'm trying to tell you," Beth insists, her eyes fixed on Kate's, "is that we all have to concentrate on doing what's within our power to make the world a better place."
“I understand,” Kate says, figuring she needs to pacify Beth, worried Beth will carry on, a drunk filled with platitudes, unwilling to release her audience.
"I've chosen my place."
"That . . . that's terrific," Kate says lamely, giving clear signs now to Beth of wishing the old woman would go.
Beth gives Kate a knowing little smile, then drains her glass. "The only place a person can truly cultivate is the place he calls home. That’s the real lesson Daddy taught me, the lesson Candide taught him.
“Columbia is my home. I told you what a wonderful town this was when I was growing up. A real community. Real people working together to help each other out. Well, I’m going to make sure we don’t lose that. And I don’t mean save it in a history book. I mean keep it alive. Then, future generations of kids who grow up here can look back—when they become my age and they let their minds wander back and their tongues wag to the younger generation, just like I’ve been doing with you—and they’ll have the same wonderful memories I have of a great childhood in a town that was one big family."
"Oh," Kate responds, Beth's assertive tone and body language making her wary—all signs of having drunk too much vanished as soon as she started talking about Columbia.
"I’m not going to let anyone take that away from those kids. I know I’ve had too much to drink, but believe me, my mind’s in gear with my tongue when I say no one is going to transform this decent, family town into an extension of San Francisco, with its me-first lifestyle and shallow glamor."
Now Kate understands. Beth hasn’t been idly reminiscing, any more than she came just for an inspection. She came to deliver a message. Kate decides to play dumb: "Well, I hope you’re not planning to start World War Three."
"Not world war. This time the enemy's right here, next door even. She glances over her shoulder, past the sheltering pines, toward the Stuart estate. "There’re people who grew up here but who've grown away from us. They’d sell us out, turn their backs on who we are and what we stand for, just to make a profit and feel they're in control. So, those of us who really care about Columbia have to stand firm. We can't have anyone sleeping with the enemy . . . unless she can turn the enemy around that way."
Kate stiffens. “Spit it out, Beth,” she says, her voice hard and even but suffused with cold anger.
Beth pauses, leans back, feels and looks totally in control. "You and Wade have been seeing a lot of each other."
"Been keeping track, have you?" Kate interrupts. You old, puckered biddy.
"Is he as interested in you as you are in him?" Beth says with obvious, vindictive, demeaning pleasure, putting this young outsider from a no-account family in her place.
“As if that's any of your business. And who says I'm that interested, anyway?” Kate responds, knowing she’s too defensive.
"Are you saying you're not?" Beth gloats at the young woman’s fumbling.
"Well,"
“Oh, don't even bother saying it,” Beth cuts her short. “You're an ambitious woman—maybe the men lose track of that in all those curves, but I don't—and the only man an ambitious woman would want around here is Wade Stuart.
"And I know you girls are all so liberated these days, you're not even supposed to think like that—I mean, making your way on a man's arm. 'Get your Bachelor's degree and see the world.' That's your motto. But just like the guys who joined the Navy, once you've seen Paree, you still have to come back home. And back home, a woman needs an MRS. That B A's just a piece of paper; it's her diamond a woman dangles to show she's arrived. And around here, the only ring that'll get someone like you what she wants is the one that comes with the key to the Stuart mansion."
"Sounds like you have my life all planned out."
"No, dear, you're planning it. I'm just reading what you're showing. "
"Mmmm" is all Kate can manage. She looks away and takes a sip of wine to cover not knowing what to say.
"So, there we are. You're out to get Wade, . . . and so am I, though not in the same way," Beth says comfortably, the hard edge gone from her voice, feeling she can now afford to be generous in victory, even conspiratorial.
"So why don't you tell him what you want? He may be company President, but he still has to listen to the Board," Kate says easily, regaining control of her anger, trying to figure out what she can get out of all this.
"Oh, I have told him how I feel about his development scheme. I've made it clear Columbia's staying the great, all- American town it's always been, and he'd better plan accordingly. If he listens, his star'll continue to rise. And if you want to hitch your wagon to that star—and I don't begrudge you that, believe me, I don't—you'll make sure he listens . . . and forgets about his Frisco scheme. That's going nowhere."
"How do you know?" Kate responds quickly, before she can think what she should say.
"Because that's where I'm sending it," Beth responds immediately, with obvious satisfaction and not a scintilla of doubt.
"Who do you think you are," Kate erupts, "the Queen of Columbia? Daddy may have left you a rose garden, but he didn't leave you the whole damn town—and all of us in it, to go dancing down your memory lane. And you know what? The way this town was—and still is—is no Garden of Eden. That 'big family' spirit has never included everybody. I mean, even back in those good old war days, half the town wasn't even invited to join in. And there're plenty of others who've run from this town, people who've sought out San Francisco as a refuge. They aren't going to be invited back when we 'all' get together, now are they?"
Beth glares at Kate, straining to stay composed. "Well, Kate, these are important matters we've been discussing, very important," she finally says, her voice like cracking ice. "I think all that needs to be said right now has been said. I thank you for the wine. I'm sure I drank more than I should have, but no harm's been done. This has just been talk between friends, right?"
"Oh yeah, friends all right," Kate snaps back with a derisive little laugh.
"Good," Beth says, ignoring Kate's sarcasm. She gets up, collects her basket, heads out. Kate follows. Beth stops in the doorway. "I do like you, Kate, I really do. In spite of the way you dress. You know why?"
What the hell. Kate tries to sound casual, "Why?"
"Because a woman—though probably not a man—knows just what she's dealing with when she's dealing with a woman like you. That's a comfort, knowing exactly what you're dealing with. Enjoy the roses, dear." Beth leaves with a contented smile.
Kate is left standing in the doorway, mouth open, too angry to say anything, too conflicted to do anything. She wants to grab one of those rose vases and fling it after Beth, but she doesn't want to give Beth the satisfaction of seeing her lose control. So, she just watches Beth walk around the rose garden to her mansion. Shee imagines burning JUNIOR'S QUEER into Beth's lawn, right where that oh-so-wonderful victory garden was. Would that frost the dinosaur, or what? That thought breaks the tension, and she has to laugh as she pictures Beth trying to ignore that reference to her son.
Now, Kate's able to close the door without slamming it and turns back into the living room. Now, she hopes Wade doesn't invite her out tonight. Better just nuke some food and think things through before telling him what Beth's up to, she counsels herself as she bends over to inhale the luxurious bouquet of the roses. "I will enjoy these roses, Beth," she says with quiet confidence, "and everything else."