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1. Virginia
BONSAI BONANZA
Uber rich people are like the deadly nightshade of gen pop—they might look all pretty and harmless, but they lure you in for a taste of their sweet lives, and then,gotcha!, poison your heart and leave you for dead.
I know this in my bones, and still, I torture myself by working for them. But only because they’re the people willing to pay what I charge to care for their pretty potted plants. That’s my job, wisteria whisperer to the wealthy witches and wolves of West Vancouver.
Don’t get me wrong. I love what I do. I just wish I could do it for people who didn’t look at me like I was an invasive species out to steal their precious resources. So, when I stumble across a cardboard box on the sidewalk as I’m walking to the bus stop, I hesitate to slow down, but … there’s something green peeking above the open top. I try to look casual, like, “I don’t really care what’s in your trash. I don’t need your rich people’s hand-me-downs.”
But, whoa! There are four bonsai trees cuddled up inside. I look around, make sure nobody’s watching, and take one out. Judging by the circumference of the trunk, I’d guess it’s at least a hundred years old. Three others are the same. Then I see the small note with wobbly handwriting:
Free if you promise not to kill them.
I look up at the house beyond the hedge. Leaving plants like these out on the sidewalk, prone to kidnap by any old conifer-killing klutz, makes no sense. I lift the box and carry it up the winding path to the front door. The grass is months past needing to be cut, the garden that edges the long walkway is overrun with weeds. If this was the opening scene of a true crime, re-creation documentary, I’d be the subject who was foolish enough to waltz straight into harm’s way.
Despite my unease, I ring the bell.
After a long minute, an elderly man answers.
“Oh, good,” he says, nodding at the box in my arms, “you found them before a dog did. I put them out a few minutes ago.”
I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. “Umm, did you know these trees are precious? And they’re quite tricky to care for. You want to make sure the right person takes them home.”
“Do you know how to care for them, young lady?”
“I do,” I say, “and it’s clear you do too. I don’t understand. Why are you getting rid of them?”
He looks me right in the eye and scowls with the expertise of a man who’s been practicing his stare for seventy years. “They were my wife’s trees. Her pride and joy. She gave her goddamned shrubs more attention than she gave me. I don’t know how to care for those tiny trees because she wouldn’t let me touch them. Told me I’d kill them. So I thought, better to re-home the bloody things than have hertut-tuttingme from the great beyond.”
The tone in his voice suggests congratulations on his wife’s death are in order, but the pain in his eyes says otherwise. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Well, my loss is your gain. Mabel, my wife, said they were priceless. The pots alone are antiques worth thousands. We bought them in Japan in the 1970s.”
“Not that I wouldn’t love to care for these, but why not sell them?”
“Bah. Money. Do I look like I need more? I’ll be gone long before I can gamble myself into bankruptcy.” He gives me a serious look.
I return a questioning one.
“That was a joke.” He sighs. “Nobody understands my jokes anymore. At least Mabel did. One thing I miss about her—she knew when to laugh.” He taps the edge of the box. “So you like plants and you know how to care for them?”
“I do. I have a graduate degree in botany and own a plant-care business. I was just heading home from a client up the street.”
He waves his hand. “Put that on the floor. Come in. I’d like to show you my greenhouse. Mywife’sgreenhouse. Haven’t got a goddamn clue what I’m doing. I just put water on everything and hope that Mabel and I have separate rooms once I shed this mortal coil, or I’ll be spending an eternity hearing about how I murdered her babies. God help me.”
“My name is Virginia.” I extend a hand.
He tips his chin. “Henry. Henry Bernard.”
Mr. Bernard leads me through several rooms to the back of his mansion and into the most gorgeous greenhouse I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen my fair share of greenhouses in mansions. This structure was obviously built with love. But the contents? It looks more like a plant palliative care unit with a side of morgue than a greenhouse.
While Mr. Bernard sits in a cushioned, wingback chair reading a book, I spend ninety minutes looking over hundreds of plants, checking soil moisture, making mental notes of which ones might be saved. Most of the pots contain rare varieties of flowers and small shrubs. If Mrs. Bernard was the green thumb her husband claims, my guess is she must’ve passed away several months ago, since many of these plants are too far gone. They’ve definitely missed their spring pruning and fertilizing.
“Good news or bad news first?” I ask, pointing to what I assume is the late Mrs. Bernard’s chair beside him.
“Sit,” he says. “Just tell me, do I need to start kicking puppies to secure my place in an easier hell than the one I’m expecting?”
“Well, like people, all plants have a life span. We can’t expect them to live forever—except maybe a well-cared-for bonsai tree. But what you have here?” I wave around the room. “There are some unfortunate losses, but a lot of these plants can be saved.”
