“I assume you mean Mrs. Winkleson?” I asked. People usually did when they used the word “she” in that tone. “She was over in the horse barn a few minutes ago, but she could be anywhere by now.”
“Maybe you can answer my question then,” the woman went on. “When did it change from whites only? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why didn’t someone tell me that colored roses were allowed after all?”
“Who ever said they weren’t?” I asked “They always have been in past shows; why would you think this was different?”
“I got a phone call from Mrs. Winkleson. She told me that the committee had decided to restrict the show to only white roses and competitors for that black rose trophy she created. If I’d known that had been changed—”
“She what?” I exclaimed. Perhaps a little too vehemently. The woman shrank back as if afraid I’d strike her.
“She said it,” she stammered. “I’m sure she did. Don’t take it out on me!”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure she did. It’s just that I’m so angry that Mrs. Winkleson did this to you. The committee never voted to restrict the show to only black and white roses. Mrs. Winkleson made a motion to restrict it, but the motion was defeated, 47 to 1.”
“Well, I did wonder,” the woman said. “It seemed so peculiar.”
“And Mrs. Winkleson had no right to call you like that,” I went on. “If I’d known she was doing it, I’d have called you and everyone else involved to make sure you knew the right story. But I had no idea.”
“I almost didn’t come because of the white-only policy,” the woman said. “Most of my really nice roses are pastels, you see. Pinks and apricots. I finally decided to come anyway because I do have a few white roses. Margaret Merril has been doing quite nicely, and the white Meidilands, and I did have hopes of Frau Karl Druschki till it got so rainy.”
I smiled and nodded as if I had some idea what she was talking about. Presumably these were the names of roses. Hanging around with rose growers was as confusing as reading the supermarket tabloids, whose headlines were always reporting the romantic ups and downs of people on a first name basis with everyone in the reading public except me.
“Can’t you just bring some of your other roses tomorrow?” I asked.
“I’ve been focusing all my efforts on the white roses for the last two weeks,” she said. “None of the others are anywhere near ready!”
I supposed that made sense. Mother and Dad had been slaving over the roses for the last fortnight. I’d have thought Mother Nature could be trusted now and then to produce some pretty decent roses, but apparently no one in the Caerphilly Rose Society agreed.
“And I gave up on my red roses because none of them are all that dark,” she went on. “I’m not into trying to breed new roses like Mrs. Winkleson, and I really don’t see what the fuss is about a black rose. Maybe that’s silly of me.”
“It seems remarkably sensible to me,” I said. “I sometimes think the pastels are the prettiest anyway. Look, I need to run, but let me assure you that the committee had no idea Mrs. Winkleson was doing this, and you can rest assured that the committee will be looking very closely into it.”
I hoped the looking into didn’t happen until after I’d tendered my resignation.
“I suppose when I get home I could see if I have any other blooms that I could possibly enter,” the woman said. “For moral support, if nothing else.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said. “And knowing your garden, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself. I bet you’ll find any number of roses you overlooked because you were so focused on the white ones.”
Actually, I didn’t know her garden at all, and I had no idea if she’d find any good roses— I still couldn’t remember her name— but I’d noticed that gardeners rarely objected when you praised their handiwork. She preened as I’d hoped.
“And remember,” I added, “Mrs. Winkleson will probably consider every brightly colored rose a thorn in her heart.”
A little melodramatic, but the woman liked it.
“Ooh,” she said, as a sly smile spread across her face. “You’re absolutely right. Even if they aren’t quite competition worthy, I’m sure I can find any number of roses to annoy her.”
“That’s the spirit!” I said. “Fill the barns with a riot of color.”
The woman strolled off, looking a lot happier. I saw her stop to talk to the only other person in the barn— another of the rose growers. From the conspiratorial looks on their faces as they whispered together, probably another rose grower being enlisted in the plot to offend Mrs. Winkleson’s sensibilities.