Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“What if you made king cake candles?” Greta offered. “I think it’s kinda gross, but people love those candles that smell sweet.”
“Oh, damn,” Helen said, nodding. “We could be like, ‘Do you wish you could get king cake all year round? Now you can!’”
“Write this shit down,” Veronica said to Helen, who was already scrambling for a pen.
“I wonder if there’s a way you could reuse honey jars to make candles in, or candle jars to put lemonade in,” Greta mused.
“Maybe we can,” said Helen. “I’m writing it down.”
“I could grow lavender and other herbs and flowers you could flavor the lemonade with or put in the candles,” Greta said dreamily.
She realized she must be pretty high, because the notion of moving to New Orleans and growing lavender for a business with two people she’d just met filled her with pure elation.
Chapter 17
Greta
Shortly before 7:00 a.m., Greta approached the gate of a lavish home in the Garden District, checking the address on her phone for the third time.
She was here as Muriel’s guest, but she didn’t see Muriel anywhere. In fact, the only people about were a few kids scampering for a school bus.
Just as she had decided to slink away unnoticed, Muriel strode elegantly down the street in a red wool cape and flowing teal pantsuit, a group of equally well-dressed seniors following in her wake.
“Greta, dear.” Muriel kissed her cheeks. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’ll introduce you to everyone inside. Come along.”
Then she swept through the gate and up to the front door, the rest of the flock following in a colorful vee.
Greta suddenly felt very underdressed in her black jeans, boots, and buffalo plaid flannel.
Muriel didn’t knock, simply stood quietly at the door, so Greta joined the back of the group. Precisely at seven, the door opened, revealing a grand entryway with gleaming pale pink marble floors, soft green walls edged in elaborate gold moldings, and a white marble table directly in the center that held the largest arrangement of flowers Greta had ever seen.
“Welcome, welcome,” boomed their host, a petite Black woman who appeared to be in her sixties or seventies and was wearing an equestrian-style outfit.
Muriel and the woman exchanged cheek kisses, and the greetings commenced. When their host had kissed the last cheek and murmured the final welcome, Muriel slid her elbow through Greta’s and walked her over.
“Camilla St. James, may I introduce my dear new friend, Greta Russakoff.”
“Welcome, dear. How do you do?”
“Hi, hello, thanks so much for having me, Ms. St. James. Um, sorry, I didn’t know this was a fancy occasion, so I didn’t dress up. Sorry. Your house is amazing.”
“Oh, it’s not fancy,” her host said with a rich laugh. “Just a few old friends getting together for some flower talk. And please, call me Camilla.”
“Okay, well, thank you for having me, Camilla.”
Camilla kissed her cheek and herded everyone through into a magnificent sitting room, wallpapered in a bold rose print against a black background. The furniture was a damask of the same print but with a pale yellow background, and a huge piano sat in the corner with a freestanding ashtray next to it, topped with fluted amber glass. A chandelier dripped crystals in the center of the molded plaster ceiling.
“Wow,” Greta couldn’t help muttering under her breath as they trooped through.
A thin, stooped man with a ring of white hair, wearing a blue linen suit that bagged at the shoulders and knees, turned to her. He had sharp blue eyes and wild eyebrows, and when he spoke, it was with an accent Greta couldn’t quite place.
“You should see her Christmas parties,” he said with a wink. “Trees up to here.”
He raised an arm to indicate height, but since he was a small man, the effect was comical. Greta smiled.
“When do the Christmas decorations go up?”
“December the fifteenth and not a minute sooner.”
It was December thirteenth. Greta raised her eyebrows, hoping she was conveying polite interest. She knew that people often had specific times that they put up or took down Christmas decorations, though she didn’t know why.
“I’m Marvin Kann.”
“Greta. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands, then followed everyone else through the house.
They ended up in a solarium at the back of the house. It had light green tile floors, and the entire room was clad in metal wrapped windows. Greta’s breath caught at the soft morning light that made the plants glow like jewels.
And what plants they were! Towering monsteras ten feet tall with aerial roots dripping to the ground like the tangle of wires to a soundboard. A jade plant—no, tree—with a trunk as thick as her arm. Flurries of hanging philodendrons snaked their tendrils across the ceiling. Geraniums and orchids, begonias and ferns. Each area of the solarium was like a microclimate of sun and heat and humidity perfect for each plant.