Savage Beauty - Peggy Webb Page 0,3
single motherhood, and the death of both parents. Still, she had managed to earn a college degree in interior design and start her own business.
“Kiss her,” someone called.
“I’m happy to oblige.” Imagining the picture they made, much like the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, he held the kiss through the frenzy of clapping and congratulations that echoed through the downstairs ballroom. Allistair Roses could only benefit from this kind of publicity.
One of the reporters called, “Roses,” and the rest of the crowd took up the chant. “Roses! Roses!”
“Duty calls, Lily. You don’t mind finding the girls and bringing them to the conservatory, do you? Clive and I need to get there ahead of the reporters.”
“Of course not. I don’t have to be pampered like your greenhouse cultivars.”
“You’ve picked a champion, son, and a stunning one, at that.” Clive clapped him on the shoulder then winked at Lily. “I’ve got to borrow this stud for the Allistair show.”
They flanked Lily and escorted her down the stairs then watched until she was out of earshot.
“Don’t you think you’re laying on the champion brood mare/stud analogy too thick?” Stephen asked.
“I can say a lot of things now that I couldn’t when I was your age.” Clive, who never displayed remorse about anything, led the way out of the ballroom toward the attached glass conservatory.
Two guards stood on either the door, and four more were strategically placed inside. Stephen nodded at them, but didn’t stop to speak. They knew their job. In five minutes they’d remove the gold rope and let the reporters along with Lily and the two girls inside. Afterward, the rest of the guests, which included most of the population of Ocean Springs and the surrounding Gulf coastal area, would be allowed to view the roses in groups of ten.
Colors and fragrances exploded around Stephen. The conservatory was covered with Allistair roses, each with its own pedestal and plaque. In the center stood the black rose. The plaque beneath it said Clive Allistair, Poe’s Raven. “Quoth the raven, Nevermore.” Tea rose inspired by Edgar Allan Poe.
Also showcased in the center was Stephen’s latest cultivar. Brilliant blue with white edges. Stephen C. Allistair the plaque read. Mariposa. “Butterflies are white and blue in this field we wander.” Floribunda rose inspired by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
The roses unleashed a thousand memories. Formulas and secrets swirled through his mind. Closed doors and dark rooms whispered while midnight hours and grueling work filled him with both exhaustion and exhilaration. The mystery of the roses filled Stephen until he felt as infinite as the moon casting its silver light through the glass ceiling of the conservatory.
His grandfather’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the moment. “Well done, son.”
Together they walked to the small dais at the front of the conservatory and waited for reporters and photographers to gather. All attention and cameras were turned on them until Lily came in with the girls. She and Cee Cee looked stunning, but Annabelle looked flushed and out of sorts.
Clive nodded in her direction. “Is she sick?”
“No. She’s stubborn. She hates this house and me, too.”
“I suggest boarding school.”
“Lily would never stand for it.”
Stephen didn’t have time to worry about Annabelle, though. Reporters were already firing questions.
“Mr. Allistair, how many cultivars have you originated?”
“Sixty-five,” Clive said, and applause thundered through the glass room. “My grandson Stephen has already produced forty-five, and if he lives to be as old as I am, he’ll surpass me.”
“And what about your son, Wyler?”
It was the question Stephen always dreaded. He was glad to let Clive answer.
“He did only one, but it’s spectacular. It buds out deep red, and then the blooms turn to a pale blush. The Vanishing Red is named for the Robert Frost poem by the same name. You’ll find Wyler’s climber beside the yellow floribunda I created after his mother died.”
The reporter from CBS turned to read aloud the plaque on The Vanishing Red. “It’s too long a story to go into now. Why did Wyler choose such a cryptic quote? Did it have anything to do with him ending up a recluse in Switzerland?”
Clive nodded, handing off the difficult question. Stephen prided himself on being the Allistair family’s spin doctor.
“As most of you know, Allistair Roses has many traditions. One of them is naming our roses for literary works or figures. There’s no pattern or agenda in the way we select our names. But we do seem to be partial to