As my friends launch into their latest work stories, I relax for the first time in weeks. Maybe Vick’s right; maybe the trees will be fine without my constant surveillance. Maybe the Bramblewood presentation will go well.
The server sweeps past in a flurry of dark hair that has me thinking about that woman who yelled at me downtown. Something about her fierce certainty… I bet she doesn’t spend Thursday nights second-guessing herself over beer and fries.
3
Eliza
“You’ve got this, Liza.” Eden’s voice echoes in my head as I pull my rattling trailer up the circular drive of Bramblewood Manor, but her sisterly pep talk from this morning feels flimsy compared to the marble columns looming ahead of me.
The manor resembles a movie about rich people—all pristine white stone and perfectly trimmed hedges, with actual gargoyles perched on the corners judging everyone who dares approach. It’s definitely weird to me that such an estate exists inside the city, but here we are. My rusty trailer bounces over cobblestones that probably cost more than my truck, and I can hear Chiron braying his disapproval from inside.
“Yeah, buddy,” I mutter to my guard donkey, parking next to a gleaming catering van. “I don’t like it, either.”
The paperwork crinkles in my jacket pocket as I climb out. It’s the hoof certification Martinez agreed to expedite after I promised him half payment by Monday and the rest… whenever I get paid. Which I will. Because I have to.
I’m adjusting my least-stained work shirt when a woman in a cream-colored suit clicks toward me on heels that could double as weapons. Her blonde hair doesn’t even move in the November breeze.
“You must be the… animal service,” she says, consulting her tablet with the enthusiasm of someone scheduling a root canal. “I’m Mandy Warnick, event director.”
“Eliza Storm, owner of Mobile Urban Natural Clearing Herd.” I offer my hand, which she eyes in disdain. “Ready to get your invasive plant problem sorted.”
“Yes, well.” Mandy’s gaze darts to my trailer, where Chiron has started his I-demand-attention honking. “We have a very exclusive event coming up. Investors, innovators, Pittsburgh’s finest entrepreneurs gathering, and then we have our annual Yule Gala.” She pronounces it reverently. “The theme celebrates renewal and rebirth in nature, the return of light after darkness. Very symbolic.”
I nod like I give a shit about symbolism. “Two events. Got it. Where’s the work site?”
“Around back. I want to be very clear—you and your… livestock… are to remain completely out of sight during setup. Our presenters are displaying cutting-edge innovations in the main hall, and we cannot have any disruptions.”
The way she says livestock makes my jaw clench. “My goats are professionals. They’ve cleared invasive plants for the city parks department.”
Chiron emits a sound of agreement.
“I’m sure,” Mandy says in a tone that suggests she’s not sure at all. She winces as Chiron bellows again. I’d feel bad about the noise, but how else am I going to keep urban coyotes and other would-be thieves from my goats? Guard donkeys need to be obnoxious.
Mandy composes herself and continues. “Follow the service road. The affected area is behind the building.” She waves a manicured hand as Chiron starts really yelling. You’ll have access to water and electricity, but please keep noise to a minimum.”
She clicks away before I can respond, leaving me with Chiron’s commentary from the trailer. “Real charmer,” I tell him as I climb in the truck.
The service road winds around manicured gardens that look like they’ve never seen a weed, past fountains and perfectly placed benches. Everything screams “we’ve got professional gardeners,” right down to the perfectly uniform blades of grass all growing in the same direction.
I try to see it through my sister Eila’s eyes. She’s a horticulturist and would probably frown at all the pesticides it takes to keep the lawn this lush in late autumn.
I round the corner to the back of the property and find my kind of chaos.
It’s at least half an acre of flora disaster. Invasive vines have claimed everything—knotweed strangling young trees, mustard garlic creating an impenetrable hedge, and enough poison ivy to hospitalize a small army. It’s exactly the kind of ecological nightmare that gives me purpose.
I can see why Mandy Warnick hates it.
“Now we’re talking,” I say, parking next to a utility shed that’s half-hidden under Virginia creeper.
I’m unloading fence posts when voices drift through the open service door of the manor. Two guys in matching polo shirts lean against the doorframe, smoking cigarettes.
“…supposed to be some big presentation in the atrium,” one of them says. “Revolutionary tree guy or something.”
“Trees?” The other guy snorts. “What’s revolutionary about trees?”
“Hell if I know. Rich people love weird shit. Remember that guy last year who had that poo-powered appliance line?”
“That was actually a pretty clever refrigeration system,” the first guy corrects. “But yeah, trees seem like a stretch. Unless he’s growing money on them.”
