Twenty-Four
Annabelle gazed in wonder at the odd wrinkly lemon that had just landed in her palm. Hundreds of people were crammed into the meeting room on the Department of Agriculture’s ground floor, where strange fruits and vegetables were being passed around the audience. They were in the middle of a presentation by David Fairchild, recently returned from the Mediterranean to recount his adventures gathering nuts, fruits, and seeds that might be adapted to the American climate.
“The Corsicans call this fruit acitron,” Mr. Fairchild said of the wrinkled lemon. “It grows on a compact shrub, and the juice is sweet with almost no acid flavor. I believe it would be suitable for adaptation in California or other warm, dry climates.”
Annabelle passed the fruit to the man sitting next to her, then turned her attention back to Mr. Fairchild, but being short made it impossible to see over the people in the seats in front of her. This was likely the only chance she’d ever have to see the famed explorer in person, and she was tired of being polite. She stood, trying to be unobtrusive as she angled down the crowded aisle so she could stand in the back of the room for a better view.
When she turned to face the podium, Mr. Fairchild met her gaze across the crowded audience and gave her a little nod. She nodded back, and he continued his speech.
That was odd. A few people noticed the momentary exchange and swiveled to look at her, but she ignored them, for the exotic fruits and plant cuttings displayed on the front table were fascinating. Mr. Fairchild gestured to several bowls that brimmed with a strange seed called a pistachio, which was a member of the cashew family. The tree was native to the Middle East, and the seeds of the tree looked like little green nuts. Mr. Fairchild had enough for everyone to sample, and as he concluded his speech, he sent the bowls of pistachios down the aisles.
People clustered around the bowls, already eating and commenting on the unique flavor. Horace Greenfield had managed to get one of the bowls and would surely spare her a few. How was it that people like Horace were always in the center of things?
“Horace?” she asked. She didn’t care if it was rude, she was going to get some of those pistachios. She barely came up to these peoples’ shoulders, but she gamely angled through them. Horace noticed and extended the bowl to her. She would likely only get one shot, so she scooped up a hefty amount.
She sampled a single seed as she wandered toward the back of the room. Oh my, what an odd flavor. It had a soft texture, smooth and earthy. Nutty? Well, obviously, but different. She wasn’t good at putting a name to flavors.
Could she smuggle a few of these to Gray? He’d probably never tasted a pistachio, and she instinctively wanted to share them with him. They were plump and rare and exotic.
The familiar dart of pain squeezed her chest, for Gray would never again take a single thing from her—not an apology, nor an explanation, and certainly not a pistachio. She had to stop thinking about him every time she saw a rare fruit or tasted a new spice.
Still, he would be fascinated by these pistachios. Maybe she could figure out a way to send them anonymously. It was such a shame he couldn’t sample them....
Stop!She was being ridiculous and impulsively tipped the entire handful of nuts into her mouth. Done! Now she could quit toying with the idea of sharing them with a man who hated the sight of her. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the flavor to get the full experience.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss Larkin?”
Her eyes flew open. David Fairchild stood directly in front of her, trying not to laugh as she struggled with a huge mouthful of pistachios. She chewed and swallowed as quickly as possible.
“Hi,” she said inanely. “Thanks for the pistachios.”
He nodded. “Of course. Dr. Norwood told me about you. Can we step outside to talk?”
Her stomach clenched at the mention of Dr. Norwood. Nevertheless, she followed Mr. Fairchild down the hall and out to the experimental garden. His white canvas jacket hung on his frame, making him seem painfully thin. Rumor had it that he’d contracted typhoid on his first trip overseas, and given his pallor and gaunt frame, it was probably true. The Department of Agriculture had several men out in the field to gather specimens. Were they all destined to catch such diseases? Gray certainly battled his share.
She needed tostopthinking about Gray, even as she wondered if Mr. Fairchild might know of a better remedy for malaria than quinine. If he did, she would certainly find a way to communicate the information to Gray, but for now she focused her entire attention on the explorer. Not many people got a chance like this, and she intended to memorize every moment and not spare another thought for Gray Delacroix.
She followed Mr. Fairchild to a bench in the herb garden. He set a leather satchel on the grass and turned to her with a pleasant smile.
“I understand you are acquainted with Gray Delacroix,” he began.
She shot to her feet. “No. I mean yes, but I no longer haveany association with him. So if you’re hoping I’ll spy on him, that’s not—”
“I don’t need a spy,” he said, looking a little appalled at her suggestion. “I just need a favor.”
Oh dear, she’d just horribly offended this nice man. Confusion riddled his handsome face, and he looked pale and thin enough that a stiff wind might carry him away. She sat back down, trying to calm the beating of her heart.
“I don’t think I can help you. Not if the favor has anything to do with Gray Delacroix.”
Mr. Fairchild opened his satchel and retrieved a wooden case about the size of a cigar box. He opened the lid to reveal a dozen glass vials and offered her one. “These vials are filled with different strains of rice one of our agents collected in Japan. We estimate that there are thousands of varieties of rice, and perhaps a few hundred that are suitable for human consumption.”
Curiosity made it impossible to resist leaning over to inspect the vials, and she immediately spotted the differences among the grains. Rice was a cereal grass, but having come from Kansas, she had no experience with it.
“I understand Delacroix is heading to Madagascar,” Mr. Fairchild said.
Her head shot up. “He is?”
Disappointment crashed down on her at Mr. Fairchild’s nod. It meant Gray wasn’t going to stay in America after all. His dream of settling down and starting a family was being abandoned if he planned to head to the other side of the world. How long would it take to sail to Madagascar and back? Months? Years? She was only certain that she must have wounded him more than she knew for him to take such drastic action. It was hard to breathe at the news.
