Chapter 4: The First Cutting
Diane’s sitting room contained more plants than furniture.
Cuttings rooted in glass jars along the windowsill, and ceramic pots occupied nearly every square foot near the light.
She led Mark past them to a cabinet filled with seed packets and carefully labeled envelopes.
He noticed that none of the labels matched the Crownleaf brand.
“June trusted me with the first successful cutting,” Diane said.
She opened a small drawer and lifted out a brittle photograph.
June Bellweather stood beside a younger Diane, both women holding a pot of red flowers.
“Why did you never tell anyone?” Mark asked.
“I told people plenty.”
“You threatened to call the police when I planted flowers.”
“I know what I did today.”
Diane sat down heavily.
“I need you to hear what happened before you decide what sort of woman I am.
”
Mark remained standing.
He had spent the morning defending his right to put plants in the ground, and he did not owe Diane comfort.
But he did want an answer.
Diane explained that June had developed several flowering lines, not one finished commercial variety.
The plants in the six front gardens were living experiments.
Some bloomed early, some resisted mildew, and one produced unusually intense color during hot weather.
Crownleaf had bought a regional nursery eight years earlier.
Pike was then a junior buyer tasked with acquiring rare local varieties.
He visited Diane after seeing an old Garden Walk photograph online.
“He said he wanted to preserve June’s work,” Diane said.
“I thought he meant it.”
She gave him a few unrooted cuttings after he promised to help finance a community demonstration bed.
He returned with a contract she did not fully understand.
Diane signed a limited research access agreement covering the material she personally contributed.
The contract did not grant ownership of June’s breeding work or anyone else’s plants.
Pike nevertheless began acting as if the entire collection belonged to Crownleaf.
Diane saw branded pots in a trade catalog two years later.
“I complained,” she said.
“Their lawyer sent me a letter explaining that my contribution had become part of a proprietary development program.”
“Did you tell June?”
Diane shook her head.
“June had died by then.”
“Did you tell the other neighbors?”
“I was ashamed.”
Mark studied the cabinet.
“So you buried the problem.”
“I stopped the Garden Walk because every new visitor made it more likely that Pike would learn which plants survived.”
“He already knew the neighborhood.”
“He didn’t know where every line was.”
Diane explained that she had quietly moved cuttings when houses changed owners.
She had watered neglected plants, replaced dying stems, and argued with landscapers who threatened to remove unfamiliar flowers.
“That doesn’t give you the right to control our yards,” Mark said.
“I know.”
Her admission sounded harder than any accusation he could have made.
“Why did you call 911?”
Diane held up a folded printed schedule.
Pike had planned to arrive Friday morning with a mobile display crew to photograph the old collection.
He wanted images showing the plants as neglected relics of an abandoned experiment.
Diane feared Mark’s fresh bed would expose the location of the most valuable surviving root crown.
She had believed a police incident might frighten him into abandoning the garden before Pike arrived.
“You could have warned me,” Mark said.
“You were new, and I didn’t trust you.”
“You accused me of threatening you.”
Diane lowered her eyes.
“I should not have said that.”
Mark put the photograph on the table.
“What happens Friday?”
“Pike plans to introduce Scarlet Star at a regional garden showcase.”
“Does he need this street?”
“He needs a convincing story.”
Diane pointed at June’s photograph.
“He wants the audience to believe his company created a breakthrough from nothing.”
Mark looked closely at the blooms in the image.
They were brilliant red, but the leaves were speckled and one flowering stem leaned sideways.
June’s plant was imperfect, alive, and recognizably hers.
The polished Crownleaf advertisement showed a cleaner version of the same shape.
“Then we should find out what he actually has,” Mark said.
Diane lifted her head.
“You would help after what I did?”
“I’m not helping you escape responsibility.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because June’s work deserves a better ending than a fight over twelve flowers.”
