She must see the surprise in my expression, for she adds, "I have a man who comes to do the heavy labor, but I do the pruning, fertilizing and, believe it or not, most of the weeding. My gardens are why I could never be the editor of Vogue." She laughs, holding up her hands, showing short manicured nails. "I live for them. And for little Corbie, of course." I've been wondering to whom the Irish voice over the intercom belonged, and I find out when a young woman appears at my side with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Miss," she says to me with a slight curtsy.
