Birds in Paradise by Dorothy McFalls

in a bed of flowers, but semiconscious and confused. And hurt .
    Ancient history , I reminded myself.
    But was it? Waking up in a flowerbed was by no means normal for anyone, right? And why couldn’t I remember anything about how I got here? While I knew I should have stayed put until I could thoroughly assess what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into, I wasn’t in the mood to lie about waiting for anything else to happen to me. It took some effort to push up onto my wobbly hands and knees. Oh, what a mistake! Sitting up set off a firestorm of agony that radiated out from behind my eyes and shot down my neck.
    I groaned and cradled my sore head in my hands. When my fingers brushed my left temple, I felt something warm and sticky. It took several seconds to realize what I was touching.
    Blood. My blood. And under that film of hot, sticky blood a lump was forming. Not good. Not good at all. I had just enough wits to know that landing in a soft bed of flowers shouldn’t have done this kind of damage. Something else must have happened. Something bad .
    My hands shook as they skimmed the muddy soil in search of my backpack. It was half-submerged in a mud puddle a few feet away. A couple of years ago I’d started growing habaneras in my kitchen window. It’s amazing how potent a concoction one can make with a little extracted pepper oil. I always carried my own special blend of homemade pepper spray in my backpack.
    I pulled off my gardening gloves and dug around in the soggy bag. The bottle of pepper spray was at the bottom, the worst possible location if this had been an actual emergency. Not an emergency? If you’re thinking you’re out of danger, honey, you’re deluding yourself, chided my pesky inner voice, which sounded eerily like Aunt Willow this morning.
    I shook my head, sending the world spinning out of focus. Odd images tumbled through my mind. A silver briefcase. A man’s black-and-white leather shoe with a distinctive design . . . like a lightning bolt. Just one shoe, mind you, not a pair. A plain coffee mug. My yellow rain slicker, which I was still wearing. The White House. And the First Lady of the United States, or FLOTUS, as the press called her.
    Did I know the First Lady?
    Slosh .
    My knees sank into the cool wet earth as I sat back on my heels to take in my surroundings. I recognized the pale pink flowers hanging down from the saucer magnolias and the line of elm trees to the right of me. I’d personally assisted in planting the profusion of tulip and grape hyacinth bulbs I had—I cringed to notice—crushed.
    “It’s murder, you know,” I’d told someone just that morning as I’d slipped on my bright yellow slicker raincoat. What a time to remember that and very little else!
    As I sat there, staring at the soggy landscape around me, details from that morning slowly trickled back into my throbbing head. I remembered Gordon Sims’s windowless office. The cinder block walls plastered with landscape plans and schedules. The most recent addition was the cheerful pink and yellow sketch for the upcoming Easter Egg Roll. The oldest, a plan for the grounds drawn up by Fredrick Law Olmsted, Jr., dating back to 1935. Gordon, the White House chief horticulturalist, hadn’t been around quite that long. But he had an uncanny ability to remember every single day of his nearly thirty years on the job with precise detail. I, on the other hand, had only three months’ experience as his assistant.
    The White House rose above the elm trees like a gleaming beacon of hope on the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue, and here I was slumped on the ground like an overwatered houseplant. One had to wonder how I’d managed to land such a prestigious position when I apparently didn’t have sense enough to keep away from situations that ended with me waking up in flowerbeds in the middle of Lafayette Square.
    Slosh. Slosh .
    Earlier that morning Gordon had been at his desk reviewing a stack of purchase orders while