In the Garden Trilogy (49 page)

“You’ve been busy.” Stella, with her curling red hair bundled back in a tail, scanned the tables. “Really busy.”

“And optimistic. We had a banner season, and I’m expecting we’ll have another. If Nature doesn’t screw around with us.”

“I thought you might want to take a look at the new stock of wreaths. Hayley’s worked on them all morning. I think she outdid herself.”

“I’ll take a look before I leave.”

“I let her go early, I hope that’s all right. She’s still getting used to having Lily with a sitter, even if the sitter is a customer and only a half mile away.”

“That’s fine.” She moved on to the catananche. “You know you don’t have to check every little thing with me,
Stella. You’ve been managing this ship for nearly a year now.”

“They were excuses to come back here.”

Roz paused, her knife suspended above the plant roots, primed for cutting. “Is there a problem?”

“No. I’ve been wanting to ask, and I know this is your domain, but I wondered if, when things slow down a bit after the holidays, I can spend some time with the propagation. I’m missing it.”

“All right.”

Stella’s bright blue eyes twinkled when she laughed. “I can see you’re worried I’ll try to change your routine, organize everything my way. I promise I won’t. And I won’t get in your way.”

“You try, I’ll just boot you out.”

“Got that.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I need you to find me a supplier for good, inexpensive soil bags. One pound, five pound, ten, and twenty-five to start.”

“For?” Stella asked as she pulled a notebook out of her back pocket.

“I’m going to start making and selling my own potting soil. I’ve got mixes I like for indoor and outdoor use, and I want to private-label it.”

“That’s a great idea. Good profit in that. And customers will like having Rosalind Harper’s gardening secrets. There are some considerations, though.”

“I thought of them. I’m not going to go hog-wild right off. We’ll keep it small.” With soil on her hands still, she plucked a bottle of water from a shelf. Then, absently wiping her hand on her shirt, twisted the cap. “I want the staff to learn how to bag, but the recipe’s my secret. I’ll give you and Harper the ingredients and the amounts, but it doesn’t go out to the general staff. For right now we’ll set up the procedure in the main storage shed. It takes off, we’ll build one for it.”

“Government regulations—”

“I’ve studied on that. We won’t be using any pesticides, and I’m keeping the nutrient content to below the regulatory levels.” Noting Stella continued to scribble on her pad, Roz took a long drink. “I’ve applied for the license to manufacture and sell.”

“You didn’t mention it.”

“Don’t get your feelings hurt.” Roz set the bottle aside, dipped a cutting in rooting medium. “I wasn’t sure I’d go on and do the thing, but I wanted the red tape out of the way. It’s kind of a pet project of mine I’ve been playing with for a while now. But I’ve grown some specimens in these mixes, and so far I like what I see. I got some more going now, and if I keep liking it, we’re going for it. So I want an idea how much the bags are going to run us, and the printing. I want classy. I thought you could fiddle around with some logos and such. You’re good at that. In the Garden needs to be prominent.”

“No question.”

“And you know what I’d really like?” She paused for a minute, seeing it in her head. “I’d like brown bags. Something that looks like burlap. Old-fashioned, if you follow me. So we’re saying, this is good old-fashioned dirt, southern soil, and I’m thinking I want cottage garden flowers on the bag. Simple flowers.”

“That says, this is simple to use, and it’ll make your garden simple to grow. I’ll get on it.”

“I can count on you, can’t I, to work out the costs, profits, marketing angles with me?”

“I’m your girl.”

“I know you are. I’m going to finish up these cuttings, then take off early myself if nothing’s up. I want to get some shopping in.”

“Roz, it’s already nearly five.”

“Five? It can’t be five.” She held up an arm, turned her
wrist, and frowned at her watch. “Well, shit. Time got away from me again. Tell you what, I’m going to take off at noon tomorrow. If I don’t, you hunt me down and push me out.”

“No problem. I’d better get back. See you back at the house.”

W
HEN SHE DID
get home, it was to discover the Christmas lights were glinting from the eaves, the wreaths shimmered on all the doors, and candles stood shining in all the windows. The entrance was flanked by two miniature pines wrapped in tiny white lights.

She had only to step inside to be surrounded by the holiday.

In the foyer, red ribbon and twinkling lights coiled up the twin banisters, with white poinsettias in Christmas-red pots under the newel posts.

Her great-grandmother’s silver bowl was polished to a beam and filled with glossy red apples.

In the parlor a ten-foot Norway spruce—certainly from her own field—ruled the front windows. The mantel held the wooden Santas she’d collected since she’d been pregnant with Harper, with fresh greenery dripping from the ends.

Stella’s two sons sat cross-legged on the floor beneath the tree, staring up at it with enormous eyes.

“Isn’t it great?” Hayley bounced dark-haired Lily on her hip. “Isn’t it awesome?”

“David must’ve worked like a dog.”

“We helped!” The boys jumped up.

“After school we got to help with the lights and everything,” the youngest, Luke, told her. “And pretty soon we get to help make cookies, and decorate them and everything.”

“We even got a tree upstairs.” Gavin looked back at the spruce. “It’s not as big as this one, ’cause it’s for upstairs. We helped David take it up, and we get to decorate it
ourselves
.” Knowing who was the boss of the house, Gavin looked at her for confirmation. “He said.”

“Then it must be true.”

“He’s cooking up some sort of trim-the-tree buffet in the kitchen.” Stella walked over to look at the tree from Roz’s perspective. “Apparently, we’re having a party. He’s already given Logan and Harper orders to be here by seven.”

“Then I guess I’d better get myself dressed for a party. Hand over that baby first.” She reached out, took Lily from Hayley and nuzzled. “Tree that size, it’ll take all of us to dress it up. What do you think of your first Christmas tree, little girl?”

“She’s already tried to belly-scoot over to it when I put her on the floor. I can’t wait to see what she does when she sees it all decked out.”

“Then I’d better get a move on.” Roz gave Lily a kiss, handed her back. “It’s a bit warm yet, but I think we ought to have a fire. And somebody tell David to ice down some champagne. I’ll be down shortly.”

It had been too long since there were children in the house for Christmas, Roz thought as she hurried upstairs. And damn if having them there didn’t make her feel like a kid herself.

R
OZ TOOK HER
holiday mood shopping. The nursery could get along without her for half a day. The fact was, the way Stella managed it, the nursery could get along without her for a week. If she had the urge, she could take herself off on her first real vacation in—how long had it been? Three years, she realized.

But she didn’t have the urge.

Home was where she was happiest, so why go to all the trouble of packing, endure the stress of traveling, just to end up somewhere else?

She’d taken the boys on a trip every year when they were growing up. Disney World, the Grand Canyon, Washington, D.C., Bar Harbor, and so on. Little tastes of the country, sometimes chosen at whim, sometimes with great planning.

Then they’d taken that three-week vacation in Europe. Hadn’t that been a time?

It had been hard, sometimes frantic, sometimes hysterical, herding three active boys around, but oh, it had been worth it.

She could remember how Austin had loved the whale-watch cruise in Maine, how Mason had insisted on ordering snails in Paris, and Harper had managed to get himself lost in Adventureland.

She wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. And she’d seen a nice chunk of the world herself.

Instead of a vacation, she could concentrate on other things. Maybe it was time to start thinking about adding a little florist shop onto the nursery. Fresh-cut flowers and arrangements. Local delivery. Of course, it would mean another building, more supplies, more employees. But it was something to think about for a year or two down the road.

She’d have to go over some figures, see if the business could handle the outlay.

She’d sunk a great deal of her personal resources into the nursery to get it off the ground. But she’d been ready to gamble. Her priorities had been, always, that her children were safe, secure, and well provided for. And that Harper House remain tended, protected, and in the family.

She’d accomplished that. Though there’d been times it had taken a lot of creative juggling and had caused the occasional sleepless night. Perhaps money hadn’t been the terrifying issue for her that it often was for single parents, but it had been an issue.

In the Garden hadn’t just been a whim, as some thought. She’d needed fresh income and had bargained, gambled, and finagled to get it.

It didn’t matter to Roz if people thought she was rich as Croesus or poor as a church mouse. The fact was she was neither, but she’d built a good life for herself and her children with the resources she’d had at hand.

Now, if she wanted to go just a little crazy playing Santa, she’d earned it.

She burned up the mall, indulging herself to the point that she needed to make two trips out to her car with bags.
Seeing no reason to stop there, she headed to Wal-Mart, intending to plow through the toy department.

As usual, the minute she stepped through the doors she thought of a dozen other things she could probably use. Her basket was half loaded, and she’d stopped in the aisles to exchange greetings with four people she knew before she made it to the toy department.

Five minutes later she was wondering if she’d need a second cart. Struggling to balance a couple of enormous boxes on top of the mound of other purchases, she turned a corner.

And rapped smartly into another cart.

“Sorry. I can’t seem to . . . oh. Hi.”

It had been weeks since she’d seen Dr. Mitchell Carnegie, the genealogist she’d hired—more or less. There had been a few brief phone conversations, some businesslike e-mails, but only a scatter of face-to-face contacts since the night he’d come to dinner. And had ended up seeing the Harper Bride ghost.

She considered him an interesting man and gave him top marks for not hightailing it after the experience they’d all shared the previous spring.

He had, in her opinion, the credentials she needed, along with the spine and the open mind. Best of all he’d yet to bore her in their discussions of family lineage and the steps necessary to identifying a dead woman.

Just now it looked as if he hadn’t shaved in the past few days, so there was a dark stubble toughening his face. His bottle-green eyes appeared both tired and harassed. His hair badly needed a trim.

He was dressed much like the first time she’d met him, in old jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Unlike hers, his basket was empty.

“Help me,” he said in the tone of a man dangling from a cliff by a sweaty grip on a shaky limb.

“I’m sorry?”

“Six-year-old girl. Birthday. Desperation.”

“Oh.” Deciding she liked that warm bourbon voice, even with panic sharpening it, Roz pursed her lips. “What’s the connection?”

“Niece. Sister’s surprise late baby. She had the decency to have two boys before. I can handle boys.”

“Well, is she a girly girl?”

He made a sound, as if the limb had started to crack.

“All right, all right.” Roz waved a hand and, abandoning her own cart, turned down the aisle. “You could’ve saved yourself some stress by just asking her mother.”

“My sister’s pissed at me because I forgot
her
birthday last month.”

“I see.”

“Look, I forgot everything last month, including my own name a couple of times. I told you I was finishing some revisions on the book. I was on deadline. For God’s sake, she’s forty-three. One. Or possibly two.” Obviously at wit’s end, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Doesn’t your breed stop having birthdays at forty?”

“We may stop counting, Dr. Carnegie, but that doesn’t mean we don’t expect an appropriate gift on the occasion.”

“Loud and clear,” he responded, watching her peruse the shelves. “And since you’re back to calling me Dr. Carnegie, I’d hazard a guess you’re on her side. I sent flowers,” he added in an aggrieved tone that had her lips twitching. “Okay, late, but I sent them. Two dozen roses, but does she cut me a break?”

He jammed his hands into his back pockets and scowled at Malibu Barbie. “I couldn’t get back to Charlotte for Thanksgiving. Does that make me a demon from hell?”

“It sounds like your sister loves you very much.”

“She’ll be planning my immediate demise if I don’t get this gift today, and have it FedExed tomorrow.”

She picked up a doll, set it down again. “Then I assume your niece’s birthday is tomorrow, and you waited until the eleventh hour to rush out and find something for her.”

He said nothing for a moment, then laid a hand on her shoulder so that she looked over, and up at him. “Rosalind, do you want me to die?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel responsible. But we’ll find something, then you can get it wrapped up and shoot it off.”

“Wrapped. God almighty, it has to be wrapped?”

“Of course it has to be wrapped. And you have to buy a nice card, something pretty and age-appropriate. Hmm. I like this.” She tapped a huge box.

“What is it?”

“It’s a house-building toy. See, it has all these modular pieces so you can design and redesign your own doll house, with furnishings. It comes with dolls, and a little dog. Fun, and educational. You hit on two levels.”

“Great. Good. Wonderful. I owe you my life.”

“Aren’t you a little out of your milieu?” she asked when he took the box off the shelf. “You live right in the city. Plenty of shops right there.”

“That’s the problem. Too many of them. And the malls? They’re like a labyrinth of retail hell. I have mall fear. So I thought, hey, Wal-Mart. At least everything’s all under one roof. I can get the kid taken care of and get . . . what the hell was it? Laundry soap. Yeah, I need laundry soap and something else, that I wrote down . . .” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a PDA. “Here.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to it then. Don’t forget the wrapping paper, ribbon, a big bow, and a pretty card.”

“Hold on, hold on.” With the stylus he added the other items. “Bow. You can just buy them ready-made and slap it on, right?”

“That will do, yes. Good luck.”

“No. Wait, wait.” He shoved the PDA back in his pocket, shifted the box. His green eyes seemed calmer now and focused on her. “I was going to get in touch with you anyway. Are you finished in here?”

“Not quite.”

“Good. Let me grab what I need, then I’ll meet you at the checkout. I’ll help you haul your load out to your car, then take you to lunch.”

“It’s nearly four. A little late for lunch.”

“Oh.” He looked absently at his watch to confirm the time. “I think time must warp in places like this so you could actually spend the rest of your natural life wandering aimlessly without realizing it. Anyway. A drink then. I’d really like to have a conversation about the project.”

“All right. There’s a little place called Rosa’s right across the way. I’ll meet you there in a half hour.”

B
UT HE WAS
waiting at the checkout. Patiently, from all appearances. Then insisted on helping her load her bags in her car. He took one look at what was already stacked in the back of her Durango and said, “Holy Mother of God.”

“I don’t shop often, so when I do I make it count.”

“I’ll say.”

“There are less than three weeks left till Christmas.”

“I’ll have to ask you to shut up.” He hefted the last bag inside. “My car’s that way.” He gestured vaguely toward their left. “I’ll meet you.”

“Fine. Thanks for the help.”

The way he wandered off made her think he wasn’t entirely sure just where he’d parked. She thought he should’ve plugged the location into that little personal data thingy he had in his pocket. The idea made her chuckle as she drove over to the restaurant.

She didn’t mind a certain amount of absentmindedness. To her it simply indicated the person probably had a lot in his head, and it took a little longer to find just what he was after. She’d hadn’t hired him out of the blue, after all. She’d researched Mitchell Carnegie and had read or skimmed some of his books. He was good at what he did, he was local, and though he was pricey, he hadn’t balked—overmuch—about the prospect of researching and identifying a ghost.

She parked, then walked into the lounge area. Her first thought was to order a glass of iced tea, or some coffee. Then she decided, the hell with that. She deserved a nice glass of wine after such a successful shopping expedition.

While she waited for Mitch, she called the nursery on her cell phone to let them know she wouldn’t be back in, unless she was needed.

“Everything’s fine here,” Hayley told her. “You must be buying out the stores.”

“I did. Then I happened to run into Dr. Carnegie at Wal-Mart—”

“Dr. Hottie? How come I never run into hunks at Wal-Mart?”

“Your day will come, I’m sure. In any case, we’re going to have a drink here and discuss, I assume, our little project.”

“Cool. You ought to spin it out over dinner, Roz.”

“It’s not a date.” But she did pull out her lipstick and slide a little pale coral on her lips. “It’s an impromptu meeting. If anything comes up, you can give me a call. I should be heading home within the hour anyway.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. And, hey, you’ve both got to eat sometime, somewhere, so why not—”

“Here he comes now, so we’ll get started. I’ll fill everyone in later. Bye now.”

Mitch slipped into the booth across from her. “This was handy, wasn’t it? What would you like?”

She ordered a glass of wine, and he coffee, black. Then he flipped open the bar menu and added antipasto. “You’ve got to need some sustenance after a shopping safari like that. How’ve you been?”

“Very well, thanks. How about you?”

“Good, now that the book’s out of my hair.”

“I never asked you what it was about.”

“A history and study of Charles-Pierre Baudelaire.” He waited a beat, noted her questioning lift of brows. “Nineteenth-century poet. Wild man of Paris—druggie, very controversial, with a life full of drama. He was found guilty of blasphemy and obscenity, squandered his inheritance, translated Poe, wrote dark, intense poetry, and, long after his death from a sexually transmitted disease, is looked on by many to be the poet of modern civilization—and others as being one sick bastard.”

She smiled. “And which camp do you pitch your tent in?”

“He was brilliant, and twisted. And believe me, you don’t want to get me started, so I’ll just say he was a fascinating and frustrating subject to write about.”

“Are you happy with the work you did?”

“I am. Happier yet,” he said as their drinks were served, “not to be living with Baudelaire day and night.”

“It’s like that, isn’t it, like living with a ghost.”

“Nice segue.” He toasted her with his coffee. “Let me say, first, I appreciate your patience. I’d hoped to have this book wrapped up weeks ago, but one thing led to another.”

“You warned me at the start you wouldn’t be available for some time.”

“Hadn’t expected it to be quite this much time. And I’ve given quite a bit of thought to your situation. Hard not to after that experience last spring.”

“It was a more personal introduction to the Harper Bride than I’d planned.”

“You’ve said she’s been . . . subdued,” he decided, “since then.”

“She still sings to the boys and to Lily. But none of us has seen her since that night. And to be frank, it hasn’t been patience so much as being swamped myself. Work, home, a wedding coming up, a new baby in the house. And after that night, it seemed like all of us needed a little break.”

“I’d like to get started now, really started, if that works for you.”

“I suppose it was fate that we ran into each other like this, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. What will you need?”

“Everything you’ve got. Hard data, records, journals, letters, family stories. Nothing’s too obscure. I appreciate the family photos you had copied for me. It just helps me immerse, you could say, if I have photos, and letters or diaries written in the hands of the people I’m researching.”

“No problem. I’ll be happy to load you up with more.”

“Some of what I’ve managed so far—between bouts with Baudelaire—is what we’ll call a straight job. Starting to chart the basic family tree, getting a feel for the people and the line. Those are the first steps.”