by Nora Roberts
“Perfectly,” Stella said coolly.
Logan shrugged.
“Which means you’ll cooperate with each other, do what’s necessary to work together in such a way for both of you to function in the areas you oversee. I built In the Garden from the ground up, and I can run it myself if I have to. But I don’t choose to. I choose to have the two of you, and Harper, shoulder the responsibilities you’ve been given. Squabble all you want. I don’t mind squabbles. But get the job done.”
She finished off her beer. “Questions? Comments?” After a beat of silence, she rose. “Well, then, let’s eat.”
five
IT WAS, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, A PLEASANT EVENING. Neither of her kids threw any food or made audible gagging noises. Always a plus, in Stella’s book. Conversation was polite, even lively—particularly when the boys learned Logan’s first name—the same name used by the X-Men’s Wolverine.
It was instant hero status, given polish when it was discovered that Logan shared Gavin’s obsession with comic books.
The fact that Logan seemed more interested in talking to her sons than her was probably another plus.
“If, you know, the Hulk and Spider-Man ever got into a fight, I think Spider-Man would win.”
Logan nodded as he cut into rare roast beef. “Because Spider-Man’s quicker, and more agile. But if the Hulk ever caught him, Spidey’d be toast.”
Gavin speared a tiny new potato, then held it aloft on his fork like a severed head on a pike. “If he was under the influence of some evil guy, like ...”
“Maybe Mr. Hyde.”
“Yeah! Mr. Hyde, then the Hulk could be forced to go after Spider-Man. But I still think Spidey would win.”
“That’s why he’s amazing,” Logan agreed, “and the Hulk’s incredible. It takes more than muscle to battle evil.”
“Yeah, you gotta be smart and brave and stuff.”
“Peter Parker’s the smartest.” Luke emulated his brother with the potato head.
“Bruce Banner’s pretty smart, too.” Since it made the kids laugh, Harper hoisted a potato, wagged it. “He always manages to get new clothes after he reverts from Hulk form.”
“If he was really smart,” Harper commented, “he’d figure out a way to make his clothes stretch and expand.”
“You scientists,” Logan said with a grin for Harper. “Never thinking about the mundane.”
“Is the Mundane a supervillain?” Luke wanted to know.
“It means the ordinary,” Stella told him. “As in, it’s more mundane to eat your potatoes than to play with them, but that’s the polite thing to do at the table.”
“Oh.” Luke smiled at her, an expression somewhere between sweet and wicked, and chomped the potato off the fork. “Okay.” After the meal, she used the excuse of the boys’ bedtime to retreat upstairs. There were baths to deal with, the usual thousand questions to answer, and all that end-of-day energy to burn off, which included one or both of them running around mostly naked.
Then came her favorite time, when she drew a chair between their beds and read to them while Parker began to snore at her feet. The current pick was Mystic Horse, and when she closed the book, she got the expected moans and pleas for just a little more.
“Tomorrow, because now I’m afraid it’s time for sloppy kisses.”
“Not sloppy kisses.” Gavin rolled onto his belly to bury his face in the pillow. “Not that!”
“Yes, and you must succumb.” She covered the back of his head, the base of his neck with kisses while he giggled.
“And now, for my second victim.” She turned to Luke and rubbed her hands together.
“Wait, wait!” He threw out his hand to ward off the attack. “Do you think my tooth will fall out tomorrow?”
“Let’s have another look.” She sat on the side of his bed, studying soberly as he wiggled the tooth with his tongue. “I think it just might.”
“Can I have a horse?”
“It won’t fit under your pillow.” When he laughed, she kissed his forehead, his cheeks, and his sweet, sweet mouth.
Rising, she switched off the lamp, leaving them in the glow of the night-light. “Only fun dreams allowed.”
“I’m gonna dream I get a horse, because dreams come true sometimes.”
“Yes, they do. ’Night now.”
She walked back to her room, heard the whispers from bed to bed that were also part of the bedtime ritual.
It had become their ritual, over the last two years. Just the three of them at nighttime, where they had once been four. But it was solid now, and good, she thought, as a few giggles punctuated the whispers.
Somewhere along the line she’d stopped aching every night, every morning, for what had been. And she’d come to treasure what was.
She glanced at her laptop, thought about the work she’d earmarked for the evening. Instead, she went to the terrace doors.
It was still too cool to sit out, but she wanted the air, and the quiet, and the night.
Imagine, just imagine, she was standing outside at night in January. And not freezing. Though the forecasters were calling for more rain, the sky was star-studded and graced with a sliver of moon. In that dim light she could see a camellia in bloom. Flowers in winter—now that was something to add to the plus pile about moving south.
She hugged her elbows and thought of spring, when the air would be warm and garden-scented.
She wanted to be here in the spring, to see it, to be part of the awakening. She wanted to keep her job. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to keep it until Roz’s firm, no-nonsense sit-down before dinner.
Less than two weeks, and she was already caught up. Maybe too much caught, she admitted. That was always a problem. Whatever she began, she needed to finish. Stella’s religion, her mother called it.
But this was more. She was emotional about the place. A mistake, she knew. She was half in love with the nursery, and with her own vision of how it could be. She wanted to see tables alive with color and green, cascading flowers spilling from hanging baskets that would drop down along the aisles to make arbors. She wanted to see customers browsing and buying, filling the wagons and flatbeds with containers.
And, of course, there was that part of her that wanted to go along with each one of them and show them exactly how everything should be planted. But she could control that.
She could admit she also wanted to see the filing system in place, and the spreadsheets, the weekly inventory logs.
And whether he liked it or not, she intended to visit some of Logan’s jobs. To get a feel for that end of the business.
That was supposing he didn’t talk Roz into firing her.
He’d gotten slapped back, too, Stella admitted. But he had home-field advantage.
In any case, she wasn’t going to be able to work, or relax, or think about anything else until she’d straightened things out.
She would go downstairs, on the pretext of making a cup of tea. If his truck was gone, she’d try to have a minute with Roz.
It was quiet, and she had a sudden sinking feeling that they’d gone up to bed. She didn’t want that picture in her head. Tiptoeing into the front parlor, she peeked out the window. Though she didn’t see his truck, it occurred to her she didn’t know where he’d parked, or what he’d driven in the first place.
She’d leave it for morning. That was best. In the morning, she would ask for a short meeting with Roz and get everything back in place. Better to sleep on it, to plan exactly what to say and how to say it.
Since she was already downstairs, she decided to go ahead and make that tea. Then she would take it upstairs and focus on work. Things would be better when she was focused.
She walked quietly back into the kitchen, and let out a yelp when she saw the dim figure in the shaded light. The figure yelped back, then slapped at the switch beside the stove.
“Just draw and shoot next time,” Roz said, slapping a hand to her heart.
“I’m sorr
y. God, you scared me. I knew David was going into the city tonight and I didn’t think anyone was back here.”
“Just me. Making some coffee.”
“In the dark?”
“Stove light was on. I know my way around. You come down to raid the refrigerator?”
“What? No. No!” She was hardly that comfortable here, in another woman’s home. “I was just going to make some tea to take up while I do a little work.”
“Go ahead. Unless you want some of this coffee.”
“If I drink coffee after dinner, I’m awake all night.”
It was awkward, standing here in the quiet house, just the two of them. It wasn’t her house, Stella thought, her kitchen, even her quiet. She wasn’t a guest, but an employee.
However gracious Roz might be, everything around them belonged to her.
“Did Mr. Kitridge leave?”
“You can call him Logan, Stella. You only sound pissy otherwise.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to be.” Maybe a little. “We got off on the wrong foot, that’s all, and I ... oh, thanks,” she said when Roz handed her the teakettle. “I realize I shouldn’t have complained about him.”
She filled the kettle, wishing she’d thought through what she wanted to say. Practiced it a few times.
“Because?” Roz prompted.
“Well, it’s hardly constructive for your manager and your landscape designer to start in on each other after one run-in, and less so to whine to you about it.”
“Sensible. Mature.” Roz leaned back on the counter, waiting for her coffee to brew. Young, she thought. She had to remember that despite some shared experiences, the girl was more than a decade younger than she. And a bit tender yet.
“I try to be both,” Stella said, and put the kettle on to boil.
“So did I, once upon a time. Then I decided, screw that. I’m going to start my own business.”
Stella pushed back her hair. Who was this woman who was elegant to look at even in the hard lights? Who spoke frank words in that debutante-of-the-southern-aristocracy voice and wore ancient wool socks in lieu of slippers? “I can’t get a handle on you. I can’t figure you out.”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Get handles on things.” She shifted to reach up and behind into a cupboard for a coffee mug. “That’s a good quality to have in a manager. Might be irritating on a personal level.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.” Stella let out a breath. “And on that personal level, I’d like to add a separate apology. I shouldn’t have said those things about Logan to you. First off, because it’s bad form to fly off about another employee. And second, I didn’t realize you were involved.”
“Didn’t you?” The moment, Roz decided, called for a cookie. She reached into the jar David kept stocked, pulled out a snickerdoodle. “And you realized it when ...”
“When we came downstairs—before dinner. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I happened to notice ...”
“Have a cookie.”
“I don’t really eat sweets after—”
“Have a cookie,” Roz insisted and handed one over. “Logan and I are involved. He works for me, though he doesn’t quite see it that way.” An amused smile brushed over her lips. “It’s more a with me from his point of view, and I don’t mind that. Not as long as the work gets done, the money comes in, and the customers are satisfied. We’re also friends. I like him very much. But we don’t sleep together. We’re not, in any way, romantically involved.”
“Oh.” This time she huffed out a breath. “Oh. Well, I’ve used up my own, so I’ll have to borrow someone else’s foot to stuff in my mouth.”
“I’m not insulted, I’m flattered. He’s an excellent, specimen. I can’t say I’ve ever thought about him in that way.”
“Why?”
Roz poured her coffee while Stella took the sputtering kettle off the burner. “I’ve got ten years on him.”
“And your point would be?”
Roz glanced back, a little flicker of surprise running over her face, just ahead of humor. “You’re right. That doesn’t, or shouldn’t, apply. However, I’ve been married twice. One was good, very good. One was bad, very bad. I’m not looking for a man right now. Too damn much trouble. Even when it’s good, they take a lot of time, effort, and energy. I’m enjoying using all that time, effort, and energy on myself.”
“Do you get lonely?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. There was a time I didn’t think I’d have the luxury of being lonely. Raising my boys, all the running around, the mayhem, the responsibilities.”
She glanced around the kitchen, as if surprised to find it quiet, without the noise and debris generated by young boys. “When I’d raised them—not that you’re ever really done, but there’s a point where you have to step back—I thought I wanted to share my life, my home, myself with someone. That was a mistake.” Though her expression stayed easy and pleasant, her tone went hard as granite. “I corrected it.”
“I can’t imagine being married again. Even a good marriage is a balancing act, isn’t it? Especially when you toss in careers, family.”
“I never had all of them at once to juggle. When John was alive, it was home, kids, him. I wrapped my life around them. Only wrapped it tighter when it was just me and the boys. I’m not sorry for doing that,” she said after a sip of coffee. “It was the way I wanted things. The business, the career, that started late for me. I admire women who can handle all those balls.”
“I think I was good at it.” There was a pang at remembering, a sweet little slice in the heart. “It’s exhausting work, but I hope I was good at it. Now? I don’t think I have the skill for it anymore. Being with someone every day, at the end of it.” She shook her head. “I can’t see it. I could always picture Kevin and me, all the steps and stages. I can’t picture anyone else.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t come into the viewfinder yet.”
Stella lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “Maybe. But I could picture you and Logan together.”
“Really?”
There was such humor, with a bawdy edge to it, that Stella forgot any sense of awkwardness and just laughed. “Not that way. Or I started to, then engaged the impenetrable mind block. I meant you looked good together. So attractive and easy. I thought it was nice. It’s nice to have someone you can be easy with.”
“And you and Kevin were easy together.”
“We were. Sort of flowed on the same current.”
“I wondered. You don’t wear a wedding ring.”
“No.” Stella looked at her bare finger. “I took it off about a year ago, when I started dating again. It didn’t seem right to wear it when I was with another man. I don’t feel married anymore. It was gradual, I guess.”
At the half question, Roz nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Somewhere along the line I stopped thinking, What would Kevin say about this. Or, What would Kevin do, or think, or want. So I took off my ring. It was hard. Almost as hard as losing him.”
“I took mine off on my fortieth birthday,” Roz murmured. “I realized I’d stopped wearing it as a tribute. It had become more of a shield against relationships. So I took it off on that black-letter day,” she said with a half smile. “Because we move on, or we fade away.”
“I’m too busy to worry about all of this most of the time, and I didn’t mean to get into it now. I only wanted to apologize.”
“Accepted. I’m going to take my coffee up. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“All right. Good night.”
Feeling better, Stella finished making her tea. She would get a good start in the morning, she decided as she carried it upstairs. She’d get a good chunk of the reorganizing done, she’d talk with Harper and Roz about which cuttings should be added to inventory, and she’d find a way to get along with Logan.
She heard the singing, quiet and sad, as she started down the hall. Her heart began to trip, and china rattled on the tray as she picked up her pace. She was all bu
t running by the time she got to the door of her sons’ room.
There was no one there, just that same little chill to the air. Even when she set her tea down, searched the closet, under the bed, she found nothing.
She sat on the floor between the beds, waiting for her pulse to level. The dog stirred, then climbed up in her lap to lick her hand.
Stroking him, she stayed there, sitting between her boys while they slept.
ON SUNDAY, SHE WENT TO HER FATHER’S FOR brunch. She was more than happy to be handed a mimosa and ordered out of the kitchen by Jolene.
It was her first full day off since she’d started at In the Garden, and she was scheduled to relax.
With the boys running around the little backyard with Parker, she was free to sit down with her father.
“Tell me everything,” he ordered.
“Everything will go straight through brunch, into dinner, and right into breakfast tomorrow.”
“Give me the highlights. How do you like Rosalind?”
“I like her a lot. She manages to be straightforward and slippery. I’m never quite sure where I stand with her, but I do like her.”
“She’s lucky to have you. And being a smart woman, she knows it.”
“You might be just a tiny bit biased.”
“Just a bit.”
He’d always loved her, Stella knew. Even when there had been months between visits. There’d always been phone calls or notes, or surprise presents in the mail.
He’d aged comfortably, she thought now. Whereas her mother waged a bitter and protracted war with the years, Will Dooley had made his truce with them. His red hair was overpowered by the gray now, and his bony frame carried a soft pouch in the middle. There were laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, glasses perched on his nose.
His face was ruddy from the sun. The man loved his gardening and his golf.
“The boys seem happy,” he commented.
