by Nora Roberts
Seedlings sprouted in their containers, delicate new growth spearing out of the enriched soil. Baskets already planted were hung on hooks where they'd be urged into early bloom. Where the house teed off there were the stock plants, the parents of these fledglings. Aprons hung on pegs, tools were scattered
on tables or nested in buckets.
Silently she walked down the aisles, noting that the containers were marked clearly. She could identify some of the plants without reading the tags. Cosmos and columbine, petunias and penstemon. This far south, in a few short weeks they'd be ready to be laid in beds, arranged in patio pots, tucked into sunny spaces or shady nooks.
Would she? Would she be ready to plant herself here, to root here? To bloom here? Would her sons?
Gardening was a risk, she thought. Life was just a bigger one. The smart calculated those risks,
minimized them, and worked toward the goal.
"I'd like to see the grafting area, the stockrooms, the offices."
"All right. Better get you out of here. Your suit's going to wilt."
Stella looked down at herself, spied the green boots. Laughed. "So much for looking professional."
The laugh had Roz angling her head in approval. "You're a pretty woman, and you've got good taste in clothes. That kind of image doesn't hurt. You took the time to put yourself together well for this meeting, which I neglected to do. I appreciate that."
"You hold the cards, Ms. Harper. You can put yourself together any way you like."
"You're right about that." She walked back to the door, gestured, and they stepped outside into a light, chilly drizzle. "Let's go into the office. No point hauling you around in the wet. What are your other reasons for moving back here?"
"I couldn't find any reason to stay in Michigan. We moved there after Kevin and I were married—his work. I think, I suppose, I've stayed there since he died out of a kind of loyalty to him, or just because
I was used to it. I'm not sure. I liked my work, but I never felt—it never felt like my place. More like I was just getting from one day to the next."
"Family?"
"No. No, not in Michigan. Just me and the boys.
Kevin's parents are gone, were before we married. My mother lives in New York. I'm not interested in living in the city or raising my children there. Besides that, my mother and I have ... tangled issues. The way mothers and daughters often do."
"Thank God I had sons."
"Oh, yeah." She laughed again, comfortably now. "My parents divorced when I was very young.
I suppose you know that."
"Some of it. As I said, I like your father, and Jolene."
"So do I. So rather than stick a pin in a map, I decided to come here. I was born here. I don't really remember, but I thought, hoped, there might be a connection. That it might be the place."
They walked back through the retail center and into a tiny, cluttered office that made Stella's organized soul wince. "I don't use this much," Roz began. "I've got stuff scattered between here and the house. When I'm over here, I end up spending my time in the greenhouses or the field."
She dumped gardening books off a chair, pointed to it, then sat on the edge of the crowded desk when Stella took the seat.
"I know my strengths, and I know how to do good business. I've built this place from the ground up, in less than five years. When it was smaller, when it was almost entirely just me, I could afford to make mistakes. Now I have up to eighteen employees during the season. People depending on me for a paycheck. So I can't afford to make mistakes. I know how to plant, what to plant, how to price, how to design, how to stock, how to handle employees, and how to deal with customers. I know how to organize."
"I'd say you're absolutely right. Why do you need me— or someone like me?"
"Because of all those things I can—and have done— there are some I don't like. I don't like to organize. And we've gotten too big for it to fall only to me how and what to stock. I want a fresh eye, fresh ideas, and a good head."
"Understood. One of your requests was that your nursery manager live in your house, at least for the
first several months. I—"
"It wasn't a request. It was a requirement." In the firm tone, Stella recognized the difficult attributed to Rosalind Harper. "We start early, we work late. I want someone on hand, right on hand, at least until I know if we're going to find the rhythm. Memphis is too far away, and unless you're ready to buy a
house within ten miles of mine pretty much immediately, there's no other choice."
"I have two active young boys, and a dog."
"I like active young boys, and I won't mind the dog unless he's a digger. He digs in my gardens, we'll
have a problem. It's a big house. You'll have considerable room for yourself and your sons. I'd offer you the guest cottage, but I couldn't pry Harper out of it with dynamite. My oldest," she explained. "Do you want the job, Stella?"
She opened her mouth, then took a testing breath. Hadn't she already calculated the risks in coming here? It was time to work toward the goal. The risk of the single condition couldn't possibly outweigh the benefits.
"I do. Yes, Ms. Harper, I very much want the job."
"Then you've got it." Roz held out a hand to shake. "You can bring your things over tomorrow—morning's best—and we'll get y'all settled in. You can take a couple of days, make sure
your boys are acclimated."
"I appreciate that. They're excited, but a little scared too." And so am I, she thought. "I have to be frank with you, Ms. Harper. If my boys aren't happy—after a reasonable amount of time to adjust—I'll have
to make other arrangements."
"If I thought differently, I wouldn't be hiring you. And call me Roz."
* * *
She celebrated by buying a bottle of champagne and a bottle of sparkling cider on the way back to her father's home. The rain, and the detour, put her in a nasty knot of mid-afternoon traffic. It occurred to her that however awkward it might be initially, there were advantages to living essentially where she worked.
She got the job! A dream job, to her point of view. Maybe she didn't know how Rosalind—call me Roz— Harper would be to work for, and she still had a lot of boning up to do about the nursery process in this zone—and she couldn't be sure how the other employees would handle taking orders from a stranger. A Yankee stranger at that.
But she couldn't wait to start.
And her boys would have more room to run around at the Harper... estate, she supposed she'd call it.
She wasn't ready to buy a house yet—not before she was sure they'd stay, not before she had time to scout out neighborhoods and communities. The fact was, they were crowded in her father's house. Both he and Jolene were more than accommodating, more than welcoming, but they couldn't stay indefinitely jammed into a two-bedroom house.
This was the practical solution, at least for the short term.
She pulled her aging SUV beside her stepmother's snappy little roadster and, grabbing the bag, dashed through the rain to the door.
She knocked. They'd given her a key, but she wasn't comfortable just letting herself in.
Jolene, svelte in black yoga pants and a snug black top, looking entirely too young to be chasing sixty, opened the door.
"I interrupted your workout."
"Just finished. Thank God!" She dabbed at her face with a little white towel, shook back her cloud of honey-blond hair. "Misplace your key, honey?"
"Sorry. I can't get used to using it." She stepped in, listened. "It's much too quiet. Are the boys chained
in the basement?"
"Your dad took them into the Peabody to see the afternoon duck walk. I thought it'd be nice for just the three of them, so I stayed here with my yoga tape." She cocked her head to the side. "Dog's snoozing
out on the screened porch. You look smug."
"I should. I'm hired."
"I knew it, I knew it! Congratulations!" Jolene threw out her arms
for a hug. "There was never any question in my mind. Roz Harper's a smart woman. She knows gold when she sees it."
"My stomach's jumpy, and my nerves are just plain shot. I should wait for Dad and the boys, but..."
She pulled out the champagne. "How about an early glass of champagne to toast my new job?"
"Oh, twist my arm. I'm so excited for you I could just pop!" Jolene slung an arm around Stella's
shoulders as they turned into the great room. "Tell me what you thought of Roz."
"Not as scary in person." Stella set the bottle on the counter to open while Jolene got champagne flutes out of her glass-front display cabinet. "Sort of earthy and direct, confident. And that house!"
"It's a beaut." Jolene laughed when the cork popped. "My, my, what a decadent sound in the middle of the afternoon. Harper House has been in her family for generations. She's actually an Ashby by marriage—the first one. She went back to Harper after her second marriage fizzled."
"Give me the dish, will you, Jolene? Dad won't."
"Plying me with champagne to get me to gossip? Why, thank you, honey." She slid onto a stool, raised her glass. "First, to our Stella and brave new beginnings."
Stella clinked glasses, drank. "Mmmmm. Wonderful. Now, dish."
"She married young. Just eighteen. What you'd call a good match—good families, same social circle. More important, it was a love match. You could see it all over them. It was about the time I fell for your father, and a woman recognizes someone in the same state she's in. She was a late baby—I think her mama was near forty and her daddy heading to fifty when she came along. Her mama was never well after, or she enjoyed playing the frail wife—depending on who you talk to. But in any case, Roz lost
them both within two years. She must've been pregnant with her second son. That'd be... shoot. Austin,
I think. She and John took over Harper House. She had the three boys, and the youngest barely a toddler, when John was killed. You know how hard that must've been for her."
"I do."
"Hardly saw her outside that house for two, three years, I guess. When she did start getting out again, socializing, giving parties and such, there was the expected speculation. Who she'd marry, when.
You've seen her. She's a beautiful woman."
"Striking, yes."
"And down here, a lineage like hers is worth its weight and then some. Her looks, her bloodline, she could've had any man she wanted. Younger, older, or in between, single, married, rich, or poor. But
she stayed on her own. Raised her boys."
Alone, Stella thought, sipping champagne. She understood the choice very well.
"Kept her private life private," Jolene went on, "much to Memphis society's consternation. Biggest
to-do I recall was when she fired the gardener—well, both of them. Went after them with a
Weedwacker, according to some reports, and ran them right off the property."
"Really?" Stella's eyes widened in shocked admiration. "Really?"
"That's what I heard, and that's the story that stuck, truth or lie. Down here, we often prefer the entertaining lie to the plain truth. Apparently they'd dug up some of her plants or something. She wouldn't have anybody else after that. Took the whole thing over herself. Next thing you know—though I guess it was about five years later—she's building that garden place over on her west end. She got married about three years ago, and divorced—well, all you had to do was blink. Honey, why don't we make that two early glasses of champagne?"
"Why don't we?" Stella poured. "So, what was the deal with the second husband?"
"Hmmm. Very slick character. Handsome as sin and twice as charming. Bryce Clerk, and he says his people are from Savannah, but I don't know as I'd believe a word coming out of his mouth if it was plated with gold. Anyway, they looked stunning together, but it happened he enjoyed looking stunning with a variety of women, and a wedding ring didn't restrict his habits. She booted him out on his ear."
"Good for her."
"She's no pushover."
"That came through loud and clear."
"I'd say she's proud, but not vain, tough-minded but not hard—or not too hard, though there are some who would disagree with that. A good friend, and a formidable enemy. You can handle her, Stella. You can handle anything."
She liked people to think so, but either the champagne or fresh nerves was making her stomach a little queasy. "Well, we're going to find out."
THREE
She had a car full of luggage, a briefcase stuffed with notes and sketches, a very unhappy dog who'd already expressed his opinion of the move by vomiting on the passenger seat, and two boys bickering bitterly in the back.
She'd already pulled over to deal with the dog and the seat, and despite the January chill had the
windows wide open. Parker, their Boston terrier, sprawled on the floor looking pathetic.
She didn't know what the boys were arguing about, and since it hadn't come to blows yet, let them go
at it. They were, she knew, as nervous as Parker about yet another move.
She'd uprooted them. No matter how carefully you dug, it was still a shock to the system. Now all of them were about to be transplanted. She believed they would thrive. She had to believe it or she'd be
as sick as the family dog.
"I hate your slimy, stinky guts," eight-year-old Gavin declared.
"I hate your big, stupid butt," six-year-old Luke retorted.
"I hate your ugly elephant ears."
"I hate your whole ugly face."
Stella sighed and turned up the radio.
She waited until she'd reached the brick pillars that flanked the drive to the Harper estate. She nosed in, out of the road, then stopped the car. For a moment, she simply sat there while the insults raged in the backseat. Parker sent her a cautious look, then hopped up to sniff at the air through the window.
She turned the radio off, sat. The voices behind her began to trail off, and after a last, harshly whispered, "And I hate your entire body," there was silence.
"So, here's what I'm thinking," she said in a normal, conversational tone. "We ought to pull a trick on
Ms. Harper."
Gavin strained forward against his seat belt. "What kind of trick?"
"A tricky trick. I'm not sure we can pull it off. She's pretty smart; I could tell. So we'd have to be really sneaky."
"I can be sneaky," Luke assured her. And her glance in the rearview mirror told her the battle blood was already fading from his cheeks.
"Okay, then, here's the plan." She swiveled around so she could face both her boys. It struck her, as it often did, what an interesting meld of herself and Kevin they were. Her blue eyes in Luke's face, Kevin's gray-green ones in Gavin's. Her mouth to Gavin, Kevin's to Luke. Her coloring—poor baby—to Luke, and Kevin's sunny blond to Gavin.
She paused, dramatically, noted that both her sons were eagerly focused.
"No, I don't know." She shook her head regretfully. "It's probably not a good idea."
There was a chorus of pleas, protests, and a great deal of seat bouncing that sent Parker into a spate of enthusiastic barking.
"Okay, okay." She held up her hands. "What we do is, we drive up to the house, and we go up to the door. And when we're inside and you meet Ms. Harper—this is going to have to be really sneaky,
really clever."
"We can do it!" Gavin shouted.
"Well, when that happens, you have to pretend to be ... this is tough, but I think you can do it. You have to pretend to be polite, well-behaved, well-mannered boys."
"We can do it! We..." Luke's face scrunched up. "Hey!"
"And I have to pretend not to be a bit surprised by finding myself with two well-behaved, well-mannered boys. Think we can pull it off?"
"Maybe we won't like it there," Gavin muttered.
Guilt roiled up to churn with nerves. "Maybe we won't. Maybe we will. We'll have to see."
"I'd rather live with Granddad
and Nana Jo in their house." Luke's little mouth trembled, and wrenched
at Stella's heart. "Can't we?"
"We really can't. We can visit, lots. And they can visit us, too. Now that we're going to live down here, we can see them all the time. This is supposed to be an adventure, remember? If we try it, really try it, and we're not happy, we'll try something else."
"People talk funny here," Gavin complained.
"No, just different."
"And there's no snow. How are we supposed to build snowmen and go sledding if it's too stupid to snow?"
"You've got me there, but there'll be other things to do." Had she seen her last white Christmas? Why hadn't she considered that before?
He jutted his chin out. "If she's mean, I'm not staying."
"That's a deal." Stella started the car, took a steadying breath, and continued down the drive.
Moments later she heard Luke's wondering: "It's big!"
No question about that, Stella mused, and wondered how her children saw it. Was it the sheer size of
the three-storied structure that overwhelmed them? Or would they notice the details? The pale, pale yellow stone, the majestic columns, the charm of the entrance that was covered by the double stairway leading to the second floor and its pretty wraparound terrace?
Or would they just see the bulk of it—triple the size of their sweet house in Southfield?
"It's really old," she told them. "Over a hundred and fifty years old. And Ms. Harper's family's lived here always."
"Is she a hundred and fifty?" Luke wanted to know and earned a snort and an elbow jab from his brother.
"Dummy. Then she'd be dead. And there'd be worms crawling all over her—"
"I have to remind you, polite, well-mannered, well-behaved boys don't call their brothers dummy. See all the lawn? Won't Parker love being taken for walks out here? And there's so much room for you to play. But you have to stay out of the gardens and flower beds, just like at home. Back in Michigan," she corrected herself. "And we'll have to ask Ms. Harper where you're allowed to go."
"There's really big trees," Luke murmured. "Really big."
