Blue Dahlia gt-1

by Nora Roberts

  "They're doing great. But at some point we'll need to have our own place. It's important they have their own. I don't want anything elaborate—couldn't afford it, anyway. And I don't mind fixing something up. I'm fairly handy. And I'd really prefer it wasn't haunted."

  She stopped herself when he sent her a questioning look. Then shook her head. "Must be the wine because I didn't know that was in my head."

  "Why is it?"

  "I saw—thought I saw," she corrected, "this ghost reputed to haunt the Harper house. In the mirror, in my bedroom, just before you picked me up. It wasn't Hayley. She came in an instant later, and I tried to convince myself it had been her. But it wasn't. And at the same time, it could hardly have been anyone else because ... it's just not possible."

  "Sounds like you're still trying to convince yourself."

  "Sensible woman, remember." She tapped a finger on the side of her head. "Sensible women don't see ghosts, or hear them singing lullabies. Or feel them."

  "Feel them how?"

  "A chill, a.. .feeling'' She gave a quick shudder and tried to offset it with a quick laugh. "I can't explain it because it's not rational. And tonight, that feeling was very intense. Brief, but intense. And hostile. No, that's not right. 'Hostile' is too strong a word. Disapproving."

  "Why don't you talk to Roz about it? She could give you the history, as far as she knows it."

  "Maybe. You said you've never seen it?"

  "Nope."

  "Or felt it?"

  "Can't say I have. But sometimes when I've been working a job, walking some land, digging into it,

  I've felt something. You plant something, even if it dies off, it leaves something in the soil. Why

  shouldn't a person leave something behind?"

  It was something to think about, later, when her mind wasn't so distracted. Right now she had to think about the fact that she was enjoying his company. And there was the basic animal attraction to consider. If she continued to enjoy his company, and the attraction didn't fade off, they were going to end up in bed.

  Then there were all the ramifications and complications that would entail. In addition, their universe was finite. They worked for the same person in the same business. It wasn't the sort of atmosphere where

  two people could have an adult affair without everyone around them knowing they were having it.

  So she'd have to think about that, and just how uncomfortable it might be to have her private life as public knowledge.

  After dinner, they walked over to Beale Street to join the nightly carnival. Tourists, Memphians out on the town, couples, and"clutches of young people wandered the street lit by neon signs. Music trickled

  out of doorways, and people flooded in and out of shops.

  "Used to be a club along here called the Monarch. Those shoes going to give you any trouble with this?"

  "No."

  "Good. Great legs, by the way."

  "Thanks. I've had them for years."

  "So, the Monarch," he continued. "Happened it shared a back alley with an undertaker. Made it easy

  for the owners to dispose of gunshot victims."

  "That's a pretty piece of Beale Street trivia."

  "Oh, there's plenty more. Blues, rock—it's the home of both—voodoo, gambling, sex, scandal, bootleg whiskey, pickpockets, and murder."

  Music pumped out of a club as he talked, and struck Stella as southern-fried in the best possible way.

  "It's all been right here," he continued. "But you oughta just enjoy the carnival the way it is now."

  They joined a crowd lining the sidewalk to watch three boys do running flips and gymnastics up and down the center of the street.

  "I can do that." She nodded toward one of the boys as he walked on his hands back to their tip box.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I can. I'm not going to demonstrate here and now, but I certainly can. Six years of gymnastic lessons.

  I can bend my body like a pretzel. Well, half a pretzel now, but at one time..."

  "You trying to get me hot?"

  She laughed. "No."

  "Just a side effect, then. What does half a pretzel look like?"

  "Maybe I'll show you sometime when I'm more appropriately dressed."

  "You are trying to make me hot."

  She laughed again and watched the performers. After Logan dropped money in the tip box, they strolled along the sidewalk. "Who's Betty Paige and why is her face on these shirts?"

  He stopped dead. "You've got to be kidding."

  "I'm not."

  "I guess you didn't just live up north, you lived up north in a cave. Betty Paige, legendary fifties pinup and general sex goddess."

  "How do you know? You weren't even born in the fifties."

  "I make it a point to learn my cultural history, especially when it involves gorgeous women who strip. Look at that face. The girl next door with the body of Venus."

  "She probably couldn't walk on her hands," Stella said, and casually strolled away when he laughed.

  They walked off the wine, and the meal, meandering down one side of the street and back up the

  other. He tempted her with a blues club, but after a brief, internal debate she shook her head.

  "I really can't. It's already later than I'd planned. I've got a full day tomorrow, and I've imposed on

  Roz long enough tonight."

  "We'll rain-check it."

  "And a blues club will go on my list. Got more checks tonight. Beale Street and catfish. I'm practically

  a native now."

  "Next thing you know you'll be frying up the cat and putting peanuts in your Coke."

  "Why in the world would I put peanuts in my Coke? Never mind." She waved him away as he drove

  out of town. "It's a southern thing. How about if I just say I had a good time tonight?"

  "That'll work."

  It hadn't been complicated, she realized, or boring, or stressful. At least not after the first few minutes. She'd forgotten, or nearly, what it could be like to be both stimulated and relaxed around a man.

  Or to wonfler, and there was no point pretending she wasn't wondering, what it would be like to have those hands—those big, work-hardened hands—on her.

  Roz had left lights on for her. Front porch, foyer, her own bedroom. She saw the gleam of them as they drove up, and found it a motherly thing to do. Or big sisterly, Stella supposed, as Roz wasn't nearly old enough to be her mother.

  Her mother had been too busy with her own life and interests to think about little details like front porch lights. Maybe, Stella thought, that was one of the reasons she herself was so compulsive about them.

  "Such a beautiful house," Stella said. "The way it sort of glimmers at night. It's no wonder she loves it."

  "No place else quite like it. Spring comes in, the gardens just blow you away."

  "She ought to hold a house and garden tour."

  "She used to, once a year. Hasn't done it since she peeled off that asshole Clerk. I wouldn't bring it up," he said before Stella spoke. "If she wants to do that kind of thing again, she will."

  Knowing his style now, Stella waited for him to come around and open her door. "I'm looking forward

  to seeing the gardens in their full glory. And I'm grateful for the chance to live here a while and have the kids exposed to this kind of tradition."

  "There's another tradition. Kiss the girl good night."

  He moved a little slower this time, gave her a chance to anticipate. Those sexy nerves were just

  beginning to dance over her skin when his mouth met hers.

  Then they raced in a shivering path to belly, to throat as his tongue skimmed over her lips to part them. His hands moved through her hair, over her shoulders, and down her body to her hips to take a good, strong hold.

  Muscles, she thought dimly. Oh, God. He certainly had them. It was like being pressed against warm, smooth steel. Then he moved in so she swayed back and was trapped between the wall of him and the
door. Imprisoned there, her blood sizzling as he devastated her mouth, she felt fragile and giddy, and

  alive with need.

  "Wait a minute," she managed. "Wait."

  "Just want to finish this out first."

  He wanted a great deal more than that, but already knew -he'd have to hold himself at a kiss. So he

  didn't intend to rush through it. Her mouth was sumptuous, and that slight tremor in her body brutally erotic. He imagined himself gulping her down whole, with violence, with greed. Or savoring her nibble

  by torturous nibble until he was half mad from the flavor.

  When he eased back, the drugged, dreamy look in her eyes told him he could do either. Some other

  time, some other place.

  "Any point in pretending we're going to stop things here?"

  "I can't—"

  "I don't mean tonight," he said when she glanced back at the door.

  "Then, no, there'd be no point in that."

  "Good."

  "But I can't just jump into something like this. I need to—"

  "Plan," he finished. "Organize."

  "I'm not good at spontaneity, and spontaneity—this sort—is nearly impossible when you have two children."

  "Then plan. Organize. And let me know. I'm good at spontaneity." He kissed her again until she felt her knees dissolve from the knee down.

  "You've got my numbers. Give me a call." He stepped back. "Go on inside, Stella. Traditionally, you don't just kiss the girl good night, you wait until she's inside before you walk off wondering when you'll have the chance to do it again."

  "Good night then." She went inside, drifted up the stairs, and forgot to turn off the lights.

  She was still floating as she started down the hall so the singing didn't register until she was two paces away from her sons' bedroom.

  She closed the distance in one leap. And she saw, she saw the silhouette, the glint of blond hair in the nightlight, the gleam of eyes that stared into hers.

  The cold hit her like a slap, angry and sharp. Then, it, and she, were gone.

  On unsteady legs, she rushed between the beds, stroked Gavin's hair, Luke's. Laid her hands on their cheeks, then their backs as she'd done when they were infants. A nervous mother's way to assure

  herself that her child breathed.

  Parker rolled lazily over, gave a little greeting growl, a single thump of his tail, then went back to sleep.

  He senses me, smells me, knows me. Is it the same with her? Why doesn't he bark at her?

  Or am I just losing my mind?

  She readied for bed, then took a blanket and pillow into their room. She laid down between her sons

  and passed the rest of the night between them, guarding them against the impossible.

  TWELVE

  In the greenhouse, Roz watered flats of annu-als she'd grown over the winter.. It was nearly time to

  put them out for sale. Part of her was always a little sad to know she wouldn't be the one planting them. And she knew that not all of them would be tended properly.

  Some would die of neglect, others would be given too much sun, or not enough. Now they were lush

  and sweet and full of potential.

  And hers.

  She had to let them go, the way she'd let her sons go. She had to hope, as with her boys, that they

  found their potential and bloomed,, lavishly.

  She missed her little guys. More than she'd realized now that her house had boys in it again with all their chatter and scents and debris. Having Harper close helped, so much at times that it was hard for her not to lean too heavily on him, not to surround him with need.

  But he'd passed the stage when he was just hers. Though he lived within shouting distance, and they often worked together side by side, he would never be just hers again.

  She had to content herself with occasional visits, with phone calls and e-mails from her other sons. And with the knowledge that they were happy building their own lives.

  She'd rooted them, and tended them, nurtured and trained. And let them go.

  She wouldn't be one of those overbearing, smothering mothers. Sons, like plants, needed space and air. But oh, sometimes she wanted to go back ten years, twenty, and just hold on to those precious boys a little bit longer. •

  And sentiment was only going to make her blue, she reminded herself. She switched off the water just

  as Stella came into the greenhouse.

  Roz drew a deep breath. "Nothing like the smell of damp soil, is there?"

  "Not when you're us. Look at these marigolds. They're going to fly out the door. I missed you this morning."

  "I wanted to get here early. I've got that Garden Club meeting this afternoon. I want to put together a couple dozen six-inch pots as centerpieces."

  "Good advertising. I just wanted to thank you again for watching the boys for me last night."

  "I enjoyed it. A lot. Did you have a good time?"

  "I really did. Is it going to be a problem for you if Logan and I see each other socially?"

  "Why would it be?"

  "In a work situation ..."

  "Adults should be able to live their own lives, just like in any situation. You're both unattached adults.

  I expect you'll figure out for yourself if there's any problem with you socializing."

  "And we're both using 'socializing' as a euphemism."

  Roz began pinching back some petunias. "Stella, if you didn't want to have sex with a man who looks

  like Logan, I'd worry about you."

  "I guess you've got nothing to worry about, then. Still, I want to say ... I'm working for you, I'm living

  in your house, so I want to say I'm not promiscuous."

  "I'm sure you aren't." She glanced up briefly from her work. "You're too careful, too deliberate, and a

  bit too bound up to be promiscuous."

  "Another way of calling me a tight-ass," Stella muttered.

  "Not precisely. But if you were promiscuous, it would still be your business and not mine. You don't

  need my approval."

  "I want it—because I'm working for you and living in your house. And because I respect you."

  "All right, then." Roz moved on to impatiens. "You have it. One of the reasons I wanted you to live in

  the house was because I wanted to get to know you, on a personal level. When I hired you, I was giving you a piece of something very important to me, personally important. So if I'd decided, after the first few weeks, that you weren't the sort of person I could like and respect, I'd have fired you." She glanced back. "No matter how competent you were. Competent just isn't that hard to find."

  "Thanks. I think."

  "I think I'll take in some of these geraniums that are already potted. Saves me time and trouble, and

  we've got a good supply of them."

  "Let me know how many, and I'll adjust the inventory. Roz, there was something else I wanted to talk

  to you about."

  'Talk away," Roz invited as she started to select her plants. ;

  "It's about the ghost."

  Roz lifted a salmon-pink geranium, studied it from all sides. "What about her?"

  "I feel stupid even talking about this, but... have you ever felt threatened by her?"

  "Threatened? No. I wouldn't use a word that strong." Roz set the geranium in a plastic tray, chose another. "Why?"

  "Because, apparently, I've seen her."

  "That's not unexpected. The Harper Bride tends to show herself to mothers, and young boys. Young girls, occasionally. I saw her myself a few times when I was a girl, then fairly regularly once the boys started coming along."

  "Tell me what she looks like."

  "About your height." As she spoke, Roz continued to select her geraniums for the Garden Club. "Thin. Very thin. Mid- to late twenties at my guess, though it's hard to tell. She doesn't look well. That is," she added with an absent smile, "even for a ghost. She strikes me as a woman who h
ad a great deal of beauty, but was ill for some time. She's blond, and her eyes are somewhere between green and gray.

  And very sad. She wears a gray dress—or it looks gray, and it hangs on her as if she'd lost weight."

  Stella let out a breath. "That's who I saw. What I saw. It's too fantastic, but I saw."

  "You should be flattered. She rarely shows herself to anyone outside the family—or so the legend goes. You shouldn't feel threatened, Stella."

  "But I did. Last night, when I got home, and went in to check on the boys. I heard her first. She sings some sort of lullaby."

  " 'Lavender's Blue.' It's what you could call her trademark." Taking out small clippers, Roz trimmed off

  a weak side stem. "She's never spoken that I've heard, or heard of, but she sings to the children of the house at night."

  " 'Lavender's Blue.' Yes, that's it. I heard her, and rushed in. There she was, standing between their beds. She looked at me. It was only for a second, but she looked at me. Her eyes weren't sad, Roz, they were angry. There was a blast of cold, like she'd thrown something at me in temper. Not like the other times, when I'd just felt a chill."

  Interested now, Roz studied Stella's face. "I felt as if I'd annoyed her a few times, on and off. Just a change of tone. Very like you described, I suppose."

  "It happened."

  "I believe you, but primarily, from most of my experiences, she's always been a benign sort of presence.

  I always took those temper snaps to be a kind of moodiness. I expect ghosts get moody."

  "You expect ghosts get moody," Stella repeated slowly. "I just don't understand a statement like that."

  "People do, don't they? Why should that change when they're dead?"

  "Okay," Stella said after a moment. "I'm going to try to roll with all this, like it's not insanity. So, maybe she doesn't like me being here."

  "Over the last hundred years or so, Harper House has had a lot of people live in it, a lot of houseguests. She ought to be used to it. If you'd feel better moving to the other wing—"

  "No. I don't see how that would make a difference. And though I was unnerved enough last night to

  sleep in the boys' room with them, she wasn't angry with them. It was just me. Who was she?"

  "Nobody knows for sure. In polite company, she's referred to as the Harper Bride, but it's assumed she was a servant. A nurse or governess. My theory is one of the men in the house seduced her, maybe cast her off, especially if she got pregnant. There's the attachment to children, so it seemed most logical she had a connection to kids. It's a sure bet she died in or around the house."