Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

 She lined up her containers, the cell packs, the individual pots or peat cubes. It was one of her favorite tasks, even more than sowing, this placing of a strong seedling in the home it would occupy until planting time.

 Until planting time, they were all hers.

 And this year she was experimenting with her own potting soil. She’d been trying out recipes for more than two years now, and believed she’d found a winner, both for indoor and outdoor use. The outdoor recipe should serve very well for her greenhouse purposes.

 From the bag she’d carefully mixed, she filled her containers, testing the moisture, and approved. With care she lifted out the young plants, holding them by their seed leaves. Transplanting, she made certain the soil line on the stem was at the same level it had been in the seed tray, then firmed the soil around the roots with experienced fingers.

 She filled pot after pot, labeling as she went and humming absently to the Enya playing gently from the portable CD player she considered essential equipment in a greenhouse.

 Using a weak fertilizer solution, she watered them.

 Pleased with the progress, she moved through the back opening and into the perennial area. She checked the section—plants recently started from cuttings, those started more than a year before that would be ready for sale in a few months. She watered and tended, then moved to stock plants to take more cuttings. She had a tray of anemones begun when Stella stepped in.

 “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.”

 WHEN SHE DIDget 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 itourselves .” 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.

 TWO

ROZ TOOK HERholiday 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 forgother 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.”