I gotta keep up with my mama."
He looked like her. There was no denying her stamp was on his face. But when he smiled, she saw his father. "That'll be the day, pal of mine. How far you going?"
"How far'd you?"
"Three miles."
He flashed a grin. "Then I'll do four." He gave her a light pat on the cheek as he passed.
"Should've told him five, just to get his goat," she chuckled, and slowing to a cool-down walk, she
started down the drive.
The house shimmered out of the mists. She thought, Thank God that's over for another day. And she circled around to go in as she'd left.
The house was still quiet, and lovely. And haunted.
She'd showered and changed for work, and had started down the central stairs that bisected the wings when she heard the first stirrings.
Stella's boys getting ready for school, Lily fussing for her breakfast—good sounds, Roz thought. Busy, family sounds she'd missed.
Of course, she'd had the house full only a couple weeks earlier, with all her boys home for Thanksgiving and her birthday. Austin and Mason would be back for Christmas. A mother of grown sons couldn't ask for better.
God knew there'd been plenty of times when they'd been growing up that she'd yearned for some quiet. Just an hour of absolute peace where she had nothing more exciting to do than soak in a hot tub.
Then she'd had too much time on her hands, hadn't she? Too much quiet, too much empty space. So she'd ended up marrying some slick son of a bitch who'd helped himself to her money so he could impress the bimbos he'd cheated on her with.
Spilled milk, Roz reminded herself. And it wasn't constructive to dwell on it.
She walked into the kitchen where David was already whipping something in a bowl, and the seductive fragrance of fresh coffee filled the air.
"Morning, gorgeous. How's my best girl?"
"Up and at 'em anyway." She went to a cupboard for a mug. "How was the date last night?"
"Promising. He likes Gray Goose martinis and John Waters movies. We'll try for a second round this weekend. Sit yourself down. I'm making French toast."
"French toast?" It was a personal weakness. "Damn it, David, I just ran three miles to keep my ass
from falling all the way to the back of my knees, then you hit me with French toast."
"You have a beautiful ass, and it's nowhere near the back of your knees."
"Yet," she muttered, but she sat. "I passed Harper at the end of the drive. He finds out what's on the menu, he'll be sniffing at the back door."
"I'm making plenty."
She sipped her coffee while he heated up the skillet.
He was movie-star handsome, only a year older than her own Harper, and one of the delights of her life. As a boy he'd run tame in her house, and now he all but ran it.
"David ... I caught myself thinking about Bryce twice this morning. What do you think that means?"
"Means you need this French toast," he said while he soaked thick slices of bread in his magic batter. "And you've probably got yourself a case of the mid-holiday blues."
"I kicked him out right before Christmas. I guess that's it."
"And a merry one it was, with that bastard out in the cold. I wish it had been cold," he added. "Raining ice and frogs and pestilence."
"I'm going to ask you something I never did while it was going on. Why didn't you ever tell me how
much you disliked him?"
"Probably the same reason you didn't tell me how much you disliked that out-of-work actor with the
fake Brit accent I thought I was crazy about a few years back. I love you."
"It's a good reason."
He'd started a fire in the little kitchen hearth, so she angled her body toward it, sipped coffee, felt steady and solid.
"You know if you could just age twenty years and go straight, we could live with each other in sin.
I think that would be just fine."
"Sugar-pie." He slid the bread into the skillet. "You're the only girl in the world who'd tempt me."
She smiled, and resting her elbow on the table, set her chin on her fist. "Sun's breaking through," she stated. "It's going to be a pretty day."
* * *
A pretty day in early December meant a busy one for a garden center. Roz had so much to do she was grateful she hadn't resisted the breakfast David had heaped on her. She missed lunch.
In her propagation house, she had a full table covered with seed trays. She'd already separated out specimens too young for pricking off. And now began the first transplanting with those she deemed
ready.
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, tested 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 music 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 ponytail, 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, if 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-, five-, ten-, and twenty-five-pound 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 continue 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 awhile 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."
