"Your..."
"A house this old isn't haunted, it would be a damn shame, I'd think."
"I guess that's one way to look at it."
She decided Roz was amusing herself with a little local color for the new kid on the block. Ghosts would add to the family lore. So she dismissed it.
"You can have your run of the west wing. I think the rooms we've earmarked will suit best. I'm in the east wing, and David's rooms are off the kitchen. Everyone has plenty of privacy, which I've always
felt is vital to good relations."
"This is the most beautiful house I've ever seen."
"It is, isn't it?" Roz stopped a moment, looking out the windows that faced one of her gardens. "It can
be damp in the winter, and we're forever calling the plumber, the electrician, someone. But I love every inch of it. Some might think it's a waste for a woman on her own."
"It's yours. Your family home."
"Exactly. And it'll stay that way, whatever it takes. You're just down here. Each room opens to the terrace. I'll leave it to you to judge if you need to lock the one in the boys' room. I assumed they'd
want to share at this age, especially in a new place."
"Bull's-eye." Stella walked into the room behind Roz. "Oh, they'll love this. Lots of room, lots of light." She laid the carton and the suitcase on one of the twin beds. But antiques." She ran her fingers over the child-size chest of drawers. "I'm terrified."
"Furniture's meant to be used. And good pieces respected."
"Believe me, they'll get the word." Please, God, don't let them break anything.
"You're next door. The bath connects." Roz gestured, angled her head. "I thought, at least initially,
you'd want to be close."
"Perfect." She walked into the bath. The generous claw-foot tub stood on a marble platform in front of the terrace doors. Roman shades could be pulled down for privacy. The toilet sat in a tall cabinet built from yellow pine and had a chain pull—wouldn't the boys get a kick out of that!
Beside the pedestal sink was a brass towel warmer already draped with fluffy sea-green towels.
Through the connecting door, her room was washed with winter light. Rhizomes patterned the oak floor.
A cozy sitting area faced the small white-marble fireplace, with a painting of a garden in full summer bloom above it.
Draped in gauzy white and shell pink, the canopy bed was accented with a generous mountain of silk pillows in dreamy pastels. The bureau with its long oval mirror was gleaming mahogany, as was the charmingly feminine dressing table and the carved armoire.
"I'm starting to feel like Cinderella at the ball."
"If the shoe fits." Roz set down the suitcases. "I want you to be comfortable, and your boys to be happy because I'm going to work you very hard. It's a big house, and David will show you through at some point. We won't bump into each other, unless we want to."
She shoved up the sleeves of her shirt as she looked around. "I'm not a sociable woman, though I do enjoy the company of people I like. I think I'm going to like you. I already like your children."
She glanced at her watch. "I'm going to grab that hot chocolate—I can't ever resist it—then get to work."
"I'd like to come in, show you some of my ideas, later today."
"Fine. Hunt me up."
* * *
She did just that. Though she'd intended to bring the kids with her after the school meeting, she hadn't had the heart to take them away from David.
So much for her worries about their adjustment to living in a new house with strangers. It appeared that most of the adjustments were going to be on her end.
She dressed more appropriately this time, in sturdy walking shoes that had already seen their share of mud, jeans with considerable wear, and a black sweater. With her briefcase in hand, she headed into the main entrance of the garden center.
The same woman was at the counter, but this time she was waiting on a customer. Stella noted a small dieffenbachia in a cherry-red pot and a quartet of lucky bamboo, tied with decorative hemp, already in
a shallow cardboard box.
A bag of stones and a square glass vase were waiting to be rung up.
Good.
"Is Roz around?" Stella asked.
"Oh..." Ruby gestured vaguely. "Somewhere or the other."
She nodded to the two-ways behind the counter. "Would she have one of those with her?"
The idea seemed to amuse Ruby. "I don't think so."
"Okay, I'll find her. That's so much fun," she said to the customer, with a gesture toward the bamboo. "Carefree and interesting. It's going to look great in that bowl."
"I was thinking about putting it on my bathroom counter. Something fun and pretty."
"Perfect. Terrific hostess gifts, too. More imaginative than the usual flowers."
"I hadn't thought of that. You know, maybe I'll get another set."
"You couldn't go wrong." She beamed a smile, then started out toward the greenhouses, congratulating herself as she went. She wasn't in any hurry to find Roz. This gave her a chance to poke around on her own, to check supplies, stock, displays, traffic patterns. And to make more notes.
She lingered in the propagation area, studying the progress of seedlings and cuttings, the type of stock plants, and their health.
It was nearly an hour before she made her way to the grafting area. She could hear music—the Corrs,
she thought—seeping out the door.
She peeked in. There were long tables lining both sides of the greenhouse, and two more shoved together to run down the center. It smelled of heat, vermiculite, and peat moss.
There were pots, some holding plants that had been or were being grafted. Clipboards hung from the edges of tables, much like hospital charts. A computer was shoved into a corner, its screen a pulse of colors that seemed to beat to the music.
Scalpels, knives, snippers, grafting tape and wax, and other tools of this part of the trade lay in trays.
She spotted Roz at the far end, standing behind a man on a stool. His shoulders were hunched as he worked. Roz's hands were on her hips.
"It can't take more than an hour, Harper. This place is as much yours as mine, and you need to meet
her, hear what she has to say."
"I will, I will, but damn it, I'm in the middle of things here. You're the one who wants her to manage,
so let her manage. I don't care."
"There's such a thing as manners." Exasperation rolled into the overheated air. "I'm just asking you to pretend, for an hour, to have a few."
The comment brought Stella's own words to her sons back to her mind. She couldn't stop the laugh, but did her best to conceal it with a cough as she walked down the narrow aisle.
"Sorry to interrupt I was just..." She stopped by a pot, studying the grafted stem and the new leaves.
"I can't quite make this one."
"Daphne." Roz's son spared her the briefest glance.
"Evergreen variety. And you've used a splice side-veneer graft."
He stopped, swiveled on his stool. His mother had stamped herself on his face—the same strong bones, rich eyes. His dark hair was considerably longer than hers, long enough that he tied it back with what looked to be a hunk of raffia. Like her, he was slim and seemed to have at least a yard of leg, and like
her he dressed carelessly in jeans pocked with rips and a soil-stained Memphis University sweatshirt.
"You know something about grafting?"
"Just the basics. I cleft-grafted a camellia once. It did very well. Generally I stick with cuttings.
I'm Stella. It's nice to meet you, Harper."
He rubbed his hand over his jeans before shaking hers. "Mom says you're going to organize us."
"That's the plan, and I hope it's not going to be too painful for any of us. What are you working on
here?" She stepped over to a line of pots covered with clean plastic bags held clear of the grafted plant
by four split stakes.
"Gypsophilia—baby's breath. I'm shooting for blue, as well as pink and white."
"Blue. My favorite color. I don't want to hold you up. I was hoping," she said to Roz, "we could find somewhere to go over some of my ideas."