"See, that's my quandary." Since conversation seemed welcomed, Stella walked over again, sat on the arm of the chair facing Roz. "Because that's my first thought. But it seemed like just a friendly gesture, and the 'outing' term was his. Like a kind of olive branch. And if I take it, maybe we'd find that common ground, or that rhythm, whatever it is we need to smooth out the rough spots in our working relationship."
"So, if I'm following this, you'd go to Graceland with Logan for the good of In the Garden."
"Sort of."
"And not because he's a very attractive, dynamic, and downright sexy single man."
"No, those would be bonus points." She waited until Roz stopped laughing. "And I'm not thinking of wading in that pool. Dating's a minefield."
"Tell me about it. I've got more years in that war zone than you."
"I like men." She reached back to tug the band ponytail-ing her hair a little higher. "I like the company
of men. But dating's so complicated and stressful."
"Better complicated and stressful than downright boring, which too many of my experiences in the field have been."
"Complicated, stressful, or downright boring, I like the sound of 'outing' much better. Listen, I know Logan's a friend of yours. But I'd just like to ask if you think, if I went with him, I'd be making a
mistake, or giving the wrong impression. The wrong signal. Or maybe crossing that line between coworkers. Or—"
"That's an awful lot of complication and stress you're working up over an outing."
"It is. I irritate myself." Shaking her head, she pushed off the chair. "I'd better get bath time started.
Oh, and I'll get Hayley going on those bulbs tomorrow."
"That's fine. Stella—are you going on this outing?"
She paused at the doorway. "Maybe. I'll sleep on it."
EIGHT
She was dreaming of flowers. An enchanting garden, full of young, vital blooms, flowed around her. It was perfect, tidied and ordered, its edges ruler-straight to form a keen verge against the well-trimmed grass.
Color swept into color, whites and pinks, yellows and silvery greens, all soft and delicate pastels that shimmered in subtle elegance in the golden beams of the sun.
Their fragrance was calming and drew a pretty bevy of busy butterflies, the curiosity of a single shimmery hummingbird. No weed intruded on its flawlessness, and every blossom was full and ripe, with dozens upon dozens of buds waiting their turn to open.
She'd done this. As she circled the bed it was with a sense of pride and satisfaction. She'd turned the
earth and fed it, she'd planned and selected and set each plant in exactly the right place. The garden so precisely matched her vision, it was like a photograph.
It had taken her years to plan and toil and create. But now everything she'd wanted to accomplish was here, blooming at her feet.
Yet even as she watched, a stem grew up, sharp and green, crowding the others, spoiling the symmetry. Out of place, she thought, more annoyed than surprised to see it breaking out of the ground, growing
up, unfurling its leaves.
A dahlia? She'd planted no dahlias there. They belonged in the back. She'd specifically planted a trio of tall pink dahlias at the back of the bed, exactly one foot apart.
Puzzled, she tilted her head, studied it as the stems grew and thickened, as buds formed fat and healthy. Fascinating, so fascinating and unexpected.
Even as she started to smile, she heard—felt?—a whisper over the skin, a murmur through her brain.
It's wrong there. Wrong. It has to be removed. It will take and take until there's nothing left.
She shivered. The air around her was suddenly cool, with a hint of raw dampness, with bleak clouds creeping in toward that lovely golden sun.
In the pit of her belly was a kind of dread.
Don't let it grow. It will strangle the life out of everything you 've done.
That was right. Of course, that was right. It had no business growing there, muscling the others aside, changing the order.
She'd have to dig it out, find another place for it. Reorganize everything, just when she'd thought she
was finished. And look at that, she thought, as the buds formed, as they broke open to spread their
deep blue petals. It was entirely the wrong color. Too bold, too dark, too bright.
It was beautiful; she couldn't deny it. In fact, she'd never seen a more beautiful specimen. It looked so strong, so vivid. It was already nearly as tall as she, with flowers as wide as dinner plates.
It lies. It lies.
That whisper, somehow female, somehow raging, slithered into her sleeping brain. She whimpered a
little, tossed restlessly in her chilly bed.
Kill it! Kill it. Hurry before it's too late.
No, she couldn't kill something so beautiful, so alive, so vivid. But that didn't mean she could just leave
it there, out of its place, upsetting the rest of the bed.
All that work, the preparation, the planning, and now this. She'cf just have to plan another bed and work it in. With a sigh, she reached out, feathered her fingers over those bold blue petals. It would be a lot of work, she thought, a lot of trouble, but—
"Mom."
"Isn't it pretty?" she murmured. "It's so blue."
"Mom, wake up."
"What?" She tumbled out of the dream, shaking off sleep as she saw Luke kneeling in the bed beside her.
God, the room was freezing.
"Luke?" Instinctively she dragged the spread over him. "What's the matter?"
"I don't feel good in my tummy."
"Aw." She sat up, automatically laying a hand on his brow to check for fever. A little warm, she thought. "Does it hurt?"
He shook his head. She could see the gleam of his eyes, the sheen of tears. "It feels sick. Can I sleep in your bed?"
"Okay." She drew the sheets back. "Lie down and bundle up, baby. I don't know why it's so cold in here. I'm going to take your temperature, just to see." She pressed her lips to his forehead as he snuggled onto her pillow. Definitely a little warm.
Switching on the bedside lamp, she rolled out to get the thermometer from the bathroom.
"Let's find out if I can see through your brain." She stroked his hair as she set the gauge to his ear.
"Did you feel sick when you went to bed?"
"Nuh-uh, it was ..." His body tightened, and he made a little groan.
She knew he was going to retch before he did. With a mother's speed, she scooped him up, dashed into the bathroom. They made it, barely, and she murmured and stroked and fretted while he was sick.
Then he turned his pale little face up to hers. "I frew up."
"I know, baby. I'm sorry. We're going to make it all better soon."
She gave him a little water, cooled his face with a cloth, then carried him back to her bed. Strange, she thought, the room felt fine now.
"It doesn't feel as sick in my tummy anymore."
"That's good." Still, she took his temperature—99.1, not too bad—and brought the wastebasket over beside the bed. "Does it hurt anywhere?"
"Nuh-uh, but I don't like to frow up. It makes it taste bad in my throat. And my other tooth is loose, and maybe if I frow up again, it'll come out and I won't have it to put under my pillow."
"Don't you worry about that. You'll absolutely have your tooth for under your pillow, just like the other one. Now, I'll go down and get you some ginger ale. You stay right here, and I'll be back in just a minute. Okay?"
"Okay."
"If you have to be sick again, try to use this." She set the wastebasket beside him on the bed. "I'll be
right back, baby."
She hurried out, jogging down the stairs in her nightshirt. One of the disadvantages of a really big house, she realized, was that the kitchen was a mile away from the bedrooms.
She'd see about buying a little fridge, like the one she'd had in her dorm room at college, for the upstairs sitting room.