What the woman needed was some spontaneity, a little shake of the order of things. Not that he was interested in being the one to provide it.
It was just that she'd looked so pretty that morning, and her hair had smelled good. Plus she'd had that sexy little smile going for her. Before he knew it, he'd been talking about taking her to Graceland.
Nothing to worry about, he assured himself. She wouldn't go. It wasn't the sort of thing a woman like
her did, just for the hell of it. As far as he could tell, she didn't do anything for the hell of it.
They'd both forget he'd even brought it up.
* * *
Because she felt it was imperative, at least for the first six months of her management, Stella insisted
on a weekly progress meeting with Roz.
She'd have preferred a specific time for these meetings, and a specific location. But Roz was hard to
pin down.
She'd already held them in the propagation house and in the field. This time she cornered Roz in her
own sitting room, where she'd be unlikely to escape.
"I wanted to give you your weekly update."
"Oh. Well, all right." Roz set aside a book on hybridizing that was thick as a railroad tie, and took off
her frameless reading glasses. 'Time's zipping by. Ground's warming up."
"I know. Daffodils are ready to pop. So much earlier than I'm used to. We've been selling a lot of bulbs. Back north, we'd sell most of those late summer or fall."
"Homesick?"
"Now and then, but less and less already. I can't say I'm sorry to be out of Michigan as we slog through February. They got six inches of snow yesterday, and I'm watching daffodils spearing up."
Roz leaned back in the chair, crossed her sock-covered feet at the ankles. "Is there a problem?"
"So much for the illusion that I conceal my emotions under a composed facade. No, no problem. I did
the duty call home to my mother a little while ago. I'm still recovering."
"Ah."
It was a noncommittal sound, and Stella decided she could interpret it as complete non-interest or a tacit invitation to unload. Because she was brimming, she chose to unload.
"I spent the almost fifteen minutes she spared me out of her busy schedule listening to her talk about her current boyfriend. She actually calls these men she sees boyfriends. She's fifty-eight years old, and she just had her fourth divorce two months ago. When she wasn't complaining that Rocky—and he's actually named Rocky— isn't attentive enough and won't take her to the Bahamas for a midwinter getaway, she was talking about her next chemical peel and whining about how her last Botox injection hurt. She never asked about the boys, and the only reference she made to the fact that I was living and working down here was to ask if I was tired of being around the jerk and his bimbo—her usual terms for my father
and Jolene."
When she'd run out of steam, Stella rubbed her hands over her face. "Goddamn it."
"That's a lot of bitching, whining, and venom to pack into a quarter of an hour. She sounds like a very talented woman."
It took Stella a minute—a minute where she let her hands slide into her lap so she could stare into Roz's face. Then she let her own head fall back with a peal of laughter.
"Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, she's loaded with talent. Thanks."
"No problem. My mama spent most of her time—at least the time we were on earth together—sighing wistfully over her health. Not that she meant to complain, so she said. I very nearly put that on her tombstone. 'Not That I Mean to Complain.'"
"I could put 'I Don't Ask for Much' on my mother's."
"There you go. Mine made such an impression on me that I went hell-bent in the opposite direction. I could probably cut off a limb, and you wouldn't hear a whimper out of me."
"God, I guess I've done the same with mine. I'll have to think about that later. Okay, on to business. We're sold out of the mixed-bulb planters we forced. I don't know if you want to do others this late
in the season."
"Maybe a few. Some people like to pick them up, already done, for Easter presents and so on."
"All right. How about if I show Hayley how it's done? I know you usually do them yourself, but—"
"No, it's a good job for her. I've been watching her." At Stella's expression, she inclined her head.
"I don't like to look like I'm watching, but generally I am. I know what's going on in my place, Stella, even if I do occasionally miss crossing a T."
"And I'm there to cross them, so that's all right."
"Exactly. Still, I've left her primarily to you. She working out for you?"
"More than. You don't have to tell her something twice, and when she claimed she learned fast she
wasn't kidding. She's thirsty."
"We've got plenty to drink around here."
"She's personable with customers—friendly, never rushed. And she's not afraid to say she doesn't know, but she'll find out. She's outside right now, poking around your beds and shrubs. She wants to know
what she's selling."
She moved to the window as she spoke, to look out. It was nearly twilight, but there was Hayley
walking the dog and studying the perennials. "At her age, I was planning my wedding. It seems like a million years ago."
"At her age, I was raising two toddlers and was pregnant with Mason. Now that was a million years ago. And five minutes ago."
"It's off topic, again, of the update, but I wanted to ask if you'd thought about what you'll do when we
get to May."
"That's still high season for us, and people like to freshen up the summer garden. We sell—"
"No, I meant about Hayley. About the baby."
"Oh. Well, she'll have to decide that, but I expect if she decides to stay on at the nursery, we'll find her sit-down work."
"She'll need to find child care, when she's ready to go back to work. And speaking of nurseries ..."
"Hmm. That's thinking ahead."
"Time zips by," Stella repeated.
"We'll figure it out."
Because she was curious, Roz rose to go to the window herself. Standing beside Stella she looked out.
It was a lovely thing, she decided, watching a young woman, blooming with child, wandering a winter garden.
She'd once been that young woman, dreaming in the twilight and waiting for spring to bring life.
Time didn't just zip by, she thought. It damn near evaporated on you.
"She seems happy now, and sure of what she's going to do. But could be after she has the baby, she'll change her mind about having the father involved." Roz watched Hayley lay a hand on her belly and look west, to where the sun was sinking behind the trees and into the river beyond them. "Having a live baby in your arms and the prospect of caring for it single-handed's one hell of a reality check. We'll see when the time comes."
"You're right. And I don't suppose either of us knows her well enough to know what's best. Speaking
of babies, it's nearly time to get mine in the tub. I'm going to leave the weekly report with you."
"All right. I'll get to it. I should tell you, Stella, I like what you've done. What shows, like in the customer areas, and what doesn't, in the office management. I see spring coming, and for the first time in years,
I'm not frazzled and overworked. I can't say I minded being overworked, but I can't say I mind not
being, either."
"Even when I bug you with details?"
"Even when. I haven't heard any complaints about Logan in the past few days. Or from him. Am I living in a fool's paradise, or have you two found your rhythm?"
"There are still a few hitches in it, and I suspect there'll be others, but nothing for you to worry about.
In fact, he made a very friendly gesture and offered to take me to Graceland."
"He did?" Roz's eyebrows drew together. "Logan?"
"Would that be out of the ordinary for him?"
"I couldn't say, except I don't know that he's dated anyone from work before."
"It's not a date, it's an outing."
Intrigued, Roz sat again. You never knew what you'd learn from a younger woman, she decided.
"What's the difference?"
"Well, a date's dinner and a movie with potential, even probable, romantic overtones. Taking your kids
to the zoo is an outing."
Roz leaned back, stretched out her legs. "Things do change, don't they? Still, in my book, when a man and a woman go on an outing, it's a date."
"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.
