Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

“I wish I’d gotten there quicker. I was nearly at the other end of the house when I heard the rumbles. But I don’t see how anyone could get any sort of satisfaction out of being turned away, in public, the way I heard you turned him away.”

“You don’t know Bryce. He’ll dine off the incident for weeks. Center of attention, and he has a smooth way.” Her short, unpainted nails tapped against her teacup. “Before he’s done, he’ll be the underdog. All he’d done was try to mend fences, to come by to wish me well, it being the holidays and all. And what had I done but rebuffed him, and humiliated his date—an invited guest.”

She stopped a moment to suck back the fresh rage. “People will say: ‘My goodness, how cold and hard, how ungracious and rude of her.’ ”

“Then people are idiots.”

“Yes, indeed they are. Which is why I rarely socialize with them. And why I’ve been so particular in my friends. And why I’m very grateful to have one who would sit out here with me at this time of night, eating chocolate truffles while I feel sorry for myself.”

She let out a long breath. “And damned if I don’t feel better. Let’s go on up. Get some sleep. We’re going to have us a busy day tomorrow, with the gossip sniffers slinking in along with the regular customers.”

SOME WOULD HAVEcalled it burying herself in work. Roz called it doing what needed to be done and enjoying every minute of it. She loved winter chores, loved closing herself in for hours, even days in a greenhouse and starting new life, nurturing it along. Her seedlings, and cuttings, sprouts started by layering or leaf buds. She loved the smell of rooting compound and damp, and watching the stages of progress.

There were pests and problems to guard against here, just as there were in life. When she caught signs of downy mildew or rusts, she snipped off the infected leaves, sprayed the plants. She checked air circulation, adjusted temperature.

Any cuttings that showed signs of rot or virus were systematically removed and discarded. She would not allow infection here, any more than she allowed it in her life.

It soothed her to work, and to remember that. She had cut Bryce off, discarded him, rid her life of that infection. Maybe not quite soon enough, maybe she hadn’t been quite vigilant enough, so even now she was forced to guard and control.

But she was strong, and the life she’d built was strong enough to withstand these small, annoying invasions.

Thinking of that, she finished her list of tasks for the day, then sought out Harper.

She slipped into his grafting house, knowing he wouldn’t hear her right away, not with Beethoven soaring for the plants, and whatever music he’d chosen for himself that day booming in his headset.

She took a moment, a moment that made her feel tender, to watch him work. Old sweatshirt, older jeans, grubby boots—he’d have been out in the field off and on that day, she realized.

He’d gotten a haircut recently, so all that glossy black fell in a sleeker, more ordered style. She wondered how long that would last? If she knew her boy—and she did—he’d forget about that little grooming task for weeks until he ended up grabbing a piece of raffia to tie his hair back while he worked.

He was so competent, so creative here. Each of her sons had his own talent, his own direction—she’d made sure of it—but only Harper had inherited her abiding love for gardening.

She moved down through the tables crowded with plants and tools and mediums to watch him skillfully graft a miniature rose.

When he’d finished the specimen, reached for the can of Coke that was always nearby, she moved into his line of vision.

She saw him focus on her as he sipped.

“Nice job,” she said. “You don’t often do roses.”

“Experimenting with these. Thought we might be able to have a section for container-grown miniatures. Working on a climbing mini, and some ground-cover specimens. Want a Coke?”

“No, thanks.” He was so much her , she thought. How many times had she heard that polite, cool tone come out of her own mouth when she was irritated. “I know you’re upset with me, Harper.”

“No point in me being upset.”

“Point isn’t, well, the point, is it?” She wanted to stroke his shoulders, rub her cheek to his. But he’d stiffen, just as she would if someone touched her before she was ready to be touched.

“You’re angry with the way I handled things last night. With the way I wouldn’t let you handle them.”

“Your choice.” He jerked a shoulder. “And I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed in you, that’s all.”

If he’d taken his grafting knife and stabbed it into her heart, she’d have felt less pain, less shock. “Harper.”

“Did you have to be so goddamn polite? Couldn’t you have given him what he deserved right then and there instead of brushing me back and taking it outside?”

“What good would—”

“I don’t give a shit about what good, Mama.” The infamous Harper temper smoldered in his eyes. “He deserved to have his clock cleaned, right on the spot. You should’ve let me stand up for you. But it had to be your way, with me standing there doing nothing. So what is the damn point?”

She wanted to turn away, to take a moment to compose herself, but he deserved better. He deserved face-to-face. “There’s no one in this world who can hurt me the way you can.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“No, you’re not. You wouldn’t. That’s how I know just how angry you are. And how I can see where it comes from. Maybe I was wrong.” She lifted her hands to rub them over her face. “I don’t know, but it’s the only way I know. I had to get him out of the house. I’m asking you to understand that I had to get him out of our house, quickly and before he’d smeared it all again.”

She dropped her hands, and her face was naked with regret. “I brought him into our home, Harper. I did that, you didn’t.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re to blame, for Christ’s sake, or that you have to handle something like that by yourself. If you can’t depend on me to help you, to stand up for you—”

“Oh, God, Harper. Here you are, sitting in here thinking I don’t need you when half the time I’m worried I need you too much for your own good. I don’t know what I’d do without you, that’s the God’s truth. I don’t want to fight with you over him.” Now she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “He’s nothing but a bully.”

“And I’m not a little boy you have to protect from bullies anymore, Mama. I’m a man, and it’s my job now to protect you. Whether you want it or not. And whether you damn well need it or not.”

She dropped her hands again, nearly managed a smile this time. “I guess that’s telling me.”

“He comes to the door again, you won’t stop me.”

She drew a breath, then framed his face with her hands. “I know you’re a man. It pains me sometimes, but I know you’re a man with his own life, his own ways. I know you’re a man, Harper, who’ll stand beside me when I ask, even though you’d rather stand in front of me and fight the battle.”

Though she knew she wasn’t quite forgiven, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going on home to work in the garden. Don’t stay mad at me too long.”

“Probably won’t.”

“There’s some of that baked ham left over from the party. Plenty of side dishes, too, if you wanted to come by and forage for dinner.”

“Might.”

“All right, then. You know where to find me.”

WITH GARDENS ASextensive as hers, there was always some chore to do. Since she wanted work, Roz hauled mulch, checked her compost, worked with the cuttings and seedlings she grew for her personal use in the small greenhouse at home.