Black Rose: NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

The divorce, she admitted, was at least partially to blame for that. She’d hardly felt like hosting parties when she’d felt stupid and stung and more than a bit mortified by her foolish, and mercifully brief, union to a liar and a cheat.

But it was time to put that aside now, she reminded herself, just as she’d put him aside. The fact that Bryce Clerk was back in Memphis made it only more important that she live her life, publically and privately, exactly as she chose.

At the mile-and-a-half mark, a point she judged by an old, lightning-struck hickory, she started back. The thin fog had dampened her hair, her sweatshirt, but her muscles felt warm and loose. It was a bitch, she mused, that everything they said about exercise was true.

She spotted a deer meandering across the road, her coat thickened for winter, her eyes on alert by the intrusion of a human.

You’re beautiful, Roz thought, puffing a little on that last half mile. Now, stay the hell out of my gardens. Another note went in her file to give her gardens another treatment of repellant before the deer and her pals decided to come around for a snack.

Roz was just making the turn into the drive when she heard muffled footsteps, then saw the figure coming her way. Even with the mists she had no trouble identifying the other early riser.

They both stopped, jogged in place, and she grinned at her son.

“Up with the worms this morning.”

“Thought I’d be up and out early enough to catch you.” He scooped a hand through his dark hair. “All that celebrating for Thanksgiving, then your birthday, I figured I’d better work off the excess before Christmas hits.”

“You never gain an ounce. It’s annoying.”

“Feel soft.” He rolled his shoulders, then his eyes, whiskey brown like hers, and laughed. “Besides, I gotta keep up with my mama.”

He looked like her. There was no denying she’d stamped herself 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, 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 were 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 Grey 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.”

APRETTY 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, testing 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 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.