Nora Roberts - In The Garden 02 - Black Rose.pdf - Nora Roberts - sinderella

Black Rose

PROLOGUE

Memphis, Tennessee

December 1892

SHE DRESSED CAREFULLY, attending to the details of her appearance as she hadn't done for months. Her personal maid had run off

weeks before, and she had neither the wit nor the will to hire another. So she spent an hour with the curling rods herself-as she had in

the years before she'd been kept so lavishly-meticulously coiling and arranging her freshly rinsed hair.

It had lost its bright gold luster over the long, bleary autumn, but she knew what lotions and potions would bring back its shine, what

pots of paint to select to put false color in her cheeks, on her lips.

She knew all the tricks of the trade. How else could she have caught the eye of a man like Reginald Harper? How else had she seduced

him into making her his mistress?

She would use them again, all of them, Amelia thought, to seduce him once more, and to urge him to do everything that must be done.

He hadn't come, in all this time, in all these months, he hadn't come to her. So she'd been forced to send notes to his businesses,

begging him to come, only to be ignored.

Ignoredafter all she had done, all she had been, all she had lost.

What choice had she had but to send more notes, and to his home? To the grand Harper House where his pale wife reigned. Where a

mistress could never walk.

Hadn't she given him all he could ask, all he could want? She'd traded her body for the comfort of this house, the convenience of

servants, for the baubles, like the pearl drops she fixed on her ears now.

Small prices to pay for a man of his stature and wealth, and such had been the limits of her ambitions once. A man only, and what he

could give her. But he'd given her more than either of them had bargained for. The loss of it was more than she could bear.

Why had he not come to comfort her? To grieve with her?

Had she complained, ever? Had she ever turned him from her bed? Or mentioned even once the other women he kept?

She had given him her youth, and her beauty. And, it seemed, her health.

And he would desert her now? Turn away from hernow ?

They said the baby had been dead at birth. Stillborn, they said. A stillborn girl child that had perished inside her.

But . . . but . . .

Hadn't she felt it move? Felt it kick, and grow vital under her heart? In her heart. This child she hadn't wanted who had become her

world. Her life. The son she grew inside her.

The son, the son, she thought now as her fingers plucked at the buttons of her gown, as her painted lips formed the words over and

over.

She'd heard him cry. Yes, yes, she was sure of it. Sometimes she heard him cry still, in the night, crying for her to come and soothe

him.

But when she went to the nursery, looked in the crib, it was empty. Like her womb was empty.

They said she was mad. Oh, she heard what servants she had left whispering, she saw the way they looked at her. But she wasn't

mad.

Wasn't mad, wasn't mad, she told herself as she paced the bedroom she'd once treated like a palace of sensuality.

Now the linens were rarely changed, and the drapes always drawn tight to block out the city. And things went missing. Her servants

were thieves. Oh, she knew they were thieves and scoundrels. And spies.

They watched her, and they whispered.

One night they would kill her in her bed. One night.

She couldn't sleep for the fear of it. Couldn't sleep for the cries of her son inside her head. Calling her. Calling her.

But she'd gone to the voodoo queen, she reminded herself. Gone to her for protection, and knowledge. She'd paid for both with the ruby

bracelet Reginald had once given her. The stones shaped like bloody hearts against the icy glitter of diamonds.

She'd paid for the gris-gris she kept under her pillow, and in a silk bag over her heart. She'd paid, and dearly, for the raising spell. A spell

that had failed.

Because her child lived. This was the knowledge the voodoo queen had given her, and it was worth more than ten thousand rubies.

Her child lived, he lived, and now he must be found. He must be brought back to her, where he belonged.

Reginald must find him, must pay whatever needed to be paid.

Careful, careful, she warned herself as she felt the scream beating at her throat. He would only believe her if she remained calm. He

would only heed her if she were beautiful.

Beauty seduced men. With beauty and charm, a woman could have whatever she wanted.

She turned to the mirror and saw what she needed to see. Beauty, charm, grace. She didn't see that the red gown sagged at the

breasts, bagged at the hips, and turned her pale skin a sallow yellow. The mirror reflected the tumbling tangle of curls, the overbright

eyes, and the harshly rouged cheeks, but her eyes, Amelia's eyes, saw what she had once been.

Young and beautiful, desirable and sly.

So she went downstairs to wait for her lover, and under her breath, she sang.

"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly. Lavender's green."

In the parlor a fire was burning, and the gaslight was lit. So the servants would be careful, too, she thought with a tight smile. They knew

the master was expected, and the master held the purse strings.

No matter, she would tell Reginald they needed to go, all of them, and be replaced.

And she wanted a nursemaid hired for her son, for James, when he was returned to her. An Irish girl, she thought. They were cheerful

around babies, she believed. She wanted a cheerful nursery for her James.

Though she eyed the whiskey on the sideboard, she poured a small glass of wine instead. And settled down to wait.

Her nerves began to fray as the hour grew late. She had a second glass of wine, then a third. And when she saw through the window his

carriage pull up, she forgot to be careful and calm and flew to the door herself.

"Reginald. Reginald." Her grief and despair sprang out of her like snakes, hissing and coiling. She threw herself at him.

"Control yourself, Amelia." His hands closed over her bony shoulders, nudged her back. "What will the neighbors say?"

He shut the door quickly, then with one steely look had a hovering servant rushing forward to take his hat and walking stick.

"I don't care! Oh, why haven't you come sooner? I've needed you so. Did you get my letters? The servants, the servants lie. They didn't

post them. I'm a prisoner here."

"Don't be ridiculous." A momentary disgust flickered over his face as he evaded her next attempt at an embrace. "We agreed you'd

never attempt to contact me at my home, Amelia."

"You didn't come. I've been alone. I-"

"I've been occupied. Come now. Sit. Compose yourself."

Still, she clung to his arm as he led her into the parlor. "Reginald. The baby. The baby."

"Yes, yes." He disentangled himself, nudged her into a chair. "It's unfortunate," he said as he moved to the sideboard to pour himself a

whiskey. "The doctor said there was nothing to be done, and you needed rest and quiet. I've heard you've been unwell."

"Lies. It's all a lie."

He turned to her, his gaze taking in her face, the ill-fitting gown. "I can see for myself you're not well, Amelia. I think perhaps some sea

air. It would do you good." His smile was cool as he leaned back against the mantel. "How would you like an ocean crossing? I think it

would be just the thing to calm your nerves and bring you back to health."

"I want mychild . He's all I need."

"The child is gone."

"No, no, no." She sprang up to clutch at him again. "They stole him. He lives, Reginald. Our child lives. The doctor, the midwife, they

planned it. I know it all now, I understand it all. You must go to the police, Reginald. They'll listen to you. You must pay whatever

ransom they demand."

"This is madness, Amelia." He pried her hand from his lapel, then brushed at the creases her fingers had caused in the material. "I'll

certainly not go to the police."

"Then I will. Tomorrow I'll go to the authorities."

The cold smile faded until his face was hard as stone. "You will do nothing of the kind. You will have a cruise to Europe, and ten

thousand dollars to assist you in settling in England. They will be my parting gifts to you."

"Parting?" She groped for the arm of a chair, melted into it as her legs gave way. "You-you would leave me now?"

"There can be nothing more between us. I'll see to it that you're well set, and I believe you'll regain your health with a sea voyage. In

London you're bound to find another protector."

"How can I go to London when my son-"

"You will go," he interrupted, then sipped his drink. "Or I will give you nothing. You have no son. You have nothing but what I deem to

give you. This house and everything in it, the clothes on your back, the jewels you wear are mine. You'd be wise to remember how

easily I can take it all away."

"Take it away," she whispered, and something in his face, something in her fractured mind gave her truth. "You want to get rid of me

because . . . you know. It's you who've taken the baby."

He finished his drink as he studied her. Then set the empty glass on the mantel. "Do you think I'd allow a creature like you to raise my

son?"

"My son!" She sprang up again, hands curled like claws.

The slap stopped her. In the two years he had been her protector, he had never raised a hand to her.

"Listen to me now, and carefully. I will not have my son known as a bastard, one born of a whore. He will be raised at Harper House, as

my legitimate heir."

"Your wife-"

"Does what she is told. As will you, Amelia."

"I'll go to the police."

"And tell them what? The doctor and midwife who attended you will attest that you delivered a stillborn girl, while others will attest my

wife delivered a healthy boy. Your reputation, Amelia, will not stand to mine, or theirs. Your own servants will swear to it, and to the fact

that you've been ill, and behaving strangely."

"How can you do this?"

"I need a son. Do you think I selected you out of affection? You're young, healthy-or were. You were paid, and paid well for your

services. You will be recompensed for this one."

"You won't keep him from me. He's mine."

"Nothing is yours but what I allow you. You would have rid yourself of him, had you been given the opportunity. You'll come nowhere

near him, now or ever. You will make the crossing in three weeks. A deposit of ten thousand dollars will be put in your account. Until

that time your bills will continue to come to me for payment. It's all you'll get."

"I'll kill you!" she shouted when he started out of the parlor.

At this, for the first time since he'd arrived, he looked amused. "You're pathetic. Whores generally are. Be assured of this, if you come

near me or mine, Amelia, I will have you arrested, and put in an asylum for the criminally insane." He gestured for the servant to bring

his hat and stick. "You wouldn't find it to your taste."

She screamed, tearing at her hair and her gown; she screamed until blood ran from her flesh from her own nails.

When her mind snapped, she walked up the stairs in her tattered gown, humming a lullaby.

ONE

Harper House

December 2004

DAWN,THE AWAKENING promise of it, was her favorite time to run. The running itself was just something that had to be done, three

days a week, like any other chore or responsibility. Rosalind Harper did what had to be done.

She ran for her health. A woman who'd just had-she could hardly say "celebrated" at this stage of her life-her forty-seventh birthday had

to mind her health. She ran to keep strong, as she desired and needed strength. And she ran for vanity. Her body would never again be

what it had been at twenty, or even thirty, but, by God, it would be the best body she could manage at forty-seven.

She had no husband, no lover, but she did have an image to uphold. She was a Harper, and Harpers had their pride.

But, Jesus, maintenance was a bitch.

Wearing sweats against the dawn chill, she slipped out of her bedroom by the terrace door. The house was sleeping still. Her house

that had been too empty was now occupied again, and rarely completely quiet any longer.

There was David, her surrogate son, who kept her house in order, kept her entertained when she needed entertaining, and stayed out of

her way when she needed solitude.

No one knew her moods quite like David.

And there was Stella, and her two precious boys. It had been a good day, Roz thought as she limbered up on the terrace, when she'd

hired Stella Rothchild to manage her nursery.

Of course, Stella would be moving before much longer and taking those sweet boys with her. Still, once she was married to Logan-and

wasn't that a fine match-they'd only be a few miles away.

Hayley would still be here, infusing the house with all that youth and energy. It had been another stroke of luck, and a vague and distant

family connection, that had Hayley, then six-months pregnant, landing on her doorstep. In Hayley she had the daughter she'd secretly

longed for, and the bonus of an honorary grandchild with the darling little Lily.

She hadn't realized how lonely she'd been, Roz thought, until those girls had come along to fill the void. With two of her own three sons

moved away, the house had become too big, too quiet. And a part of her dreaded the day when Harper, her firstborn, her rock, would

leave the guesthouse a stone's throw from the main.

But that was life. No one knew better than a gardener that life never stayed static. Cycles were necessary, for without them there was

no bloom.

She took the stairs down at an easy jog, enjoying the way the early mists shrouded her winter gardens. Look how pretty her lambs ear

was with its soft silvery foliage covered in dew. And the birds had yet to bother the bright fruit on her red chokeberry.

Walking to give her muscles time to warm, and to give herself the pleasure of the gardens, she skirted around the side of the house to

the front.

She increased to a jog on the way down the drive, a tall, willowy woman with a short, careless cap of black hair. Her eyes, a honeyed

whiskey brown, scanned the grounds-the towering magnolias, the delicate dogwoods, the placement of ornamental shrubs, the flood of

pansies she'd planted only weeks before, and the beds that would wait a bit longer to break into bloom.

To her mind, there were no grounds in western Tennessee that could compete with Harper House. Just as there was no house that

could compare with its dignified elegance.

Out of habit, she turned at the end of the drive, jogged in place to study it in the pearly mists.

It stood grandly, she thought, with its melding of Greek Revival and Gothic styles, the warm yellow stone mellow against the clean white

trim. Its double staircase rose up to the balcony wrapping the second level, and served as a crown for the covered entryway on the

ground level.

She loved the tall windows, the lacy woodwork on the rail of the third floor, the sheer space of it, and the heritage it stood for.

She had prized it, cared for it, worked for it, since it had come into her hands at her parents' death. She had raised her sons there, and

when she'd lost her husband, she'd grieved there.

One day she would pass it to Harper as it had passed to her. And she thanked God for the absolute knowledge that he would tend it

and love it just as she did.

What it had cost her was nothing compared with what it gave, even in this single moment, standing at the end of the drive, looking back

through the morning mists.

But standing there wasn't going to get her three miles done. She headed west, keeping close to the side of the road, though there'd be

little to no traffic this early.

To take her mind off the annoyance of exercise, she started reviewing her list of things to do that day.

She had some good seedlings going for annuals that should be ready to have their seed leaves removed. She needed to check all the

seedlings for signs of damping off. Some of the older stock would be ready for pricking off.

And, she remembered, Stella had asked for more amaryllis, more forced-bulb planters, more wreaths and poinsettias for the holiday

sales. Hayley could handle the wreaths. The girl had a good hand at crafting.

Then there were the field-grown Christmas trees and hollies to deal with. Thank God she could leave that end to Logan.

She had to check with Harper, to see if he had any more of the Christmas cacti he'd grafted ready to go. She wanted a couple for

herself.

She juggled all the nursery business in her mind even as she passed In the Garden. It was tempting-it always was-to veer off the road

onto that crushed-stone entryway, to take an indulgent solo tour of what she'd built from the ground up.

Stella had gone all out for the holidays, Roz noted with pleasure, grouping green, pink, white, and red poinsettias into a pool of seasonal

color in the front of the low-slung house that served as the entrance to the retail space. She'd hung yet another wreath on the door, tiny

white lights around it, and the small white pine she'd had dug from the field stood decorated on the front porch.

White-faced pansies, glossy hollies, hardy sage added more interest and would help ring up those holiday sales.

Resisting temptation, Roz continued down the road.

She had to carve out some time, if not today, then certainly later this week, to finish up her Christmas shopping. Or at least put a bigger

dent in it. There were holiday parties to attend, and the one she'd decided to give. It had been awhile since she'd opened the house to

entertain in a big way.

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 ithad 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.

"You've been busy." Stella, with her curling red hair bundled back in a tail, scanned the tables. "Really busy."

"And optimistic. We had a banner season, and I'm expecting we'll have another. If Nature doesn't screw around with us."

"I thought you might want to take a look at the new stock of wreaths. Hayley's worked on them all morning. I think she outdid herself."

"I'll take a look before I leave."

"I let her go early, I hope that's all right. She's still getting used to having Lily with a sitter, even if the sitter is a customer and only a half

mile away."

"That's fine." She moved on to the catananche. "You know you don't have to check every little thing with me, Stella. You've been

managing this ship for nearly a year now."

"They were excuses to come back here."

Roz paused, her knife suspended above the plant roots, primed for cutting. "Is there a problem?"

"No. I've been wanting to ask, and I know this is your domain, but I wondered if, when things slow down a bit after the holidays, I can

spend some time with the propagation. I'm missing it."

"All right."

Stella's bright blue eyes twinkled when she laughed. "I can see you're worried I'll try to change your routine, organize everything my

way. I promise I won't. And I won't get in your way."

"You try, I'll just boot you out."

"Got that."

"Meanwhile, I've been wanting to talk to you. I need you to find me a supplier for good, inexpensive soil bags. One pound, five pound,

ten, and twenty-five to start."

"For?" Stella asked as she pulled a notebook out of her back pocket.

"I'm going to start making and selling my own potting soil. I've got mixes I like for indoor and outdoor use, and I want to private-label it."

"That's a great idea. Good profit in that. And customers will like having Rosalind Harper's gardening secrets. There are some

considerations, though."

"I thought of them. I'm not going to go hog-wild right off. We'll keep it small." With soil on her hands still, she plucked a bottle of water

from a shelf. Then, absently wiping her hand on her shirt, twisted the cap. "I want the staff to learn how to bag, but the recipe's my

secret. I'll give you and Harper the ingredients and the amounts, but it doesn't go out to the general staff. For right now we'll set up the

procedure in the main storage shed. It takes off, we'll build one for it."

"Government regulations-"

"I've studied on that. We won't be using any pesticides, and I'm keeping the nutrient content to below the regulatory levels." Noting

Stella continued to scribble on her pad, Roz took a long drink. "I've applied for the license to manufacture and sell."

"You didn't mention it."

"Don't get your feelings hurt." Roz set the bottle aside, dipped a cutting in rooting medium. "I wasn't sure I'd go on and do the thing, but I

wanted the red tape out of the way. It's kind of a pet project of mine I've been playing with for a while now. But I've grown some

specimens in these mixes, and so far I like what I see. I got some more going now, and if I keep liking it, we're going for it. So I want an

idea how much the bags are going to run us, and the printing. I want classy. I thought you could fiddle around with some logos and

such. You're good at that. In the Garden needs to be prominent."

"No question."

"And you know what I'd really like?" She paused for a minute, seeing it in her head. "I'd like brown bags. Something that looks like

burlap. Old-fashioned, if you follow me. So we're saying, this is good old-fashioned dirt, southern soil, and I'm thinking I want cottage

garden flowers on the bag. Simple flowers."

"That says, this is simple to use, and it'll make your garden simple to grow. I'll get on it."

"I can count on you, can't I, to work out the costs, profits, marketing angles with me?"

"I'm your girl."

"I know you are. I'm going to finish up these cuttings, then take off early myself if nothing's up. I want to get some shopping in."

"Roz, it's already nearly five."

"Five? It can't be five." She held up an arm, turned her wrist, and frowned at her watch. "Well, shit. Time got away from me again. Tell

you what, I'm going to take off at noon tomorrow. If I don't, you hunt me down and push me out."

"No problem. I'd better get back. See you back at the house."

WHEN SHE DIDget home, it was to discover the Christmas lights were glinting from the eaves, the wreaths shimmered on all the doors,

and candles stood shining in all the windows. The entrance was flanked by two miniature pines wrapped in tiny white lights.

She had only to step inside to be surrounded by the holiday.

In the foyer, red ribbon and twinkling lights coiled up the twin banisters, with white poinsettias in Christmas-red pots under the newel

posts.

Her great-grandmother's silver bowl was polished to a beam and filled with glossy red apples.

In the parlor a ten-foot Norway spruce-certainly from her own field-ruled the front windows. The mantel held the wooden Santas she'd

collected since she'd been pregnant with Harper, with fresh greenery dripping from the ends.

Stella's two sons sat cross-legged on the floor beneath the tree, staring up at it with enormous eyes.

"Isn't it great?" Hayley bounced dark-haired Lily on her hip. "Isn't it awesome?"

"David must've worked like a dog."

"We helped!" The boys jumped up.

"After school we got to help with the lights and everything," the youngest, Luke, told her. "And pretty soon we get to help make cookies,

and decorate them and everything."

"We even got a tree upstairs." Gavin looked back at the spruce. "It's not as big as this one, 'cause it's for upstairs. We helped David

take it up, and we get to decorate itourselves ." Knowing who was the boss of the house, Gavin looked at her for confirmation. "He

said."

"Then it must be true."

"He's cooking up some sort of trim-the-tree buffet in the kitchen." Stella walked over to look at the tree from Roz's perspective.

Nora Roberts - In The Garden 02 - Black Rose.pdf

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