Нора Робертс - Black Rose

“The one you were murdering.”

“I didn’t know I was murdering it. I didn’t even know it was there.”

“Benign neglect is still neglect.”

“Hardass. How about I sign an oath to take better care of it? The fact is, she’ll be the one taking care of it, at least every other week. And you could have visitation rights.”

“I’ll think about it.”

THE AUDITORIUM WASalready packed when they arrived, and humming with pregame excitement. They moved through the noise and color and excitement, scooting down the row to their seats while both teams practiced layups on the court.

“That’s Josh there, number eight.”

She watched the tall boy in his trimmed-in-blue white jersey lope forward and tap the ball off the backboard and into the net. “Nice form.”

“He was the NBA’s number-ten draft pick. He’ll play for the Celtics next year. It’s hard for me to believe it. I’m not going to brag all night, but I had to get that one in.”

“He’s going pro? The Celtics? Brag all you want. I would.”

“I’ll keep it to a minimum. In any case, Josh is point guard, that’s the position that directs the team’s offense from the point.”

She listened, sipping the soft drink he’d bought her, as he ran through a primer of basketball terms and explanations.

At tip-off she watched the action, enjoyed the lightning movements on court, the echoing voices, the thunder of the ball on wood.

Now and again through the first quarter, Mitch would lean closer to explain a call, a strategy, or a play.

Until she got to her feet with the rest of the Memphis crowd to boo a blown call. “What, do those refs need eye surgery? We had established position, didn’t we—does he needthree feet planted on the ground? That was charging, for God’s sake. All he was missing was a Visa card!”

When she sat again, with a disgusted huff, Mitch scratched his chin. “Okay, either I’m an exceptional teacher or you know basketball.”

“I have three sons. I know basketball. I know football and baseball, and at one time I knew entirely too much about professional wrestling. But they mostly outgrew that one.” She took her eyes from the game long enough to smile at him. “But you were having such a nice time educating the little lady, I didn’t want to break your stride.”

“Thanks. Want some nachos?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

She enjoyed herself, and was amused at halftime when Josh zeroed in on his father in the crowd and grinned. More amused when the boy’s gaze drifted to her, then back to his father before Josh executed an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

And when at game’s end, the Memphis Tigers clipped Ole Miss’s Rebels by three points, she decided the experience had nearly been worth one cashmere sweater.

“You want to wait around, congratulate your boy?”

“Not tonight. It’ll be better than an hour before he gets out of the locker room, and through the groupies. I’d like you to meet him sometime, though.”

“I’d be glad to. He’s a pleasure to watch on the court, not just his style and skill—though he has plenty of both—but his enthusiasm. You can tell he loves the game.”

“Has since he was a baby.” Mitch slipped an arm around Roz’s waist to help maneuver them both through the departing crowd.

“It’ll be tough on you, him moving to Boston.”

“He’s always wanted it. Part of me wants to move up there with him, but sooner or later, you’ve got to let go.”

“Nearly killed me when my two youngest moved away. They were five years old yesterday.”

He dropped his arm, then took her hand as they crossed the parking lot. “Can I interest you in a postgame meal?”

“Not tonight. I need to get an early start in the morning. But thanks.”

“Dinner tomorrow.”

She slid a look up at him. “I should tell you getting me out of the house two nights running generally takes a team of wild horses. And I’ve got a garden club meeting tomorrow, which for personal reasons, I can’t miss.”

“The night after.”

“I sense a campaign.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s not bad.” Not bad at all, she thought, enjoying the bracing air, and the warmth of his hand over hers. “I’ll tell you what, you can come to dinner night after next, but I’ll warn you, I’ll be cooking. David’s night off.”

“You cook?”

“Of course I cook. Not that I’m allowed to when David’s in the house, but it happens I’m a very good cook.”

“What time’s dinner?”

She laughed. “Let’s make it seven.”

“I’ll be there.” When they reached his car, he walked her to her side, then turned her around, slid his arms around her, and drew her toward him. Laid his mouth on hers in a long, lazy kiss.

She curled her hands around his arms, held on to them, to him, and let herself float on the sensation—the warmth of his body, the cool of the air, the simmering demand just under the lazy tone of the kiss.

Then he eased back, his eyes on hers, and reached around to open her door. “I did that now because I figured if I waited until I walked you to your door, you’d be expecting it. I’m hoping to surprise you, at least now and again. I don’t think it’s the easiest thing to do.”

“You’ve managed it a few times so far.”

When she slid into the car, he closed the door. And thought he might have a few more surprises up his sleeve before they were done.

HARPER COULD ANDdid spend hours a day in the grafting house without being bored or missing the company of others. The plants he worked with were an endless fascination and satisfaction to him. Whether he was creating another standard or experimenting with a hybrid, he was doing the work he loved.

He enjoyed the outdoor work as well, the grafting and propagation he performed with the field stock. He’d already selected the trees he intended to graft and would need to spend part of the week collecting his scions, and pruning the maiden trees he’d grafted the year before.

His mother left these sort of decisions up to him. The what, the how, the when. It was, he knew, a strong level of trust and confidence from her to step back and let him run that end of the show.

Then again, she’d taught him not only the basics of the work, but had instilled in him a love for what grew.

They’d spent countless hours together in the garden and greenhouse when he was growing up. She’d taught his brothers as well, but their interests had veered off where his had centered. In Harper House, in the gardens, in the work.

His college years, his studies there, had only cemented for him what would be his life’s work.

His responsibility to them—the house, the gardens, the work, and the woman who’d taught him—was absolute.

He considered it a bonus round that love and obligation so neatly united for him.

Tchaikovsky played for the plants, while through his headset his choice of classic was Barenaked Ladies. He checked his pots, making notations on his various clipboards.

He was especially pleased with the dahlias he’d grafted the previous spring at Logan’s request. In a couple of weeks, he’d bring the overwintered tubers into growth, and in spring take cuttings. In the Garden should be able to offer a nice supply of Stella’s Dream, the bold, deeply blue dahlia he’d created.

Interesting the way things worked, he thought. Through Logan and tidy Stella falling in love—and Logan showing his sentimental side over the blue dahlia Stella had dreamed of. Dreamed of, Harper thought, because of the Harper Bride.

It sort of circled around, didn’t it, back to the house, and what grew there.

There would be no Stella’s Dream without the Bride. And no Bride without Harper House. None of it, he supposed, without his mother’s steady determination to keep the house and build the business.

Since he was facing the door, he saw it open. And watched Hayley walk in.

She wouldn’t be here, either, without his mother. There would have been no beautiful, pregnant woman knocking on the door of Harper House last winter looking for work and a place to live.

When she smiled, his heart did that quick, automatic stutter, then settled back to normal again. She tapped the side of her head, and he pulled off his headset.

“Sorry to interrupt. Roz said you had some pots mature enough for me to rotate into the houseplant stock. Stella’s looking to do a winter sale.”

“Sure. You want me to bring them out?”

“That’s okay. I got boxes and a flat cart outside the door.”

“Let me check the inventory, adjust it first.” He walked down to his computer station. “Want a Coke?”

“Love one, but I’m still watching my caffeine.”

“Oh right.” She was nursing Lily, a concept that made him feel sort of warm and twisty inside. “Ah, got some water in the cooler, too.”

“That’d be good. When you’ve got time, can you show me some grafting? Stella said how you do most of it, at least the field work, about this time of year. I’d really like to do something, then, you know, follow it on through.”

“Sure, if you want.” He handed her a bottle of water. “You can try your hand on a willow. It was the first graft my mother showed me how to do, and they’re the best to practice on.”

“That’d be great. I thought one day, when I get a place for me and Lily, I could plant something I’d made myself.”

He sat, ordered himself to concentrate on his inventory program. The scent of her, somehow essential female, fit so perfectly with the smell of earth and growth. “You’ve got plenty of room at the house.”

“More than.” She laughed, tried to read over his shoulder. “Been there a year, and still can’t get used to all the space. I love living there, I do, and it’s wonderful for Lily to have so many people around, and nobody, nobody could be more amazing than your mama. She’s the most awesome person I know. But sooner or later, I need to, well, plant Lily and me somewhere of our own.”