Four White Roses

by Judy Ann Davis

  “Why don’t you use your grandmother’s vehicle in the garage?” Lulu suggested.

  “Does it even run?” He glanced at the little woman leaning against the counter like a colorful elf with a dish towel already in her hands.

  Lulu grunted.

  Torrie laughed. “Run? Does it run? It purrs like a kitten. It’s a ’67 GTO convertible.”

  “You’re kidding.” A devilish glint flashed in his eyes and a slow smile morphed into a wide grin. “My grandmother actually had it overhauled?”

  Torrie rose and walked to the side door at the far end of the kitchen leading to the garage. Like a game show hostess, she opened the door and swept her hand through the air at the sparkling red GTO. “Black leather seats, black convertible top, the works. Runs like a charm.” Joy bubbled in her voice as she explained, “Gertie always left the keys in it. She even had shoulder harnesses installed in front and back. If you’re only making short trips to the grocery store or downtown, it’d be perfect. I’m guessing it’s a gas hog.”

  “I thought she sold it.”

  Lulu spoke up. “No, she put it in storage after your Grandfather Matthew died. She only brought it out a few years ago and had it tuned up. Our bridge club used to cruise around town with her. On Sundays, she and I would take it to the lake and drive around listening to the young motor heads whistle and hoot at us. Nothing like a spiffy, vintage car to get a little attention from a man, regardless of his age.”

  Rich leaned on the door jam and studied the two women. “Since you ladies obviously know more about the house and property than me, can you tell me whether my grandmother ever installed Internet service? Marlene had the phones and television cable turned on, but she never mentioned the Internet.”

  Torrie stared at his well-muscled chest and could feel her face grow hot. She was sure her heart skipped a beat. She cleared her throat and stuttered, “There’s a…there’s a connection in the study. I can help to get you online. Where’s your shir—laptop?”

  He smiled, a warm, almost too intimate smile assuring her he caught the blunder. “In the hallway. I’ll run up and get dressed and be right back down for a lesson on connectivity.”

  “Connectivity?” Torrie raised an eyebrow.

  “Sure, Internet connectivity.” He looked her over seductively. “Were you thinking of something else?”

  “Yes…no. Yes! I mean, yes, I’ll meet you in a few minutes to help with the Internet,” she stammered. She brushed past him heading for the study. What was she thinking? She remembered the promise she had made to herself six years ago. She would make no space in her life for men. She was finished with this thing called love and all its fickle disappointments. She wasn’t going to risk her heart again, especially to someone as good-looking as Rich Redman.

  “And while you two fool around with wires, innuendos, and eye signals, Estella and I are going to the grocery store,” Lulu announced. “We’re going to get dressed, get our hair combed, and make a list of our favorite foods, aren’t we darlin’? Maybe Estella can tell me some favorite foods you might like, Richard.” She looked at the little girl and winked.

  “Can we get ice cream?” Estella asked. “Daddy likes beer and peanuts.”

  “Any flavor you want,” Lulu replied. “But I think we’ll skip the beer today. I’ll give some serious thought to the peanuts.”

  Rich sighed. “You’re a gem, Lulu. And I use Rich now, not Richard Lee Junior any longer.”

  “Goodness sakes,” Lulu said. “But you’ll always be Richard Lee to me.”

  Minutes later, as she waited in the study with the laptop booted up, Torrie looked up as Rich strode into the study. He was incredibly suave. His expensive gray slacks flaunted his well-built physique. Wearing a crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows, he looked like he could really be a GQ model. The Ferragamo loafers on his feet must have cost more than a week of her wages. He had shaved and he smelled heavenly. She’d bet his aftershave cost a bundle of bills, too. His no nonsense, in-charge demeanor only added to his sexual appeal.

  “You’re connected,” Torrie said. She pointed to a corner of the desk. “I took the liberty of piling some of the papers and books into stacks so we could have room to work. The password is rosa alba.”

  He shrugged like he didn’t care how she had rearranged the desk. “How did you figure out the password?” He leaned over her shoulder, so near she got a better whiff of his to-die-for aftershave lotion. His breath ruffled the hair at her ear when he asked, “Rosa alba? White rose?”

  “Yes, your Latin is good.”

  “Not good enough if Gertie is using Latin for all her online passwords. Is there a notebook my grandmother kept with all this information?”

  He was too close for her to shake her head. Much too close. “No, but Gertie and I used to post pictures of our roses and other flowers on our Garden Club’s Facebook site so I’m quite familiar with her computer and her line of reasoning.”

  “My grandmother was on Facebook?”

  When he eased away, she quickly slid out from the chair and skidded a few feet away. This was a man she could not get involved with. He was a big city lawyer who was headed back to Dallas as soon as his legal obligations to his deceased grandmother were completed. And he had a child to raise. He certainly didn’t need another one.

  She spoke, “Yes, and I really have to leave. If the modem needs to be reset, the password is on the box on the shelf underneath it. All numbers.”

  “But you wanted to show me the gardens and flowerbeds.” He moved closer, his smoke gray eyes so compelling they made her pulse skitter.

  “Okay.” She checked her watch. “I guess I can spare a few minutes.” Unnerved by his nearness, she whirled and headed toward the French doors at the back of the house. Outside, she led him to the edge of the patio and onto a walk ending at the gardens in the corner of the yard. Beside them a ramshackle chicken coop had been beefed up and converted into a potting shed, but farther up, the old gazebo looked like it was crumbling before their eyes.

  Torrie hoped with all her heart what she was about to explain about the flowers would not cause problems in selling the house. She wondered whether she should tell him that she and Gertie had started all the many flowerbeds so she could do floral arranging using homegrown perennial flowers during the spring, summer, and fall. She had started adding them last year into her floral bouquets and arrangements, and already she had a healthy local clientele. Growing her own flowers helped keep the costs down, and her buyers liked the idea of using seasonal flowers they could recognize. It also enhanced business for the landscape center where she designed them.

  Unfortunately, she was in debt. She and her oldest brother, Finn, had taken out a loan to start the partnership. But she had her own set of problems neither Finn nor her family knew about. She owed Ivan Winters, president of the downtown bank, money for a personal loan he’d given her to pay off the remainder she owed for land acquired in New York. She and Daniel Forrester, her long-time boyfriend, had purchased it seven years ago with the intent to build a house and settle there. The loan was hanging around her neck like a poisonous snake, ready to strike at a moment’s notice whenever Ivan grew weary of her stonewalling his amorous advances.

  ****

  Rich followed Torrie out into the bright sunlight. What looked like one gigantic flowerbed yesterday in the dark was actually a series of beds, each exactly the same size, but separated with paths between them for easy access to the flowers for weeding, watering, or picking the blooms. Torrie motioned for him to follow her until they reached a midway point among a row of beds.

  “Do all these flowers and plants have something to do with how you make your living?” Rich watched her wander over to what looked like a bed of roses and bend to check the stalk on one of the plants. Her slim fingers touched it lightly, almost caressing it. Clad only in a pair of khaki cargo shorts, tank top, and sturdy hiking shoes, she appeared oblivious of her natural beauty. Her pale yellow hair was twisted up
on the top of her head in some sort of fancy knot, but tendrils had already dislodged themselves and fanned her face in a halo.

  Another wave of attraction, verging on lust, rushed over him, and he backed up a step, forcing himself to concentrate on their conversation.

  She squinted up at him from her squatting position and shaded her eyes against the sun, unaware her sunglasses were perched on her head. “Yes, my brother, Finn, and I started a landscape and nursery two years ago. It’s called Larson’s Landscaping.”

  “A novel name.”

  “And for a purpose. It’s our family name, and the double letter L lends itself to a keen-looking logo and allows our advertising to be in the upper half of the alphabet for listings on the Internet and in the Yellow Pages. We’re just getting off the ground this year, and I have to admit, we’re mowing a lot of lawns until we can get some better revenue with landscaping contracts and sales from the nursery. But the summer is just beginning here.”

  She stood, slapping her hands together to brush off the dirt. She waved at the plants in the bed beside her. “Your grandmother and I were trying our hand at grafting and saving this particular type of rose. This original white vintage rose is from the last and only surviving bush from the clippings your Great Grandmother Hilda carried out of Austria before the First World War, sometime in the early 1900s. It’s beside the potting shed. We’re trying to get healthy rose stock started here so we can graft them. We’ve also taken clippings to root.”

  She pursed her lips and looked up at him with those mesmerizing aquamarine eyes. “You realize these roses are over a hundred years old? They’re one of a kind, and if we don’t save the line, they’ll be lost forever. Gertie was an amateur gardener and she was—and I still am—a member of the American Rose Society headquartered in Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s one of many organizations in the World Federation of Rose Societies. These roses aren’t just old. They are rare. They are fragile. I’d like to be able to continue working with the beds here, if possible. I know you want to sell the house.”

  Rich shook his head and surveyed the sky. It was going to be a perfect day with mild temperatures. Cotton-like clouds floated along a sea of blue. He lowered his gaze. “I don’t know what to say. Let me think about this. My grandmother sure left me a lot of headaches and a lot of things to consider. I don’t suppose the flowers in these beds could be removed and replanted somewhere else?”

  Torrie let out a long audible sigh. She shook her head. “I’m afraid we’d lose too much. What you see here is over five years of work. I doubt some of the roses would hold up well to replanting.” From her pocket, she pulled out a ring with a key. “Before I forget, this is the key to the sheds and the garage door. I’d like to be able to come over, water, weed, fertilize, monitor, and work the flower beds until you decide what you’re going to do with the house and land.”

  She followed his gaze across the beds to the gazebo. “Your grandmother loved that ragged old gazebo your grandfather built. We used to take a break in it and have a glass of lemonade after we weeded the flowerbeds. It has a romantic touch and nostalgic aura.”

  “It looks like it needs to be firewood.”

  “Oh, no. Maybe some paint and new screening would help?” Torrie offered him a hopeful expression. “You grandmother told me she used to carry dinner out there on Sunday evenings, and Matthew and she would eat by candlelight.”

  From behind them, in a bed of Shasta daisies, a whirligig started up in the light breeze. It was a whimsical cat, the yellow scarf around its neck flying out behind it. It was riding in a vintage, red convertible car. But instead of the sign saying Route 66, someone had blackened out one of the sixes to make it Route 6 in an attempt to replicate the road into Hickory Valley. Torrie looked at it and laughed. The sound of her voice was like the tinkling of tiny bells—light and joyful. “It was a present from her bridge club on her eighty-fifth birthday,” she told him.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit audacious?”

  “For Gertie? Heavens, no. But if you ever want to get rid of it, I’ll take it off your hands. It makes me smile.” Torrie chuckled. “By the way, have you seen her cat?”

  “A cat? A real cat? Like a domestic feline? Here on the grounds?” Rich’s voice rose in disbelief.

  “Yes, her name is Sheba. She’s white. I’m not sure she’s exactly domestic. She was a stray your grandmother took in a few years ago. She stays outside and takes shelter in the front shed where there’s a hole in the back. Marlene and I take turns feeding her, which is another reason I have the key. We keep the cat food against the far wall in the garage.” She paused. “It might be a good chore for Estella while she’s here.”

  He stared at her with a confused, sour gaze. “Just what I need! Estella getting hooked on a cat. She’s been hounding me for a pet for the last two years.” The corner of his mouth twisted with exasperation. “Keep the key.”

  He looked around the backyard, which had become overgrown with rhododendron and other bushes he didn’t recognize. Even the trees needed trimming. “Did Gertie ever talk about family? Did she ever mention anything about another grandchild or me having a half-sister?”

  Now it was Torrie’s turn to be confused. “You mean your mother had another child?”

  “No, I think my father might have been less than a steadfast spouse. But then, my mother left a lot to be desired as both a mother and wife.” Rich sighed, a half-weary, half-disgusted sigh. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to find this long-lost sister. Then there’s the continuing tale from the past about jewels brought from Austria in the early 1900s, hidden, but never found.”

  Torrie bit her lip. “There are old journals in the study, written by your Great Grandmother Hilda. Your problem will be her English. Gertie said she spoke it flawlessly, but sometimes when she wrote it, she threw in a few German words and phrases. If she gave any hints about the jewels, you might find them there. You’ll have to look up some words and phrases. I have an excellent German/English dictionary you can use.”

  His eyes widened and he stared at her. Complete surprise and adoration washed over his face. “You know German?”

  Torrie’s raised her arms, palms facing. “No. Don’t get any ideas. I took German in high school and college. Two years each.” She stepped backward. “I can read it a little, write it even less, speak it hardly at all. I’m no expert.”

  “Well, you’re light years ahead of me. All I know is passable Spanish.” His gaze circled the yard again before they came to rest on her. “Are you free for dinner some night?”

  “No,” she said and backed away even farther. A look of panic crossed her face. “Sorry. My week is usually full. I have Sunday and Wednesday off, but I do Henry’s payroll on Wednesday morning. I’m headed there next to pick up invoices I need to look over.” She chewed on her lower lip and looked toward the circular walk leading to the front of the house like she might escape given the chance.

  “It’s not a date, Torrie,” he said quietly. “I just want to have a nice dinner somewhere and talk. Just as friends. Maybe there’s something you can tell me about my grandmother that might be helpful in getting to the bottom of all these questions. How about Sunday?”

  She shook her head. “I have plans for Sunday, sorry. On weekdays, Finn and I take turns working late to accommodate customers who stop in after work to pick up shrubs for evening or weekend do-it-yourself landscaping.”

  His gray eyes darkened as he held her gaze. “Come on, you’re making this difficult. How about a late dinner this Friday?”

  She looked at the ground and sighed. “I guess. If we go out of town.”

  “Afraid to be seen with me?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck, then stared at the whirligig for a minute before speaking. “No, let’s just say I have a reputation for not dating, not getting involved, so I don’t want to run into anyone I might know and put myself in the gossip pipeline.”

  “Okay.” He nodded, a thoughtful smile curving his mouth.
“Fair enough. But promise me you’ll wear something that’ll knock my socks off. We’re not going on a trek out of town in a red muscle car just to eat at a burger joint.”

  Her sweet melodious laugh rippled out as together they watched a breeze stir the propellers on the whirligig and send the car and cat bouncing up and down like they were racing on a highway.

  “Deal,” she finally said.

  Chapter Five

  Larson’s Landscaping sat on the edge of town and welcomed visitors with its rustic split rail fence winding around a flagstone patio dotted with cement benches and large vats of colorful flowers and bushes. A wide, blue front door sat under a huge green, white, and blue striped awning covering the entire front of the long low building and offering customers shade from the sun and protection from the rain.

  When Torrie pulled into the parking lot, she spotted Joe Bradley under the awning, assembling a garden cart with pneumatic tires and two shelves. A high school classmate of her older brother Finn, Joe had started working for them on opening day. When he didn’t have small carpentry or construction jobs, he often filled in for Torrie on her Wednesdays off, performing all the needed mechanical chores. A solid man of medium height, he had a square face, bronzed by the wind and sun, and large callused hands.

  “I see the new cart finally came in.” Torrie walked up to where he was working. Joe looked up and smiled. “Yes, this one’s a beauty. It can be easily pulled or towed around the nursery. The two shelves give us extra storage and should save us some time when moving stock around. So how’s my favorite girl?”

  Torrie laughed. “Fine, as usual.” Joe Bradley had called her his favorite girl since she was little Torrie Larson, tagging behind every one of her older brothers and her only sister, Elsa. Finn and Joe were nine years older than she was and they had a tendency to spoil her rotten. When she was in first grade, she convinced them to build her a treehouse in the backyard. Joe was a natural with tools, and his carpentry and mechanical skills were top-notch even as a teenager. The treehouse in an old elm boasted a small porch, windows covered with plastic so she could play in it in bad weather, and a small cabinet inside to hold her bat, balls, and toys.