In the Garden Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “It’s off topic, again, of the update, but I wanted to ask if you’d thought about what you’ll do when we get to May.”

  “That’s still high season for us, and people like to freshen up the summer garden. We sell—”

  “No, I meant about Hayley. About the baby.”

  “Oh. Well, she’ll have to decide that, but I expect if she decides to stay on at the nursery, we’ll find her sit-down work.”

  “She’ll need to find child care, when she’s ready to go back to work. And speaking of nurseries ...”

  “Hmm. That’s thinking ahead.”

  “Time zips by,” Stella repeated.

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  Because she was curious, Roz rose to go to the window herself. Standing beside Stella she looked out.

  It was a lovely thing, she decided, watching a young woman, blooming with child, wandering a winter garden.

  She’d once been that young woman, dreaming in the twilight and waiting for spring to bring life.

  Time didn’t just zip by, she thought. It damn near evaporated on you.

  “She seems happy now, and sure of what she’s going to do. But could be after she has the baby, she’ll change her mind about having the father involved.” Roz watched Hayley lay a hand on her belly and look west, to where the sun was sinking behind the trees and into the river beyond them. “Having a live baby in your arms and the prospect of caring for it single-handed’s one hell of a reality check. We’ll see when the time comes.”

  “You’re right. And I don’t suppose either of us knows her well enough to know what’s best. Speaking of babies, it’s nearly time to get mine in the tub. I’m going to leave the weekly report with you.”

  “All right. I’ll get to it. I should tell you, Stella, I like what you’ve done. What shows, like in the customer areas, and what doesn’t, in the office management. I see spring coming, and for the first time in years, I’m not frazzled and overworked. I can’t say I minded being overworked, but I can’t say I mind not being, either.”

  “Even when I bug you with details?”

  “Even when. I haven’t heard any complaints about Logan in the past few days. Or from him. Am I living in a fool’s paradise, or have you two found your rhythm?”

  “There are still a few hitches in it, and I suspect there’ll be others, but nothing for you to worry about. In fact, he made a very friendly gesture and offered to take me to Graceland.”

  “He did?” Roz’s eyebrows drew together. “Logan?”

  “Would that be out of the ordinary for him?”

  “I couldn’t say, except I don’t know that he’s dated anyone from work before.”

  “It’s not a date, it’s an outing.”

  Intrigued, Roz sat again. You never knew what you’d learn from a younger woman, she decided. “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, a date’s dinner and a movie with potential, even probable, romantic overtones. Taking your kids to the zoo is an outing.”

  Roz leaned back, stretched out her legs. “Things do change, don’t they? Still, in my book, when a man and a woman go on an outing, it’s a date.”

  “See, that’s my quandary.” Since conversation seemed welcomed, Stella walked over again, sat on the arm of the chair facing Roz. “Because that’s my first thought. But it seemed like just a friendly gesture, and the ‘outing’ term was his. Like a kind of olive branch. And if I take it, maybe we’d find that common ground, or that rhythm, whatever it is we need to smooth out the rough spots in our working relationship.”

  “So, if I’m following this, you’d go to Graceland with Logan for the good of In the Garden.”

  “Sort of.”

  “And not because he’s a very attractive, dynamic, and downright sexy single man.”

  “No, those would be bonus points.” She waited until Roz stopped laughing. “And I’m not thinking of wading in that pool. Dating’s a minefield.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve got more years in that war zone than you.”

  “I like men.” She reached back to tug the band ponytailing her hair a little higher. “I like the company of men. But dating’s so complicated and stressful.”

  “Better complicated and stressful than downright boring, which too many of my experiences in the field have been.”

  “Complicated, stressful, or downright boring, I like the sound of ‘outing’ much better. Listen, I know Logan’s a friend of yours. But I’d just like to ask if you think, if I went with him, I’d be making a mistake, or giving the wrong impression. The wrong signal. Or maybe crossing that line between coworkers. Or—”

  “That’s an awful lot of complication and stress you’re working up over an outing.”

  “It is. I irritate myself.” Shaking her head, she pushed off the chair. “I’d better get bath time started. Oh, and I’ll get Hayley going on those bulbs tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. Stella—are you going on this outing?”

  She paused at the doorway. “Maybe. I’ll sleep on it.”

  eight

  SHE WAS DREAMING OF FLOWERS. AN ENCHANTING garden, full of young, vital blooms, flowed around her. It was perfect, tidied and ordered, its edges ruler-straight to form a keen verge against the well-trimmed grass.

  Color swept into color, whites and pinks, yellows and silvery greens, all soft and delicate pastels that shimmered in subtle elegance in the golden beams of the sun.

  Their fragrance was calming and drew a pretty bevy of busy butterflies, the curiosity of a single shimmery hummingbird. No weed intruded on its flawlessness, and every blossom was full and ripe, with dozens upon dozens of buds waiting their turn to open.

  She’d done this. As she circled the bed it was with a sense of pride and satisfaction. She’d turned the earth and fed it, she’d planned and selected and set each plant in exactly the right place. The garden so precisely matched her vision, it was like a photograph.

  It had taken her years to plan and toil and create. But now everything she’d wanted to accomplish was here, blooming at her feet.

  Yet even as she watched, a stem grew up, sharp and green, crowding the others, spoiling the symmetry. Out of place, she thought, more annoyed than surprised to see it breaking out of the ground, growing up, unfurling its leaves.

  A dahlia? She’d planted no dahlias there. They belonged in the back. She’d specifically planted a trio of tall pink dahlias at the back of the bed, exactly one foot apart.

  Puzzled, she tilted her head, studied it as the stems grew and thickened, as buds formed fat and healthy. Fascinating, so fascinating and unexpected.

  Even as she started to smile, she heard—felt?—a whisper over the skin, a murmur through her brain.

  It’s wrong there. Wrong. It has to be removed. It will take and take until there’s nothing left.

  She shivered. The air around her was suddenly cool, with a hint of raw dampness, with bleak clouds creeping in toward that lovely golden sun.

  In the pit of her belly was a kind of dread.

  Don’t let it grow. It will strangle the life out of everything you’ve done.

  That was right. Of course, that was right. It had no business growing there, muscling the others aside, changing the order.

  She’d have to dig it out, find another place for it. Reorganize everything, just when she’d thought she was finished. And look at that, she thought, as the buds formed, as they broke open to spread their deep blue petals. It was entirely the wrong color. Too bold, too dark, too bright.

  It was beautiful; she couldn’t deny it. In fact, she’d never seen a more beautiful specimen. It looked so strong, so vivid. It was already nearly as tall as she, with flowers as wide as dinner plates.

  It lies. It lies.

  That whisper, somehow female, somehow raging, slithered into her sleeping brain. She whimpered a little, tossed restlessly in her chilly bed.

  Kill it! Kill it. Hurry before it’s too late.

  No, she couldn’t kill something so
beautiful, so alive, so vivid. But that didn’t mean she could just leave it there, out of its place, upsetting the rest of the bed.

  All that work, the preparation, the planning, and now this. She’d just have to plan another bed and work it in. With a sigh, she reached out, feathered her fingers over those bold blue petals. It would be a lot of work, she thought, a lot of trouble, but—

  “Mom.”

  “Isn’t it pretty?” she murmured. “It’s so blue.”

  “Mom, wake up.”

  “What?” She tumbled out of the dream, shaking off sleep as she saw Luke kneeling in the bed beside her.

  God, the room was freezing.

  “Luke?” Instinctively she dragged the spread over him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t feel good in my tummy.”

  “Aw.” She sat up, automatically laying a hand on his brow to check for fever. A little warm, she thought. “Does it hurt?”

  He shook his head. She could see the gleam of his eyes, the sheen of tears. “It feels sick. Can I sleep in your bed?”

  “Okay.” She drew the sheets back. “Lie down and bundle up, baby. I don’t know why it’s so cold in here. I’m going to take your temperature, just to see.” She pressed her lips to his forehead as he snuggled onto her pillow. Definitely a little warm.

  Switching on the bedside lamp, she rolled out to get the thermometer from the bathroom.

  “Let’s find out if I can see through your brain.” She stroked his hair as she set the gauge to his ear. “Did you feel sick when you went to bed?”

  “Nuh-uh, it was ...” His body tightened, and he made a little groan.

  She knew he was going to retch before he did. With a mother’s speed, she scooped him up, dashed into the bathroom. They made it, barely, and she murmured and stroked and fretted while he was sick.

  Then he turned his pale little face up to hers. “I frew up.”

  “I know, baby. I’m sorry. We’re going to make it all better soon.”

  She gave him a little water, cooled his face with a cloth, then carried him back to her bed. Strange, she thought, the room felt fine now.

  “It doesn’t feel as sick in my tummy anymore.”

  “That’s good.” Still, she took his temperature—99.1, not too bad—and brought the wastebasket over beside the bed. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  “Nuh-uh, but I don’t like to frow up. It makes it taste bad in my throat. And my other tooth is loose, and maybe if I frow up again, it’ll come out and I won’t have it to put under my pillow.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. You’ll absolutely have your tooth for under your pillow, just like the other one. Now, I’ll go down and get you some ginger ale. You stay right here, and I’ll be back in just a minute. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “If you have to be sick again, try to use this.” She set the wastebasket beside him on the bed. “I’ll be right back, baby.”

  She hurried out, jogging down the stairs in her nightshirt. One of the disadvantages of a really big house, she realized, was that the kitchen was a mile away from the bedrooms.

  She’d see about buying a little fridge, like the one she’d had in her dorm room at college, for the upstairs sitting room.

  Low-grade fever, she thought as she rushed into the kitchen. He’d probably be better by tomorrow. If he wasn’t, she’d call the doctor.

  She hunted up ginger ale, filled a tall glass with ice, grabbed a bottle of water, and dashed back upstairs.

  “I get ginger ale,” she heard Luke say as she walked back down the hall to her room. “Because I was sick. Even though I feel better, I can still have it. You can have some, too, if you want.”

  “Thanks, honey, but—” When she swung into the room, she saw Luke was turned away from the door, sitting back against the pillows. And the room was cold again, so cold that she saw the vapor of her own breath.

  “She went away,” Luke said.

  Something that was more than the cold danced up her spine. “Who went away?”

  “The lady.” His sleepy eyes brightened a bit when he saw the ginger ale. “She stayed with me when you went downstairs.”

  “What lady, Luke? Miss Roz? Hayley?”

  “Nuh-uh. The lady who comes and sings. She’s nice. Can I have all the ginger ale?”

  “You can have some.” Her hands shook lightly as she poured. “Where did you see her?”

  “Right here.” He pointed to the bed, then took the glass in both hands and drank. “This tastes good.”

  “You’ve seen her before?”

  “Uh-huh. Sometimes I wake up and she’s there. She sings the dilly-dilly song.”

  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly. Lavender’s green. That’s the song she’d heard, Stella realized with a numb fear. The song she’d caught herself humming.

  “Did she—” No, don’t frighten him, she warned herself. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s pretty, I guess. She has yellow hair. I think she’s an angel, a lady angel? ’Member the story about the guard angel?”

  “Guardian angel.”

  “But she doesn’t have wings. Gavin says she’s maybe a witch, but a good one like in Harry Potter.”

  Her throat went desert dry. “Gavin’s seen her too?”

  “Yeah, when she comes to sing.” He handed the glass back to Stella, rubbed his eyes. “My tummy feels better now, but I’m sleepy. Can I still sleep in your bed?”

  “Absolutely.” But before she got into bed with him, Stella turned on the bathroom light.

  She looked in on Gavin, struggled against the urge to pluck him out of his bed and carry him into hers.

  Leaving the connecting doors wide open, she walked back into her room.

  She turned off the bedside lamp, then slid into bed with her son.

  And gathering him close, she held him as he slept.

  HE SEEMED FINE THE NEXT MORNING. BRIGHT AND bouncy, and cheerfully told David over breakfast that he’d thrown up and had ginger ale.

  She considered keeping him home from school, but there was no fever and, judging by his appetite, no stomach problems.

  “No ill effects there,” David commented when the boys ran up to get their books. “You, on the other hand, look like you put in a rough one.” He poured her another cup of coffee.

  “I did. And not all of it because Luke was sick. After he ‘frew up,’ he settled down and slept like a baby. But before he settled down, he told me something that kept me awake most of the night.”

  David rested his elbows on the island counter, leaned forward. “Tell Daddy all.”

  “He says ...” She glanced around, cocking an ear so she’d hear the boys when they came back down. “There’s a lady with yellow hair who comes into his room at night and sings to him.”

  “Oh.” He picked up his dishcloth and began to mop the counter.

  “Don’t say ‘oh’ with that silly little smile.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you know this is my amused smirk. Nothing silly about it.”

  “David.”

  “Stella,” he said with the same stern scowl. “Roz told you we have a ghost, didn’t she?”

  “She mentioned it. But there’s just one little problem with that. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “So, what, some blonde sneaks into the house every night, heads to the boys’ room, and breaks out in song? That’s more plausible?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve heard someone singing, and I’ve felt ...” Edgy, she twisted the band of her watch. “Regardless, the idea of a ghost is ridiculous. But something’s going on with my boys.”

  “Is he afraid of her?”

  “No. I probably just imagined the singing. And Luke, he’s six. He can imagine anything.”

  “Have you asked Gavin?”

  “No. Luke said they’d both seen her, but ...”

  “So have I.”

  “Oh, please.”

  David rinsed the dishcloth, squeezed out the
excess water, then laid it over the lip of the sink to dry. “Not since I was a kid, but I saw her a few times when I’d sleep over. Freaked me out at first, but she’d just sort of be there. You can ask Harper. He saw her plenty.”

  “Okay. Just who is this fictional ghost supposed to be?” She threw up a hand as she heard the thunder of feet on the stairs. “Later.”

  SHE TRIED TO PUT IT OUT OF HER MIND, AND SUCCEEDED from time to time when the work took over. But it snuck back into her brain, and played there, like the ghostly lullaby.

  By midday, she left Hayley working on bulb planters and Ruby at the counter, and grabbing a clipboard, headed toward the grafting house.

  Two birds, she thought, one stone.

  The music today was Rachmaninoff. Or was it Mozart? Either way, it was a lot of passionate strings and flutes. She passed the staging areas, the tools, the soils and additives and rooting mediums.

  She found Harper down at the far end at a worktable with a pile of five-inch pots, several cacti as stock plants, and a tray of rooting medium. She noted the clothespins, the rubber bands, the raffia, the jar of denatured alcohol.

  “What do you use on the Christmas cactus?”

  He continued to work, using his knife to cut a shoot from the joint of a scion plant. He had beautiful hands, she noted. Long, artistic fingers. “Apical-wedge, then? Tricky, but probably best with that specimen because of the flat stems. Are you creating a standard, or hybridizing?”

  He made his vertical slit into the vascular bundle and still didn’t answer.

  “I’m just wondering because—” She set her hand on his shoulder, and when he jumped and let out a muffled shout, she stumbled back and rammed into the table behind her.

  “Shit!” He dropped the knife and stuck the thumb it had nicked in his mouth. “Shit!” he said again, around his thumb, and tugged headphones off with his free hand.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! How bad are you cut? Let me see.”

  “It’s just a scratch.” He took it out of his mouth, rubbed it absently on his grimy jeans. “Not nearly as fatal as the heart attack you just brought on.”