by Nora Roberts
“No problem. I’ll be happy to load you up with more.”
“Some of what I’ve managed so far—between bouts with Baudelaire—is what we’ll call a straight job. Starting to chart the basic family tree, getting a feel for the people and the line. Those are the first steps.”
“And at the end of the day, something I’ll enjoy having.”
“I wonder if there’s a place I could work in your house. I’d do the bulk in my apartment, but it might be helpful if I had some space on site. The house plays a vital part in the research, and the results.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem.”
“For the Amelia portion of the project, I’d like a list of names. Anyone who’s had any sort of contact with her I’ll need to interview.”
“All right.”
“And the written permission we talked about before, for me to access family records, birth, marriage, death certificates, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll have it.”
“And permission to use the research, and what I pull out of it, in a book.”
She nodded. “I’d want manuscript approval.”
He smiled at her, charmingly. “You won’t get it.”
“Well, really—”
“I’ll be happy to provide you with a copy, when and if, but you won’t have approval.” He picked up a short, thick breadstick from the wide glass on the table and offered it to her. “What I find, I find; what I write, I write. And if I write a book, sell it, you owe me nothing for the work.”
She leaned back, drew air deep. His casual good looks, that somewhat shaggy peat-moss brown hair, the charming smile, the ancient high-tops, all disguised a clever and stubborn man.
It was a shame, she supposed, that she respected stubborn, clever men. “And if you don’t?”
“We go back to the original terms we discussed at our first meeting. The first thirty hours are gratis, and after that it’s fifty an hour plus expenses. We can have a contract drawn up, spelling it all out.”
“I think that would be wise.”
When the appetizer was served, Roz declined a second glass of wine, absently selected an olive from the plate. “Won’t you need permission from anyone you interview as well, if you decide to publish?”
“I’ll take care of that. I want to ask, why haven’t you done this before? You’ve lived in that house your whole life and never dug down to identify a ghost who lives there with you. And, let me add, even after my experience, it’s hard to believe that sentence just came out of my mouth.”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe I was too busy, or too used to her. But I’ve started to wonder if I wasn’t just, well, inoculated. The family never bothered about her. I can give you all sorts of details on my ancestors, strange little family anecdotes, odd bits of history, but when it came to her, nobody seemed to know anything, or care enough to find out. Myself included.”
“Now you do.”
“The more I thought about what I didn’t know, the more, yes, I wanted to find out. And after I saw her again, for myself, that night last June, I need to find out.”
“You saw her when you were a child,” he prompted.
“Yes. She would come into my room, sing her lullaby. I was never afraid of her. Then, as happens with every child who grows up at Harper House, I stopped seeing her when I was about twelve.”
“But you saw her again.”
There was something in his eyes that made her think he was wishing for his notebook or a tape recorder. That intensity, the absolute focus that she found unexpectedly sexy.
“Yes. She came back when I was pregnant with each of my boys. But that was more of a sensation of her. As if she were close by, that she knew there was going to be another child in the house. There were other times, of course, but I imagine you want to talk about all that in a more formal setting.”
“Not necessarily formal, but I’d like to tape the conversations we have about her. I’m going to start off with some basic groundwork. Amelia was the name Stella said she saw written on the window glass. I’ll check your family records for anyone named Amelia.”
“I’ve already done that.” She lifted a shoulder. “After all, if it was going to be that simple, I thought I might as well wrap it up. I found no one with that name—birth, death, marriage, at least, not in any of the records I have.”
“I’ll do another search, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself. I expect you’ll be thorough.”
“Once I get started, Rosalind, I’m a bloodhound. You’ll be good and sick of me by the end of this.”
“And I’m a moody, difficult woman, Mitchell. So I’ll say, same goes.”
He grinned at her. “I’d forgotten just how beautiful you are.”
“Really?”
Now he laughed. Her tone had been so blandly polite. “It shows what a hold Baudelaire had on me. I don’t usually forget something like that. Then again, he didn’t have complimentary things to say about beauty.”
“No? What did he say?”
“ ‘With snow for flesh, with ice for heart, I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx begrudging acts that alter forms; I never laugh, I never weep.’ ”
“What a sad man he must have been.”
“Complicated,” Mitch said, “and inherently selfish. In any case, there’s nothing icy about you.”
“Obviously, you haven’t talked with some of my suppliers.” Or, she thought, her ex-husband. “I’ll see about having that contract drawn up, and get you the written permissions you need. As far as work space, I’d think the library would work best for you. Whenever you need it, or want something, you can reach me at one of the numbers I’ve given you. I swear, we all have a hundred numbers these days. Failing that, you can speak with Harper, or David, with Stella or Hayley, for that matter.”
“I’d like to set something up in the next few days.”
“We’ll be ready. I really should be getting home. I appreciate the drink.”
“My pleasure. I owe you a lot more for helping me out with my niece.”
“I think you’re going to be a hero.”
He laid some bills on the table, then rose to take her hand before she could slide out of the booth on her own. “Is anybody going to be home to help you haul in all that loot?”
“I’ve hauled around more than that on my own, but yes, David will be there.”
He released her hand, but walked her out to her car. “I’ll be in touch soon,” he said when he opened the car door for her.
“I’ll look forward to it. You’ll have to let me know what you come up with for your sister for Christmas.”
Pain covered his face. “Oh, hell, did you have to spoil it?”
Laughing, she shut the door, then rolled down the window. “They have some gorgeous cashmere sweaters at Dillard’s. Any brother who sprang for one of those for Christmas would completely erase a forgotten birthday.”
“Is that guaranteed? Like a female rule of law?”
“From a husband or lover, it better glitter, but from a brother, cashmere will do the trick. That’s a promise.”
“Dillard’s.”
“Dillard’s,” she repeated, and started the engine. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
She pulled out, and as she drove away glanced in the rearview mirror to see him standing there, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets.
Hayley was right. He was hot.
ONCE SHE GOT home, she pulled the first load out, carried it in the house and directly up the stairs to her wing. After a quick internal debate, she piled bags into her sitting room, then went down for more.
She could hear Stella’s boys in the kitchen, regaling David with the details of their day. Better that she got everything inside by herself, upstairs and hidden away before anyone knew she was home.
When she was finished, she stood in the middle of the room, and stared.
Why, she’d gone crazy, obviously. Now that she saw everythi
ng all piled up, she understood why Mitch had goggled. She could, easily, open her own store with what she’d bought in one mad afternoon.
How the hell was she going to wrap all of this?
Later, she decided after dragging both hands through her hair. She’d just worry about that major detail later. Right now she was going to call her lawyer, at home—the benefit of knowing him since high school—and get the contract done.
And because they’d gone to high school together, the conversation took twice as long as it might have. By the time she’d finished, put some semblance of order back into her sitting room, then headed downstairs, the house was settled down again.
Hayley, she knew, would be up with Lily. Stella would be with her boys. And David, she discovered, when she found the note on the kitchen counter, was off to the gym.
She nibbled on the potpie he’d left for her, then took a quiet walk around her gardens. The lights were on in Harper’s cottage. David would have called him to let him know he’d made potpie—one of Harper’s favorites. If the boy wanted some, he knew where to find it.
She slipped back inside, then poured herself another glass of wine with the idea of enjoying it in a long, hot bath.
But when she went back upstairs, she caught a movement in her sitting room. Her whole body tightened as she went to the door, then loosened again when she saw Stella.
“You got my juices up,” Roz said.
It was Stella who jolted and spun around with a hand to her heart. “God! You’d think we’d all stop jumping by now. I thought you’d be in here. I came by to see if you’d like to go over the weekly report, and saw this.” She swept a hand toward the bags and boxes lining the wall. “Roz, did you just buy the mall?”
“Not quite, but I gave it a good run. And because I did, I’m not much in the mood for the weekly report. What I want is this wine and a long, hot bath.”
“Obviously well deserved. We can do it tomorrow. Ah, if you need help wrapping some of this—”
“Sold.”
“Just tap me any evening after the kids are in bed. Ah, Hayley mentioned you were having drinks with Mitch Carnegie.”
“Yeah. We ran into each other, as it seems everyone in Tennessee does eventually, at Wal-Mart. He’s finished his book and appears to be raring to go on our project. He’s going to want to interview you, and Hayley among others. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
“No. I’m raring, too. I’ll let you get started on that bath. See you in the morning.”
“ ’Night.”
Roz went into her bedroom, closed the door. In the adjoining bath she ran water and scent and froth, then lit candles. For once she wouldn’t use this personal time to soak and read gardening or business literature. She’d just lie back and veg.
As an afterthought, she decided to give herself a facial.
In the soft, flickering light, she slipped into the perfumed water. Let out a low, lengthy sigh. She sipped wine, set it on the ledge, then sank nearly to the chin.
Why, she wondered, didn’t she do this more often?
She lifted a hand out of the froth, examined it—long, narrow, rough as a brick. Studied her nails. Short, unpainted. Why bother painting them when they’d be digging in dirt all day?
They were good, strong, competent hands. And they looked it. She didn’t mind that, or the fact there were no rings on her fingers to sparkle them up.
But she smiled as she raised her feet out. Her toenails now, they were her little foolishness. This week she’d painted them a metallic purple. Most days they’d be buried in work socks and boots, but she knew she had sexy toes. It was just one of those silly things that helped her remember she was female.
Her breasts weren’t as perky as they’d once been. She could be grateful they were small, and the sagging hadn’t gotten too bad. Yet.
While she didn’t worry too much about the state of her hands—they were, after all, tools for her—she was careful about her skin. She couldn’t stop all the lines, but she pampered it whenever she could.
She wasn’t willing to let her hair go to salt-and-pepper, so she took care of that, too. Just because she was being dragged toward fifty didn’t mean she couldn’t dig her heels in and try to slow down the damage time insisted on inflicting.
She had been beautiful once. When she’d been a young bride, fresh and innocent and radiantly happy. God, she looked at those pictures now and it was almost like looking at a stranger.
Who had that sweet young girl been?
Nearly thirty years, she thought. And it had gone by in the snap of a finger.
How long had it been since a man had looked at her and told her she was beautiful? Bryce had, certainly, but he’d told her all manner of lies.
But Mitch had said it almost offhand, casually. It made it easier to believe he’d meant it.
And why did she care?
Men. She shook her head and sipped more wine. Why was she thinking of men?
Because, she realized with a half laugh, she had no one to share those sexy toes with. No one to touch her as she liked to be touched, to thrill her. To hold her in the night.
She’d done without those things, and was content. But every now and again, she missed having someone. And maybe she was missing it now, she admitted, because she’d spent an hour talking with an attractive man.
When the water turned tepid, she got out. She was humming as she dried off, creamed her skin, performed her nightly ritual with her moisturizer. Wrapped in her robe, she started into her bedroom.
She felt the chill even before she saw the figure standing in front of her terrace doors.
Not Stella, not this time. The Harper Bride stood in her simple gray gown, her bright hair in a crown of curls.
Roz had to swallow once, then she spoke easily. “It’s been some time since you’ve come to see me. I know I’m not pregnant, so that can’t be it. Amelia? Is that your name?”
There was no answer, nor had she expected one. But the Bride smiled, just a brief shadow of a smile, then faded away.
“Well.” Standing, Roz rubbed the warmth back into her arms. “I guess I’ll assume that’s your way of letting me know you approve that we’re getting back to work.”
She went back to the sitting room and took a calendar she’d begun keeping over the last winter out of her desk. She noted down the sighting on the day’s date.
Dr. Carnegie, she assumed, would be pleased she was keeping a record.
THREE
HE’D NEVER BEEN much of a gardener. Then again, he’d lived in apartments most of his life. Still, he liked the look of plants and flowers, and had an admiration for those who knew what to do with them.
Rosalind Harper obviously knew what to do with them.
He’d seen some of the gardens on her estate this past June. But even their graceful beauty had paled next to his encounter with the Harper Bride. He’d always believed in the spirit of a person. Why else would he be so drawn to histories, to genealogies, to all those roots and branches of family trees? He believed that spirit could, and did, have influence and impact for generations, potentially centuries.
But he’d never believed in the tangibility, the physical presence of that spirit.
He knew better now.
It was difficult for someone with Mitch’s academic bent to rationalize, then absorb, something as fanciful as ghosts.
But he’d felt and he’d seen. He’d experienced, and there was no denying facts.
So now he was caught up. He could admit it. With his book finally put to bed, he could pour his energies and his time, his skills, into identifying the spirit that had—purportedly—walked the halls of Harper House for more than a century.
A few legalities to get out of the way, then he could dive in.
He turned into the parking area of In the Garden.
Interesting, he thought, that a place that certainly had its prime in spring and summer could look so attractive, so welcoming as December clicked away.
>
The sky was heavy with clouds that would surely bring a cold, ugly rain before it was done. Still there were things growing. He had no clue what they were, but they looked appealing. Rusty red bushes, lush evergreens with fat berries, silvery green leaves, brightly painted pansies. At least he recognized a pansy when he saw one.
There were industrious-looking piles of material—material he assumed one would need for gardening or landscaping. Long tables on the side that held plants he assumed could handle the chill, a small forest of trees and shrubs.
The low-slung building was fronted with a porch. He saw poinsettias and a small, trim Christmas tree strung with lights.
There were other cars in the lot. He watched a couple of men load a tree with a huge burlapped ball into the back of a truck. And a woman wheel out a red wagon loaded with poinsettias and shopping bags.
He walked up the ramp, crossed the porch to go inside.
There were a lot of wares, he noted. More than he’d expected. Pots, decorative garden stakes, tabletop trees already decorated, books, seeds, tools. Some were put together in gift baskets. Clever idea.
Forgetting his intention of seeking Roz out immediately, he began to wander. When one of the staff asked if he needed help, he just smiled, shook his head, and continued to browse around.
A lot went into putting a place like this together, Mitch mused as he studied shelves of soil additives, time released fertilizer pellets, herbal pest repellents. Time, labor, know-how, and, he thought, courage.
This was no hobby or little enterprise indulged in by a southern aristocrat. This was serious business. Another layer to the woman, he supposed, and he hadn’t begun to get to the center of her.
Beautiful, enigmatic Rosalind Harper. What man wouldn’t want the chance to peel off those layers and know who she really was?
As it was, he owed his sister and niece a big, sloppy thanks for sending him scrambling out to shop. Running into Roz, seeing her with her shopping cart, having an hour alone with her was the most intriguing personal time he’d had in months.