In the Garden Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Clarise angled her head, regally. “Duty to family is paramount. I would assume, then, you’ve done considerable research to date.”

  “I have. If you’ll permit me.” He opened his briefcase and took out the folder he’d prepared for her. “I thought you might enjoy having this. The genealogy—a family tree—I’ve done.”

  She accepted the folder, wagged her fingers in the air. On command, Jane produced a pair of reading glasses on a gold chain.

  While she looked over the papers, Mitch did his best to swallow down the weak herbal tea.

  “How much do you charge?”

  “This is a gift, Miss Harper, as you’ve not requested my services. It’s I who request your help in a project I’m very eager to explore.”

  “We’ll be clear, Dr. Carnegie, that I won’t tolerate being asked for funds down the road.”

  “Absolutely clear.”

  “I see you’ve gone back to the eighteenth century, when the first of my family immigrated from Ireland. Do you intend to go back further?”

  “I do, though my plan is to focus more on the family here, in Tennessee, what they built after they came to America. The industry, the culture, their leading roles in both, as well as society. And most important, for my purposes, the family itself. The marriages, births, deaths.”

  Through the lenses of her reading glasses, her eyes were hawklike. Predatory. “Why are household staff and servants included here?”

  He’d debated that one, but had gone with his instincts. “Simply because they were part of the household, part of the texture. In fact, I’m in contact with a descendant of one of the housekeepers of Harper House—during your mother, Victoria Harper’s, childhood. The day-to-day life, as well as the entertaining the Harpers have been known for are essential elements of my book.”

  “And the dirty linen?” She gave a regal sniff. “The sort servants are privy to?”

  “I assure you, it’s not my intention to write a roman à clef, but a detailed, factual, and thorough family history. A family such as yours, Miss Harper,” he said, gesturing toward the file, “certainly has had its triumphs and tragedies, its virtues and its scandals. I can’t and won’t exclude any that my research uncovers. But I believe your family’s history, and its legacy, certainly stands above any of its very human failings.”

  “And failings and scandal add spice—spice sells.”

  “I won’t argue with that. But certainly, with your input, the book would have a stronger weight on the plus side, we could say.”

  “We could.” She set the folder aside, sipped her tea. “By now you’ve certainly been in contact with Rosalind Harper.”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . . she’s cooperating?”

  “Ms. Harper has been very helpful. I’ve spent some time in Harper House. It’s simply stunning. A tribute to what your family built since coming to Shelby County, and a tribute to charm and grace as well as continuity.”

  “It was my great-great-grandfather who built Harper House, and his son who preserved it during the War of Northern Aggression. My grandfather who expanded and modernized the house, while preserving its history and its traditions.”

  He waited a moment for her to continue, to speak of her uncle’s contribution to the estate. But when she stopped there, he only nodded. “Harper House is a testament to your family, and a treasure of Shelby County.”

  “It is the oldest home of its kind consistently lived in by one family in this country. The fact is, there is nothing to compare with it, to my mind, in Tennessee, or anywhere else. It is only a pity my cousin was unable to produce a son in order to carry the family name.”

  “Ms. Harper uses the family name.”

  “And runs a flower shop on the property.” She dismissed this with another sniff and a flick of her ring-spangled fingers. “One hopes that her eldest son, when he inherits, will have more sense and dignity, though I see no indication of it.”

  “Your family has always been involved in commerce, in industry, in business.”

  “Not at home. I may decide to give you my cooperation, Dr. Carnegie, as my cousin Rosalind is hardly the best source for our family history. You may deduce we are not on terms.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It could hardly be otherwise. I’m told that even now she has outsiders, and one of them a Yankee, living in Harper House.”

  Mitch waited a beat, saw that he was expected to verify. “I believe there are houseguests, and one is also a distant relation, through Ms. Harper’s first husband.”

  “With a baby out of wedlock.” Those brightly painted lips folded thin. “Disgraceful.”

  “A . . . delicate situation, but one that happens, very often in any family history. As it happens, one of the legends I’ve heard regarding the house, the family, deals with a ghost, that of a young woman who may have found herself in this same delicate situation.”

  “Balderdash.”

  He nearly blinked. He didn’t believe he’d ever heard anyone use that term in actual conversation.

  “Ghosts. I would think a man with your education would be more sensible.”

  “Like scandal, Miss Harper, ghosts add spice. And the legend of the Harper Bride is common in the area. Certainly it has to be mentioned in any detailed family history. It would be more surprising if a house as old and rich in history as Harper House didn’t have some whisper of hauntings. You must have grown up hearing the story.”

  “I know the story, and even as a child had more sense than to believe such nonsense. Some find such things romantic; I do not. If you’re skilled or experienced at your work, you’ll certainly find that there was no Harper bride who died in that house as a young woman—which this ghost is reputed to be. Not since the story began buzzing about.”

  “Which would have been?”

  “In my grandfather’s time, from all accounts. Your own papers here,” she said as she tapped the folder, “debunk any such foolishness. My grandmother lived to a ripe age, as did my mother. My aunts were not young women when they passed. My great-grandmother, and all of her children who survived their first five years, lived well past their forties.”

  “I’ve heard theories that this ghost is a more distant relation, even a guest or a servant.”

  “Each nonsensical.”

  He fixed a pleasant smile on his face and nodded as if in agreement. “Still, it adds to the lore. So none of your family, to your knowledge, actually saw this legendary bride?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Pity, it would have made an interesting chapter in the history. I’d hoped to find someone who’d have a story to tell, or had written of it in a journal or diary. But as to journals or diaries, in a more earthbound sense. I’m hoping to add some to my research, to use them to personalize this family history. Do you have any that your mother or father, or other ancestors kept? Your grandmother’s perhaps, your own mother’s, aunts’, cousins’?”

  “No.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jane open her mouth as if to speak, then quickly close it again.

  “I hope you’ll allow me to interview you more in-depth, about specifics, and whatever anecdotes you’d care to share. And that you’d be willing to share any photographs, perhaps copy them at my expense for inclusion in the book.”

  “I’ll consider it, very seriously, and contact you when I’ve made my decision.”

  “Thank you. I very much appreciate the time you’ve given me.” He got to his feet, offered his hand. “Your family is of great interest to me, and it’s been a pleasure to speak with you.”

  “Goodbye, Dr. Carnegie. Jane, show the man out.”

  At the door he offered his hand to Jane, smiled straight into her eyes. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Paulson.”

  He walked to the elevator, then rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited for the doors to open.

  The old woman had something—something she didn’t want to share. And the quiet little pu
ppy knew it.

  ROZ STROLLED HOME through her woods in the best of all possible moods. It was nearly time for the major spring opening. Her season would begin with a bang, the work would be long, hard, and physical—and she’d love every minute.

  The new potting soil was already beginning to move, and once the season got into swing, the twenty-five–pound bags were going to march out the door.

  She just felt it.

  The fact was, she admitted, she felt everything. The hum in the air that said spring, the streams of sunlight that spilled through the branches, the loose and limber swing of her own muscles.

  Hardly a wonder they were loose and limber after last night, she thought. Four orgasms, for God’s sake. And Mitch was a man of his word. Stick with me, he’d said, and it won’t be the last time.

  He’d proven just that in the middle of the night.

  She’d had sex twice in one night, and that was certainly worth a red letter on her calendar.

  With John . . . they’d been young and hadn’t been able to get enough of each other. Even after the children had come, the sexual aspect of their marriage had been vital.

  Then it had been a long, long time before she’d allowed another man to touch her. And to be honest, none ever had. Not really, not beyond the physical.

  Bryce hadn’t. But she’d thought, for a while at least, that it was her own fault, or her own nature. She hadn’t loved him, not deep down. But she’d liked him, she’d enjoyed him, and had certainly been attracted to him.

  Stupidly, but that wasn’t the point now.

  The sex had been adequate at best, and adequate had been enough for her. She’d wanted—needed—companionship, partnership.

  Since the divorce, for a considerable time prior to it, if truth be told, she’d been celibate. Her own choice, and the right one for her.

  Until Mitch.

  Now he’d turned her inside out, and God, she was grateful. And relieved, if it came to that, to know her sex drive was in fine working condition.

  He said he was falling in love with her, and that put a little knot in her belly. Love still meant specific things to her. Marriage and family. And those were too enormous to take lightly.

  She’d never take marriage lightly again, so she could hardly take love, what she considered its precursor, lightly.

  But she could, and she would, enjoy him, and the way she felt on this spectacular evening.

  She crossed her own lawn and saw that her earliest daffodils were blooming buttery yellow. Maybe she’d go in, get her sheers, and cut some for her bedroom.

  As she approached the house, she saw Stella and Hayley on the veranda, and raised her hand in a wave.

  “I smell spring,” she said. “We’re going to want to start moving . . .” She trailed off as she saw their faces. “Well, don’t you two look solemn. Trouble?”

  “Not exactly. Mrs. Haggerty was in today,” Stella said.

  “Is something wrong with her?”

  “Not with her. She wondered how you were doing, though, if you were all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “She was concerned the scene at the garden club meeting had upset you.”

  “Oh.” Roz shrugged. “She should know better.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Stella demanded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “She said that bitch, that walking Barbie, insulted you right there in front of everybody,” Hayley cut in. “That she was spreading lies and rumors and accused you of harassing that asshole she’s hooked herself up with.”

  “You seem to have most of the facts. She should have added, if she didn’t, that Mandy came off looking foolish and shrill, and was certainly more embarrassed by the whole thing than I was.”

  “You didn’t tell us,” Stella repeated.

  “Why would I have?” The tone was aloof.

  “Because whether or not she was more embarrassed, it had to upset you. And while you’re the boss, and blah, blah, blah—”

  “Blah, blah, blah?”

  “And a little bit scary,” Stella added.

  “A little?”

  “The fear factor has diminished considerably over the past year.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Hayley said, then hunched her shoulders when Roz turned cool eyes to hers. “Very much.”

  “Despite us being your employees, we’re friends. Or we thought we were.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Girls are so much more complicated than boys.” On a long sigh, Roz plopped down on the porch swing. “Of course we’re friends.”

  “Well, if we’re friends, especially girl friends,” Hayley continued, and sat beside Roz on the swing, “you’re supposed to tell us when some skinny-assed bitch rags on you. How else are we going to know we hate her guts? How else are we going to know to think up nasty things to say about her? Like, here’s one. Did you know that seventy-three percent of women whose name ends with the i sound are bimbos?”

  Roz sat a moment. “Is that one of your factoids or did you just make it up?”

  “Okay, I made that one up, but I bet it’s true if they dot the i with a little heart—after the age of twelve. And I bet, I just bet she does. So. Bimbo.”

  “She’s just a foolish girl who believes a very smooth liar.”

  “I stand by bimbo.”

  “She had no right to say those things, to your face or behind your back.” Stella sat on Roz’s other side.

  “No, she didn’t, and she came out the worse for it. And all right, it did upset me at the time. I don’t like my personal business aired in public forums.”

  “We’re not a forum,” Hayley stated firmly. “Or the public.”

  Saying nothing for a moment, Roz laid a hand on each of their thighs and gave them a little rub.

  “As I said, females are more complicated than men, and even being female, I probably understand men better. I certainly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by keeping something like this to myself.”

  “We just want you to know we’re here for you, for the good stuff, and the bad stuff.”

  Hayley’s words touched her. “Then you should know I’ve long since put Mandy out of my mind, as I do with unimportant people. And I’m in much too good a mood to think about her now. When a woman, especially a woman within spitting distance of fifty, has herself a lover who performs excellently twice in one night, so well in fact that she needs the fingers on both hands to count the number of orgasms experienced, the last thing on her mind is some silly girl with no manners.”

  She gave each of their thighs another pat, then rose. “There, that’s some good stuff,” she said and strolled into the house.

  “Wow,” Hayley said after she managed to close the mouth that had fallen open. “I mean, mega-wow. How many times do you think he got her off? At least six, right?”

  “You know what I thought the first time I saw Roz?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “That I wanted to be her when I grew up. And boy, do I.”

  ROZ WALKED STRAIGHT back to the kitchen, and straight to the coffeepot. Once she had a cup, she sidled over and gave David’s cheek a kiss as he stood at the stove making his famed hot chocolate.

  “Boys outside?”

  “Running off some energy with Parker, and working up anticipation for hot chocolate. My other guest, as you see, has conked on me.”

  Stella grinned toward the highchair, where Lily snoozed in the tipped-back seat. “Isn’t she a doll baby, and aren’t you a sweetheart for minding three children so those girls could waylay me.”

  “We do what we can. And you should’ve mentioned what that silly bitch pulled.”

  “You ever known me not to be able to handle a silly bitch?”

  “I’ve never known you not to be able to handle anything, but you should’ve mentioned it. How else am I going to know what shape to make the voodoo doll?”

  “Don’t worry, Bryce’ll stick plenty of pins in her before he’s done.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for her.”

  “It’s her cross to bear.”

  “Dinner in about an hour,” he called as she started out of the room. “And you’ve got some phone messages. They were on your line so I didn’t screen them.”

  “I’ll get them upstairs.”

  She took her coffee with her, and toed off her shoes after she crossed the threshold to her room. Then she pushed the button on the answering machine.

  “Roz, I didn’t want to bother you at work.”

  “What a nice voice you have, Dr. Carnegie,” she mused aloud, and sat on the side of the bed to enjoy it.

  “It’s my pizza night with Josh. I forgot to mention it. I like to think you’ll miss me, and that I can make up for it by taking you out tomorrow. Whatever, wherever you’d like, just let me know. In addition, I did some work today, and I’d like to talk to you about that tomorrow. I should be over there by noon. If I don’t see you, you can reach me on my cell. I’ll be thinking of you.”

  “That’s nice to know. That’s very nice to know.”

  She was still daydreaming a little when the next message began.

  “Ms. Harper, this is William Rolls from the Riverbend Country Club. I received your letter this morning, and am very sorry to hear that you’re dissatisfied with our services and have resigned as a member. I must admit to being surprised, even stunned, by your list of complaints, and only wish you had been able to speak with me about them personally. We have valued your association with Riverbend for many years, and regret your decision to end it. If you’d care to discuss this matter, please feel free to contact me at any time at any of the following numbers. Again, I sincerely regret the circumstances.”

  She sat very still until the entire message played through. Then she shut her eyes.

  “Fuck you, Bryce.”

  WITHIN AN HOUR she’d not only spoken with William Rolls, had assured him she wasn’t dissatisfied, had no complaints and had not written any letter, but she had a faxed copy of the letter in question in her hand.

  And a head of steam that threatened to blow like a geyser.

  She was dragging her shoes back on when Hayley popped in, the baby on her hips. “David says dinner’s . . . whoa, what’s wrong?”