by Nora Roberts
“She didn’t say a word against you,” Cissy put in, and gave a wicked smile. “Even when I did.”
“He said you’d try to turn people against me.”
“Why would I do that?” Roz said, wearily now. “But you’ll have to believe what you have to believe. Personally, I’m not interested in speaking of this, or to you, any longer.”
“I have as much right to be here as you.”
“You certainly do.” To end it, Roz turned away, walked to a table across the room, and sat down to finish her tea.
Ten humming seconds of silence followed, until Mandy burst into tears and ran from the room. A few women hustled after her after shooting glances at Roz.
“Lord,” Roz said when Mrs. Haggerty sat down beside her, “she is young, isn’t she?”
“Young’s no excuse for being flat-out stupid. Rude, on top of it.” She looked up with a nod as Cissy moved to join them. “Surprised at you.”
“At me? Why?”
“For speaking straight for a refreshing change.”
Cissy shrugged, sat. “I like ugly scenes, and I won’t deny it. Sure does spice up a dull day. But I don’t like Bryce Clerk. And sometimes speaking straight makes things more interesting anyway. Only thing better would’ve been seeing Roz give that bobble-headed fool Mandy a good smack. Not your style, though,” she said to Roz.
Then she touched a hand to Roz, gently. “You want to leave, I’ll go with you.”
“No, but thanks. I’ll stick it out.”
SHE GOT THROUGHthe meeting. It was a matter of grit, and of duty. When she got home she changed, then slipped out the back to go in the gardens, to sit on her bench in the cool and study the little signs of coming spring.
Her bulbs were spearing up, the daffodils and hyacinths that would burst into bloom before too long. The crocus were already in flower. They came so soon, she thought, left so early.
She could see the tight buds on her azaleas, and the faint haze on the forsythia.
While she sat, the control she’d locked into place wavered, so she was allowed, finally, to shake inside. With rage, with insult, with temper, with hurt. She gave herself the gift of swimming in the sea of all those dark emotions while she sat, alone in the quiet.
While she sat, the fury peaked, then ebbed, until she could breathe clear again.
She’d done the right thing, she decided. Faced it down, though she’d hated doing so in public. Still it was always better to face a fight than it was to run from it.
Had he thought she would? she wondered. Had he thought she’d break apart in public, run off in humiliation to lick her wounds?
She imagined he did. Bryce had never understood her.
John had, she thought, studying the arbor where his roses would ramble and bloom for her from spring into the summer, and well into fall. He had understood her, and he’d loved her. Or at least he’d understood and loved the girl she’d been.
Would he love the woman she’d become?
An odd thought, she decided, tipping her head back, closing her eyes. She might not be the woman she was if he’d lived.
He’d have left you. They all do. He’d have lied and cheated and broken you. Taken whores while you sat and waited. They all do.
I should know.
No, not John, she thought, squeezing her eyes tighter as that voice hissed in her head.
You’re better off he died than if he’d lived long enough to ruin you. Like the other. Like the one you take to your bed now.
“How pitiful you are,” Roz whispered, “to try to smear the memory, and the honor, of a good man.”
“Roz.” The hand on her shoulder made her jump. “Sorry,” Mitch told her. “Talking in your sleep?”
“No.” Didn’t he feel the cold, or was it only inside her? Inside her along with the quivering belly. “I wasn’t sleeping. Only thinking. How did you know I was out here?”
“David said he saw you through the window, heading out this way. Over an hour ago. It’s a little chilly to sit out so long.” He took her hand, rubbed it between his as he sat beside her. “Your hands are cold.”
“They’re all right.”
“But you’re not. You look sad.”
She considered a moment, then reminded herself there were things that couldn’t be personal. He was working for her. “I am, I guess. I am a little sad. She was talking to me. In my head.”
“Now?” His hands tightened on hers.
“Mmm. You interrupted our conversation, though it was the same old, same old ‘men are deceivers’ sort of thing on her side.”
He scanned the gardens. “I doubt Shakespeare could have created a more determined ghost than your Amelia. I was hoping you’d come by the library, for several reasons. This is one.”
He turned her face toward his, pressed his mouth to hers.
“Something’s wrong,” he stated. “Something more.”
How could he see her so well? How could he see what she was able to hide from most? “No, just a mood.” But she drew her hand from his. “Some female histrionics earlier. Men are so much less inclined to drama, aren’t they?”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“It’s not worth the breath.”
He started to speak again, she could feel him check the instinct to press. Instead he tapped his shoulder. “Put your head here?”
“What?”
“Right here.” To ensure she did, he wrapped an arm around her waist, drew her close to his side. “How about it?”
She left it there, smiled a little. “It’s not bad.”
“And the world didn’t spin on its axis because you leaned on someone else for a minute.”
“No, it didn’t. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Anyway, other reasons I was hoping you’d come in while I was working. I wanted to tell you I’ve sent a letter to your cousin Clarise Harper. If I don’t hear back from her in a week, I’ll do a follow-up. And I have several detailed family trees for you, the Harpers, your mother’s family, your first husband’s. I actually found an Amelia Ashby. No, leave that head right where it is,” he said, tightening his grip when she started to sit up straight.
“She’s not connected, as far as I can see, as she lived and died in Louisiana, and is too contemporary. I spent some time tracking her back, to see if I could find a link to your Amelia—a namesake sort of thing—but it’s not happening. I have some e-mail correspondence from the great-granddaughter of the housekeeper who worked in Harper House from 1887 to 1912. She’s a lawyer in Chicago, and is finding the family history interesting enough to put out feelers of her own. She could be a good source, at least on that one branch.”
His hand stroked gently up and down her arm, relaxing her. “You’ve been busy.”
“Most of that’s just standard. But I’ve been thinking about the less ordinary portions of our project. When we made love—”
“What portion of the project does that come under?”
He laughed at her dry tone, and rubbed his cheek over her hair. “I put that in the extremely personal column and am hoping to fill a lot of pages in that file. But I’ve got a point. She manifested—that would be the word, right?”
“Can’t think of a better.”
“She blew open doors, slammed them shut, set the clocks off, and so on. Without question showed her feelings about what was going on between us, and has since we started that personal file.”
“And so?”
“I’m not the first man you’ve been personal with in that house.”
“No, you’re not.”
“But you haven’t mentioned her having similar tantrums over you and John Ashby or you and Bryce Clerk—or anyone you might have had a relationship with otherwise.”
“Because it never happened before.”
“Okay. Okay.” He got up, walking back and forth as he talked. “You lived in the house when you and John Ashby were dating, when you became engaged.”
“Yes, of course
. It’s my home.”
“And you lived here, primarily, after you were married, exclusively after your parents died.”
She could see him working something out in his head. No, she corrected. It’s already worked out, he was just going through the steps of it for her benefit.
“We stayed here often—my mother wasn’t well, and my father couldn’t cope with her half the time. When he died, we lived here, in an informal sort of way. When she died, we moved permanently into the house.”
“And during all that time, Amelia never objected to him? To John.”
“No. I stopped seeing her when I turned, oh, eleven, I’d say, and didn’t see her again until after I was married. We hadn’t been married long, but were already trying to have children. I thought I might be pregnant, and I couldn’t sleep. I went outside, sat in the garden, and I saw her. I saw her and I knew I was carrying a child. I saw her at the onset of every pregnancy. Saw or heard her, of course, when the boys were little.”
“Did your husband ever see her?”
“No.” She frowned. “No, he didn’t. Heard her, but never saw her. I saw her the night he died.”
“You never told me that.”
“I haven’t told you each and every time I . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you. I’ve never discussed it with anyone. It’s very personal, and it’s painful still.”
“I don’t know what it’s like to love and lose someone the way you loved and lost your John. I know it must seem like prying, and it is. But it’s all of a piece, Roz. I have to know, to do the job, I have to know this sort of thing.”
“I didn’t think you would, when I hired you. That you’d have to know personal things. Wait.” She lifted a hand before he could speak. “I understand better now. How you work, I think, how you try to see things. People. The board in the library, the pictures on it so youcan see who they were. All the little details you accumulate. It’s more than I bargained for. I think I mean that in a good way.”
“I need to be immersed.”
“Like you were with a brilliant and twisted poet,” she said with a nod. “I also believe you have to know, and that I’m able to tell you these things, because of what we’re becoming to each other. Conversely, that may be why it’s hard for me to tell you. It’s not easy for me to feel close to someone, to a man. To trust, and to want.”
“Do you want it easy?”
She shook her head. “How do you know me so well already? No, I don’t want it easy. I suspect easy. I’m having a time with you inside myself, Mitchell. That’s a compliment.”
“Same goes.”
She studied him, standing there, vital and alive, with the arbor and its sleeping roses behind him. With warmth and sun, the roses would wake. But John, her John, was gone.
“John was coming home from his office in Memphis. Coming home late from a meeting. The roads were slick. It had been raining and the roads were slick, and there was fog.”
Her heart gave a little hitch as it did, always, when she remembered.
“There was an accident. Someone driving too fast, crossed the center line. I was up, waiting up, and dealing with the boys. Harper had a nightmare, and both Mason and Austin had colds. I’d just settled them down, and was going to bed, irritated a little that John wasn’t home yet. And there she was, standing there in my room.”
She gave a half laugh, brushed a hand over her face. “Gave me a hell of a jolt, thinking oh, hell, am I pregnant, because believe me, I wasn’t in the mood for it right at the moment after dealing with three restless, unhappy children. But something in her eyes didn’t look right. Too bright, and I want to say too mean. It scared me a little. Then the police came, and well, I wasn’t thinking about her anymore.”
Her voice had remained steady throughout. But her eyes, her long, lovely eyes, mirrored the grief.
“It’s a hard, hard thing. I can’t even imagine it.”
“Your life stops right there. Just stops. And when it starts up again, it’s different. It’s never what it was before that moment. Never.”
He didn’t touch her, didn’t comfort, didn’t support. What was in her heart, for this moment, in this winter garden belonged to someone else.
“You had no one. No mother, no father, no sister, no brother.”
“I had my sons. I had this house. I had myself.” She looked away, and he could see her draw herself back, close that door to the past. “I understand where you’re going with this, and I don’t understand it. She never bothered to object before, not to John, or anyone I was with after, not to Bryce. She did, occasionally express some disapproval—I’ve told you that before. But nothing on the scale she has recently. Why would that be?”
“I’ve been trying to work that out. I have a couple of theories. Let’s go inside first. The light’s going and you’re going to be chilled straight through. Not much meat on you. That wasn’t a complaint,” he added when she narrowed her eyes.
Deliberately she bumped up the southern in her voice. “I come from a line of women with delicate builds.”
“Nothing delicate about you,” he corrected and took her hand as they walked toward the house. “What you are is a long wild rose—a black rose with plenty of thorns.”
“Black roses don’t grow wild. They have to be cultivated. And no one’s ever managed a true black.”
“A black rose,” he repeated and brought their joined hands to his lips. “Rare and exquisite.”
“You keep talking like that, I’ll have to invite you up to my private quarters.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
THIRTEEN
“ITHOUGHT I should tell you,” Roz began as they walked toward the house, “that my . . . household is very interested in my more personal relationship with you.”
“That’s all right, so am I. Interested in my personal relationship with you.”
She glanced down at their joined hands and thought what a lovely design it was that fingers could link so smoothly together. “Your hand’s bigger than mine, considerably. Your palm’s wider, your fingers longer. And see how your fingers are blunt at the tip where mine taper some?”
She lifted her arm so their hands were eye level. “But it makes such a nice fit.”
With a soft laugh, he said her name. Said it tenderly. Rosalind. Then paused briefly to angle his head down and touch his lips to hers. “So does that.”
“I was thinking the same. But I’d as soon keep those thoughts, and that personal interest, between you and me.”
“Hard to do, since we have other people in our lives. My son wanted to know where I came up with the brunette babe I was with at the Ole Miss game.”
“And you told him?”
“That I’d finally managed to get Rosalind Harper to give me a second look.”
“I gave you plenty of looks,” she said, and sent him another as they started up the steps to her terrace. “But I’ve gotten into the habit of being selfish with my private life, and I don’t see any reason we can’t enjoy each other without filing regular bulletins on our sex life.”
She reached for the terrace door. It blew open, barely missing striking her face. A blast of frigid wind gushed out of her room, knocking her back a full step before Mitch managed to grab her, then block her body with his.
“Good luck!” he shouted over the scream of air.
“I will not tolerate this.” Furious, she shoved him aside and bulled her way through the door. “I will not tolerate this sort of thing in my house!”
Photographs flew off tables like missiles while lamps flashed on and off. A chair shot across the room, slamming into a chest of drawers with a force that had the vase of hothouse orchids spinning. When she saw the vanity mirror her sons had given her start to slide, she leaped forward to grab it.
“Stop this idioticbullshit right now. I’m not going to put up with it.”
There was pounding, monstrous fists of fury, on the walls, in the walls, and
the floor trembled under her feet. A large Baccarat perfume bottle detonated, a crystal bomb that spewed jagged shards like shrapnel.
In the midst of the whirlwind, Roz stood, clutching the vanity mirror, and her shout over the explosions of shattering glass, the ferocious banging, was Arctic ice.
“I’ll stop every attempt to find out who you are, to right whatever wrong was done to you. I’ll do whatever it takes to remove you from this house. You won’t be welcome here.
“This ismy house,” she called out as fire erupted in the hearth and the candlestick on the mantel spiraled up into the air. “And I will, by God, clear you out of it. I swear on my life, I will remove you.”
The air died at once, and what had been spinning in it fell with thuds or crashes to the floor.
The door burst open instantly. David, Logan, and Stella pushed through it an instant before Harper barreled through the terrace doors.
“Mama.” Harper lifted her right off her feet, his arms banded around her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“We couldn’t get in.” Stella touched Roz’s back with a trembling hand. “Couldn’t get the doors open.”
“It’s all right now. Where are the children?”
“Hayley. Hayley’s got them downstairs. When we heard—God, Roz, it sounded like a war.”
“Go tell her everything’s all right.” She pressed her cheek to Harper’s before she pulled back. “Go on now.”
“What happened here?” David demanded. “Roz, what the hell happened?”
“We started to come in, and she objected . . . strongly.”
“Your mother slapped her back for it,” Mitch told Harper. “Let her know who runs this house.”