Black Rose

Book 2: In The Garden Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

#1 New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts presents the second novel of her In the Garden trilogy, as three women must discover the secrets from the past contained within their historic home.…

A Harper has always lived at Harper House, the centuries-old mansion just outside of Memphis. And for as long as anyone alive remembers, the ghostly Harper Bride has walked the halls, singing lullabies at night.…

At forty-seven, Rosalind Harper is a woman whose experiences have made her strong enough to bend without breaking-and to weather any storm. A widow with three grown sons, she survived a disastrous second marriage and built her In the Garden nursery from the ground up. Through the years, In the Garden has become more than just a thriving business-it is a symbol of hope and independence to Roz, and to the two women she shares it with. Newlywed Stella and new mother Hayley are the sisters of her heart, and together, the three of them are the future of In the Garden.

Hired to investigate Roz's Harper ancestors, Dr. Mitchell Carnegie finds himself just as intrigued by Roz herself. And as they begin to resurrect old secrets, Roz is shocked to find herself falling for the fascinating genealogist-even when he learns more about her than anyone has before.…

Release date: May 31, 2005

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

One

Harper House
December 2004


Dawn, the awakening promise of it, was her favorite time to run. The running itself was just something that had to be done, three days a week, like any other chore or responsibility. Rosalind Harper did what had to be done.

She ran for her health. A woman who’d just had—she could hardly say “celebrated” at this stage of her life—her forty-seventh birthday had to mind her health. She ran to keep strong, as she desired and needed strength. And she ran for vanity. Her body would never again be what it had been at twenty, or even thirty, but, by God, it would be the best body she could manage at forty-seven.

She had no husband, no lover, but she did have an image to uphold. She was a Harper, and Harpers had their pride.

But, Jesus, maintenance was a bitch.

Wearing sweats against the dawn chill, she slipped out of her bedroom by the terrace door. The house was sleeping still. Her house that had been too empty was now occupied again, and rarely completely quiet any longer.

There was David, her surrogate son, who kept her house in order, kept her entertained when she needed entertaining, and stayed out of her way when she needed solitude.No one knew her moods quite like David.

And there was Stella, and her two precious boys. It had been a good day, Roz thought as she limbered up on the terrace, when she’d hired Stella Rothchild to manage her nursery.Of course, Stella would be moving before much longer and taking those sweet boys with her. Still, once she was married to Logan—and wasn’t that a fine match—they’d only be a few miles away.

Hayley would still be here, infusing the house with all that youth and energy. It had been another stroke of luck, and a vague and distant family connection, that had Hayley, then six-months pregnant, landing on her doorstep. In Hayley she had the daughter she’d secretly longed for, and the bonus of an honorary grandchild with the darling little Lily.She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been, Roz thought, until those girls had come along to fill the void. With two of her own three sons moved away, the house had become too big, too quiet. And a part of her dreaded the day when Harper, her firstborn, her rock, would leave the guesthouse a stone’s throw from the main.

But that was life. No one knew better than a gardener that life never stayed static. Cycles were necessary, for without them there was no bloom.

She took the stairs down at an easy jog, enjoying the way the early mists shrouded her winter gardens. Look how pretty her lambs ear was with its soft silvery foliage covered in dew. And the birds had yet to bother the bright fruit on her red chokeberry.

Walking to give her muscles time to warm, and to give herself the pleasure of the gardens, she skirted around the side of the house to the front.

She increased to a jog on the way down the drive, a tall, willowy woman with a short, careless cap of black hair. Her eyes, a honeyed whiskey brown, scanned the grounds—the towering magnolias, the delicate dogwoods, the placement of ornamental shrubs, the flood of pansies she’d planted only weeks before, and the beds that would wait a bit longer to break into bloom.

To her mind, there were no grounds in western Tennessee that could compete with Harper House. Just as there was no house that could compare with its dignified elegance.Out of habit, she turned at the end of the drive, jogged in place to study it in the pearly mists.

It stood grandly, she thought, with its melding of Greek Revival and Gothic styles, the warm yellow stone mellow against the clean white trim. Its double staircase rose up to the balcony wrapping the second level, and served as a crown for the covered entryway on the ground level.

She loved the tall windows, the lacy woodwork on the rail of the third floor, the sheer space of it, and the heritage it stood for.She had prized it, cared for it, worked for it, since it had come into her hands at her parents’ death. She had raised her sons there, and when she’d lost her husband, she’d grieved there.

One day she would pass it to Harper as it had passed to her. And she thanked God for the absolute knowledge that he would tend it and love it just as she did.What it had cost her was nothing compared with what it gave, even in this single moment, standing at the end of the drive, looking back through the morning mists.

But standing there wasn’t going to get her three miles done. She headed west, keeping close to the side of the road, though there’d be little to no traffic this early.To take her mind off the annoyance of exercise, she started reviewing her list of things to do that day.

She had some good seedlings going for annuals that should be ready to have their seed leaves removed. She needed to check all the seedlings for signs of damping off. Some of the older stock would be ready for pricking off.

And, she remembered, Stella had asked for more amaryllis, more forced-bulb planters, more wreaths and poinsettias for the holiday sales. Hayley could handle the wreaths. The girl had a good hand at crafting.

Then there were the field-grown Christmas trees and hollies to deal with. Thank God she could leave that end to Logan.

She had to check with Harper, to see if he had any more of the Christmas cacti he’d grafted ready to go. She wanted a couple for herself.

She juggled all the nursery business in her mind even as she passed In the Garden. It was tempting—it always was—to veer off the road onto that crushed-stone entryway, to take an indulgent solo tour of what she’d built from the ground up.Stella had gone all out for the holidays, Roz noted with pleasure, grouping green, pink, white, and red poinsettias into a pool of seasonal color in the front of the low-slung house that served as the entrance to the retail space. She’d hung yet another wreath on the door, tiny white lights around it, and the small white pine she’d had dug from the field stood decorated on the front porch.

White-faced pansies, glossy hollies, hardy sage added more interest and would help ring up those holiday sales.

Resisting temptation, Roz continued down the road.

She had to carve out some time, if not today, then certainly later this week, to finish up her Christmas shopping. Or at least put a bigger dent in it. There were holiday parties to attend, and the one she’d decided to give. It had been awhile since she’d opened the house to entertain in a big way.

The divorce, she admitted, was at least partially to blame for that. She’d hardly felt like hosting parties when she’d felt stupid and stung and more than a bit mortified by her foolish, and mercifully brief, union to a liar and a cheat.

But it was time to put that aside now, she reminded herself, just as she’d put him aside. The fact that Bryce Clerk was back in Memphis made it only more important that she live her life, publically and privately, exactly as she chose.

At the mile-and-a-half mark, a point she judged by an old, lightning-struck hickory, she started back. The thin fog had dampened her hair, her sweatshirt, but her muscles felt warm and loose. It was a bitch, she mused, that everything they said about exercise was true.

She spotted a deer meandering across the road, her coat thickened for winter, her eyes on alert by the intrusion of a human.

You’re beautiful, Roz thought, puffing a little on that last half mile. Now, stay the hell out of my gardens. Another note went in her file to give her gardens another treatment of repellant before the deer and her pals decided to come around for a snack.

Roz was just making the turn into the drive when she heard muffled footsteps, then saw the figure coming her way. Even with the mists she had no trouble identifying the other early riser.

They both stopped, jogged in place, and she grinned at her son.

“Up with the worms this morning.”

“Thought I’d be up and out early enough to catch you.” He scooped a hand through his dark hair. “All that celebrating for Thanksgiving, then your birthday, I figured I’d better work off the excess before Christmas hits.”

“You never gain an ounce. It’s annoying.”

“Feel soft.” He rolled his shoulders, then his eyes, whiskey brown like hers, and laughed.

“Besides, I gotta keep up with my mama.”

He looked like her. There was no denying she’d stamped herself on his face. But when he smiled, she saw his father. “That’ll be the day, pal of mine. How far you going?”

“How far’d you?”

“Three miles.”

He flashed a grin. “Then I’ll do four.” He gave her a light pat on the cheek as he passed.“Should’ve told him five, just to get his goat.” She chuckled, and slowing to a cool-down walk, started down the drive.

The house shimmered out of the mists. She thought: Thank God that’s over for another day. And she circled around to go in as she’d left.

The house was still quiet, and lovely. And haunted.

She’d showered and changed for work, and had started down the central stairs that bisected the wings when she heard the first stirrings.

Stella’s boys getting ready for school, Lily fussing for her breakfast. Good sounds, Roz thought. Busy, family sounds she’d missed.

Of course, she’d had the house full only a couple weeks earlier, with all her boys home for Thanksgiving and her birthday. Austin and Mason would be back for Christmas. A mother of grown sons couldn’t ask for better.

God knew there’d been plenty of times when they were growing up that she’d yearned for some quiet. Just an hour of absolute peace where she had nothing more exciting to do than soak in a hot tub.

Then she’d had too much time on her hands, hadn’t she? Too much quiet, too much empty space. So she’d ended up marrying some slick son of a bitch who’d helped himself to her money so he could impress the bimbos he’d cheated on her with.

Spilled milk, Roz reminded herself. And it wasn’t constructive to dwell on it.

She walked into the kitchen where David was already whipping something in a bowl, and the seductive fragrance of fresh coffee filled the air.

“Morning, gorgeous. How’s my best girl?”

“Up and at ’em anyway.” She went to a cupboard for a mug. “How was the date last night?”

“Promising. He likes Grey Goose martinis and John Waters movies. We’ll try for a second round this weekend. Sit yourself down. I’m making French toast.”

“French toast?” It was a personal weakness. “Damn it, David, I just ran three miles to keep my ass from falling all the way to the back of my knees, then you hit me with French toast.”

“You have a beautiful ass, and it’s nowhere near the back of your knees.”

“Yet,” she muttered, but she sat. “I passed Harper at the end of the drive. He finds out what’s on the menu, he’ll be sniffing at the back door.”

“I’m making plenty.”

She sipped her coffee while he heated up the skillet.

He was movie-star handsome, only a year older than her own Harper, and one of the delights of her life. As a boy he’d run tame in her house, and now he all but ran it.

“David . . . I caught myself thinking about Bryce twice this morning. What do you think that means?”

“Means you need this French toast,” he said while he soaked thick slices of bread in his magic batter. “And you’ve probably got yourself a case of the mid-holiday blues.”

“I kicked him out right before Christmas. I guess that’s it.”

“And a merry one it was, with that bastard out in the cold. I wish it had been cold,” he added. “Raining ice and frogs and pestilence.”

“I’m going to ask you something I never did while it was going on. Why didn’t you ever tell me how much you disliked him?”

“Probably the same reason you didn’t tell me how much you disliked that out-of-work actor with the fake Brit accent I thought I was crazy about a few years back. I love you.”“It’s a good reason.”

He’d started a fire in the little kitchen hearth, so she angled her body toward it, sipped coffee, felt steady and solid.

“You know if you could just age twenty years and go straight, we could live with each other in sin. I think that would be just fine.”

“Sugar-pie.” He slid the bread into the skillet. “You’re the only girl in the world who’d tempt me.”

She smiled, and resting her elbow on the table, set her chin on her fist. “Sun’s breaking through,” she stated. “It’s going to be a pretty day.”

A pretty day in early December meant a busy one for a garden center. Roz had so much to do she was grateful she hadn’t resisted the breakfast David had heaped on her. She missed lunch.

In her propagation house she had a full table covered with seed trays. She’d already separated out specimens too young for pricking off. And now began the first transplanting with those she deemed ready.

She lined up her containers, the cell packs, the individual pots or peat cubes. It was one of her favorite tasks, even more than sowing, this placing of a strong seedling in the home it would occupy until planting time.

Until planting time, they were all hers.

And this year she was experimenting with her own potting soil. She’d been trying out recipes for more than two years now, and believed she’d found a winner, both for indoor and outdoor use. The outdoor recipe should serve very well for her greenhouse purposes.From the bag she’d carefully mixed, she filled her containers, testing the moisture, and approved. With care she lifted out the young plants, holding them by their seed leaves. Transplanting, she made certain the soil line on the stem was at the same level it had been in the seed tray, then firmed the soil around the roots with experienced fingers.

She filled pot after pot, labeling as she went and humming absently to the Enya playing gently from the portable CD player she considered essential equipment in a greenhouse.Using a weak fertilizer solution, she watered them.

Pleased with the progress, she moved through the back opening and into the perennial area. She checked the section—plants recently started from cuttings, those started more than a year before that would be ready for sale in a few months. She watered and tended, then moved to stock plants to take more cuttings. She had a tray of anemones begun when Stella stepped in.

“You’ve been busy.” Stella, with her curling red hair bundled back in a tail, scanned the tables. “Really busy.”

“And optimistic. We had a banner season, and I’m expecting we’ll have another. If Nature doesn’t screw around with us.”

“I thought you might want to take a look at the new stock of wreaths. Hayley’s worked on them all morning. I think she outdid herself.”

“I’ll take a look before I leave.”

“I let her go early, I hope that’s all right. She’s still getting used to having Lily with a sitter, even if the sitter is a customer and only a half mile away.”

“That’s fine.” She moved on to the catananche. “You know you don’t have to check every little thing with me, Stella. You’ve been managing this ship for nearly a year now.”

“They were excuses to come back here.”

Roz paused, her knife suspended above the plant roots, primed for cutting. “Is there a problem?”

“No. I’ve been wanting to ask, and I know this is your domain, but I wondered if, when things slow down a bit after the holidays, I can spend some time with the propagation.

I’m missing it.”

“All right.”

Stella’s bright blue eyes twinkled when she laughed. “I can see you’re worried I’ll try to change your routine, organize everything my way. I promise I won’t. And I won’t get in your way.”

“You try, I’ll just boot you out.”

“Got that.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I need you to find me a supplier for good, inexpensive soil bags. One pound, five pound, ten, and twenty-five to start.”

“For?” Stella asked as she pulled a notebook out of her back pocket.

“I’m going to start making and selling my own potting soil. I’ve got mixes I like for indoor and outdoor use, and I want to private-label it.”

“That’s a great idea. Good profit in that. And customers will like having Rosalind Harper’s gardening secrets. There are some considerations, though.”

“I thought of them. I’m not going to go hog-wild right off. We’ll keep it small.” With soil on her hands still, she plucked a bottle of water from a shelf. Then, absently wiping her hand on her shirt, twisted the cap. “I want the staff to learn how to bag, but the recipe’s my secret. I’ll give you and Harper the ingredients and the amounts, but it doesn’t go out to the general staff. For right now we’ll set up the procedure in the main storage shed. It takes off, we’ll build one for it.”

“Government regulations—”

“I’ve studied on that. We won’t be using any pesticides, and I’m keeping the nutrient content to below the regulatory levels.” Noting Stella continued to scribble on her pad, Roz took a long drink. “I’ve applied for the license to manufacture and sell.”“You didn’t mention it.”

“Don’t get your feelings hurt.” Roz set the bottle aside, dipped a cutting in rooting medium. “I wasn’t sure I’d go on and do the thing, but I wanted the red tape out of the way. It’s kind of a pet project of mine I’ve been playing with for a while now. But I’ve grown some specimens in these mixes, and so far I like what I see. I got some more going now, and if I keep liking it, we’re going for it. So I want an idea how much the bags are going to run us, and the printing. I want classy. I thought you could fiddle around with some logos and such. You’re good at that. In the Garden needs to be prominent.”

“No question.”

“And you know what I’d really like?” She paused for a minute, seeing it in her head. “I’d like brown bags. Something that looks like burlap. Old-fashioned, if you follow me. So we’re saying, this is good old-fashioned dirt, southern soil, and I’m thinking I want cottage garden flowers on the bag. Simple flowers.”

“That says, this is simple to use, and it’ll make your garden simple to grow. I’ll get on it.”

“I can count on you, can’t I, to work out the costs, profits, marketing angles with me?”

“I’m your girl.”

“I know you are. I’m going to finish up these cuttings, then take off early myself if nothing’s up. I want to get some shopping in.”

“Roz, it’s already nearly five.”

“Five? It can’t be five.” She held up an arm, turned her wrist, and frowned at her watch. “Well, shit. Time got away from me again. Tell you what, I’m going to take off at noon tomorrow. If I don’t, you hunt me down and push me out.”

“No problem. I’d better get back. See you back at the house.”

When she did get home, it was to discover the Christmas lights were glinting from the eaves, the wreaths shimmered on all the doors, and candles stood shining in all the windows. The entrance was flanked by two miniature pines wrapped in tiny white lights.She had only to step inside to be surrounded by the holiday.

In the foyer, red ribbon and twinkling lights coiled up the twin banisters, with white poinsettias in Christmas-red pots under the newel posts.

Her great-grandmother’s silver bowl was polished to a beam and filled with glossy red apples.

In the parlor a ten-foot Norway spruce—certainly from her own field—ruled the front windows. The mantel held the wooden Santas she’d collected since she’d been pregnant with Harper, with fresh greenery dripping from the ends.

Stella’s two sons sat cross-legged on the floor beneath the tree, staring up at it with enormous eyes.

“Isn’t it great?” Hayley bounced dark-haired Lily on her hip. “Isn’t it awesome?”

“David must’ve worked like a dog.”

“We helped!” The boys jumped up.

“After school we got to help with the lights and everything,” the youngest, Luke, told her. “And pretty soon we get to help make cookies, and decorate them and everything.”

“We even got a tree upstairs.” Gavin looked back at the spruce. “It’s not as big as this one, ’cause it’s for upstairs. We helped David take it up, and we get to decorate it ourselves.” Knowing who was the boss of the house, Gavin looked at her for confirmation. “He said.”

“Then it must be true.”

“He’s cooking up some sort of trim-the-tree buffet in the kitchen.” Stella walked over to look at the tree from Roz’s perspective. “Apparently, we’re having a party. He’s already given Logan and Harper orders to be here by seven.”

“Then I guess I’d better get myself dressed for a party. Hand over that baby first.” She reached out, took Lily from Hayley and nuzzled. “Tree that size, it’ll take all of us to dress it up. What do you think of your first Christmas tree, little girl?”

“She’s already tried to belly-scoot over to it when I put her on the floor. I can’t wait to see what she does when she sees it all decked out.”

“Then I’d better get a move on.” Roz gave Lily a kiss, handed her back. “It’s a bit warm yet, but I think we ought to have a fire. And somebody tell David to ice down some champagne. I’ll be down shortly.”

It had been too long since there were children in the house for Christmas, Roz thought as she hurried upstairs. And damn if having them there didn’t make her feel like a kid herself.

Two

Roz took her holiday mood shopping. The nur- sery could get along without her for half a day. The fact was, the way Stella managed it, the nursery could get along without her for a week. If she had the urge, she could take herself off on her first real vacation in—how long had it been? Three years, she realized.

But she didn’t have the urge.

Home was where she was happiest, so why go to all the trouble of packing, endure the stress of traveling, just to end up somewhere else?

She’d taken the boys on a trip every year when they were growing up. Disney World, the Grand Canyon, Washington, D.C., Bar Harbor, and so on. Little tastes of the country, sometimes chosen at whim, sometimes with great planning.

Then they’d taken that three-week vacation in Europe. Hadn’t that been a time?

It had been hard, sometimes frantic, sometimes hysterical, herding three active boys around, but oh, it had been worth it.

She could remember how Austin had loved the whale-watch cruise in Maine, how Mason had insisted on ordering snails in Paris, and Harper had managed to get himself lost in Adventureland.

She wouldn’t trade those memories for anything. And she’d seen a nice chunk of the world herself.

Instead of a vacation, she could concentrate on other things. Maybe it was time to start thinking about adding a little florist shop onto the nursery. Fresh-cut flowers and arrangements. Local delivery. Of course, it would mean another building, more supplies, more employees. But it was something to think about for a year or two down the road.She’d have to go over some figures, see if the business could handle the outlay.

She’d sunk a great deal of her personal resources into the nursery to get it off the ground. But she’d been ready to gamble. Her priorities had been, always, that her children were safe, secure, and well provided for. And that Harper House remain tended, protected, and in the family.

She’d accomplished that. Though there’d been times it had taken a lot of creative juggling and had caused the occasional sleepless night. Perhaps money hadn’t been the terrifying issue for her that it often was for single parents, but it had been an issue.

In the Garden hadn’t just been a whim, as some thought. She’d needed fresh income and had bargained, gambled, and finagled to get it.

It didn’t matter to Roz if people thought she was rich as Croesus or poor as a church mouse. The fact was she was neither, but she’d built a good life for herself and her children with the resources she’d had at hand.

Now, if she wanted to go just a little crazy playing Santa, she’d earned it.

She burned up the mall, indulging herself to the point that she needed to make two trips out to her car with bags. Seeing no reason to stop there, she headed to Wal-Mart, intending to plow through the toy department.

As usual, the minute she stepped through the doors she thought of a dozen other things she could probably use. Her basket was half loaded, and she’d stopped in the aisles to exchange greetings with four people she knew before she made it to the toy department.Five minutes later she was wondering if she’d need a second cart. Struggling to balance a couple of enormous boxes on top of the mound of other purchases, she turned a corner.And rapped smartly into another cart.

“Sorry. I can’t seem to . . . oh. Hi.”

It had been weeks since she’d seen Dr. Mitchell Carnegie, the genealogist she’d hired—more or less. There had been a few brief phone conversations, some businesslike e-mails, but only a scatter of face-to-face contacts since the night he’d come to dinner. And had ended up seeing the Harper Bride ghost.

She considered him an interesting man and gave him top marks for not hightailing it after the experience they’d all shared the previous spring.

He had, in her opinion, the credentials she needed, along with the spine and the open mind. Best of all he’d yet to bore her in their discussions of family lineage and the steps necessary to identifying a dead woman.

Just now it looked as if he hadn’t shaved in the past few days, so there was a dark stubble toughening his face. His bottle-green eyes appeared both tired and harassed. His hair badly needed a trim.

He was dressed much like the first time she’d met him, in old jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Unlike hers, his basket was empty.

“Help me,” he said in the tone of a man dangling from a cliff by a sweaty grip on a shaky limb.

“I’m sorry?”

“Six-year-old girl. Birthday. Desperation.”

“Oh.” Deciding she liked that warm bourbon voice, even with panic sharpening it, Roz pursed her lips. “What’s the connection?”

“Niece. Sister’s surprise late baby. She had the decency to have two boys before. I can handle boys.”

“Well, is she a girly girl?”

He made a sound, as if the limb had started to crack.

“All right, all right.” Roz waved a hand and, abandoning her own cart, turned down the aisle. “You could’ve saved yourself some stress by just asking her mother.”

“My sister’s pissed at me because I forgot her birthday last month.”

“I see.”

“Look, I forgot everything last month, including my own name a couple of times. I told you I was finishing some revisions on the book. I was on deadline. For God’s sake, she’s forty-three. One. Or possibly two.” Obviously at wit’s end, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Doesn’t your breed stop having birthdays at forty?”

“We may stop counting, Dr. Carnegie, but that doesn’t mean we don’t expect an appropriate gift on the occasion.” <