Blue Dahlia gt-1 Read online

  "Do you get scared?"

  "Every day." She laid a hand on Hayley's belly. "It comes with the territory."

  "It helps, having you to talk to. I mean, you were married when you went through this, but you—well, both you and Roz had^o deal with being a single parent. It helps that you know stuff. Helps having

  other women around who know stuff I need to know."

  With the job complete, Hayley walked over to turn off the water. "So," she asked, "are you going to Graceland?"

  "I don't know. I might."

  * * *

  With his crew split between the white pines and the landscape prep on the Guppy job, Logan set to

  work on the walkway for his old teacher. It wouldn't take him long, and he could hit both the other

  work sites that afternoon. He liked juggling jobs. He always had.

  Going directly start to finish on one too quickly cut out the room for brainstorms or sudden inspiration. There was little he liked better than that pop, when he just saw something in his head that he knew he could make with his hands.

  He could take what was and make it better, maybe blend some of what was with the new and create a different whole.

  He'd grown up respecting the land, and the whims of Nature, but more from a farmer's point of view. When you grew up on a small farm, worked it, fought with it, he thought, you understood what the

  land meant. Or could mean.

  His father had loved the land, too, but in a different way, Logan supposed. It had provided for his family, cost them, and in the end had gifted them with a nice bonanza when his father had opted to sell out.

  He couldn't say he missed the farm. He'd wanted more than row crops and worries about market prices. But he'd wanted, needed, to work the land.

  Maybe he'd lost some of the magic of it when he'd moved north. Too many buildings, too much concrete, too many limitations for him. He hadn't been able to acclimate to the climate or culture any more than Rae had been able to acclimate here.

  It hadn't worked. No matter how much both of them had tried to nurture things along, the marriage had just withered on them.

  So he'd come home, and ultimately, with Roz's offer, he'd found his place—personally, professionally, creatively. And was content.

  He ran his lines, then picked up his shovel.

  And jabbed the blade into the earth again.

  What had he been thinking? He'd asked the woman out. He could call it whatever he liked, but when

  a guy asked a woman out, it was a frigging date.

  He had no intention of dating toe-the-line Stella Rothchild. She wasn't his type.

  Okay, sure she was. He set to work turning the soil between his lines to prep for leveling and laying the black plastic. He'd never met a woman, really, who wasn't his type.

  He just liked the breed, that's all. Young ones and old ones, country girls and city-slicked. Whip smart

  or bulb dim, women just appealed to him on most every level.

  He'd ended up married to one, hadn't he? And though that had been a mistake, you had to make them along the way.

  Maybe he'd never been particularly drawn to the structured, my-way-or-the-highway type before. But there was always a first time. And he liked first times. It was the second times and the third times that could wear on a man.

  But he wasn't attracted to Stella.

  Okay, shit. Yes, he was. Mildly. She was a good-looking woman, nicely shaped, too. And there was the hair. He was really gone on the hair. Wouldn't mind getting his hands on that hair, just to see if it felt as sexy as it looked.

  But it didn't mean he wanted to date her. It was hard enough to deal with her professionally. The

  woman had a rule or a form or a damn system for everything.

  Probably had them in bed, too. Probably had a typed list of bullet points, dos and don'ts, all with a mission statement overview.

  What the woman needed was some spontaneity, a little shake of the order of things. Not that he was interested in being the one to provide it.

  It was just that she'd looked so pretty that morning, and her hair had smelled good. Plus she'd had that sexy little smile going for her. Before he knew it, he'd been talking about taking her to Graceland.

  Nothing to worry about, he assured himself. She wouldn't go. It wasn't the sort of thing a woman like

  her did, just for the hell of it. As far as he could tell, she didn't do anything for the hell of it.

  They'd both forget he'd even brought it up.

  * * *

  Because she felt it was imperative, at least for the first six months of her management, Stella insisted

  on a weekly progress meeting with Roz.

  She'd have preferred a specific time for these meetings, and a specific location. But Roz was hard to

  pin down.

  She'd already held them in the propagation house and in the field. This time she cornered Roz in her

  own sitting room, where she'd be unlikely to escape.

  "I wanted to give you your weekly update."

  "Oh. Well, all right." Roz set aside a book on hybridizing that was thick as a railroad tie, and took off

  her frameless reading glasses. 'Time's zipping by. Ground's warming up."

  "I know. Daffodils are ready to pop. So much earlier than I'm used to. We've been selling a lot of bulbs. Back north, we'd sell most of those late summer or fall."

  "Homesick?"

  "Now and then, but less and less already. I can't say I'm sorry to be out of Michigan as we slog through February. They got six inches of snow yesterday, and I'm watching daffodils spearing up."

  Roz leaned back in the chair, crossed her sock-covered feet at the ankles. "Is there a problem?"

  "So much for the illusion that I conceal my emotions under a composed facade. No, no problem. I did

  the duty call home to my mother a little while ago. I'm still recovering."

  "Ah."

  It was a noncommittal sound, and Stella decided she could interpret it as complete non-interest or a tacit invitation to unload. Because she was brimming, she chose to unload.

  "I spent the almost fifteen minutes she spared me out of her busy schedule listening to her talk about her current boyfriend. She actually calls these men she sees boyfriends. She's fifty-eight years old, and she just had her fourth divorce two months ago. When she wasn't complaining that Rocky—and he's actually named Rocky— isn't attentive enough and won't take her to the Bahamas for a midwinter getaway, she was talking about her next chemical peel and whining about how her last Botox injection hurt. She never asked about the boys, and the only reference she made to the fact that I was living and working down here was to ask if I was tired of being around the jerk and his bimbo—her usual terms for my father

  and Jolene."

  When she'd run out of steam, Stella rubbed her hands over her face. "Goddamn it."

  "That's a lot of bitching, whining, and venom to pack into a quarter of an hour. She sounds like a very talented woman."

  It took Stella a minute—a minute where she let her hands slide into her lap so she could stare into Roz's face. Then she let her own head fall back with a peal of laughter.

  "Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, she's loaded with talent. Thanks."

  "No problem. My mama spent most of her time—at least the time we were on earth together—sighing wistfully over her health. Not that she meant to complain, so she said. I very nearly put that on her tombstone. 'Not That I Mean to Complain.'"

  "I could put 'I Don't Ask for Much' on my mother's."

  "There you go. Mine made such an impression on me that I went hell-bent in the opposite direction. I could probably cut off a limb, and you wouldn't hear a whimper out of me."

  "God, I guess I've done the same with mine. I'll have to think about that later. Okay, on to business. We're sold out of the mixed-bulb planters we forced. I don't know if you want to do others this late

  in the season."

  "Maybe a few. Some people l
ike to pick them up, already done, for Easter presents and so on."

  "All right. How about if I show Hayley how it's done? I know you usually do them yourself, but—"

  "No, it's a good job for her. I've been watching her." At Stella's expression, she inclined her head.

  "I don't like to look like I'm watching, but generally I am. I know what's going on in my place, Stella, even if I do occasionally miss crossing a T."

  "And I'm there to cross them, so that's all right."

  "Exactly. Still, I've left her primarily to you. She working out for you?"

  "More than. You don't have to tell her something twice, and when she claimed she learned fast she

  wasn't kidding. She's thirsty."

  "We've got plenty to drink around here."

  "She's personable with customers—friendly, never rushed. And she's not afraid to say she doesn't know, but she'll find out. She's outside right now, poking around your beds and shrubs. She wants to know

  what she's selling."

  She moved to the window as she spoke, to look out. It was nearly twilight, but there was Hayley

  walking the dog and studying the perennials. "At her age, I was planning my wedding. It seems like a million years ago."

  "At her age, I was raising two toddlers and was pregnant with Mason. Now that was a million years ago. And five minutes ago."

  "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 ponytail-ing 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'cf 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?"