Black Rose gt-2 Read online

  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.”

  “Loud and clear,” he responded, watching her peruse the shelves. “And since you’re back to calling me Dr. Carnegie, I’d hazard a guess you’re on her side. I sent flowers,” he added in an aggrieved tone that had her lips twitching. “Okay, late, but I sent them. Two dozen roses, but does she cut me a break?”

  He jammed his hands into his back pockets and scowled at Malibu Barbie. “I couldn’t get back to Charlotte for Thanksgiving. Does that make me a demon from hell?”

  “It sounds like your sister loves you very much.”

  “She’ll be planning my immediate demise if I don’t get this gift today, and have it FedExed tomorrow.”

  She picked up a doll, set it down again. “Then I assume your niece’s birthday is tomorrow, and you waited until the eleventh hour to rush out and find something for her.”

  He said nothing for a moment, then laid a hand on her shoulder so that she looked over, and up at him. “Rosalind, do you want me to die?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel responsible. But we’ll find something, then you can get it wrapped up and shoot it off.”

  “Wrapped. God almighty, it has to be wrapped?”

  “Of course it has to be wrapped. And you have to buy a nice card, something pretty and age-appropriate. Hmm. I like this.” She tapped a huge box.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a house-building toy. See, it has all these modular pieces so you can design and redesign your own doll house, with furnishings. It comes with dolls, and a little dog. Fun, and educational. You hit on two levels.”

  “Great. Good. Wonderful. I owe you my life.”

  “Aren’t you a little out of your milieu?” she asked when he took the box off the shelf. “You live right in the city. Plenty of shops right there.”

  “That’s the problem. Too many of them. And the malls? They’re like a labyrinth of retail hell. I have mall fear. So I thought, hey, Wal-Mart. At least everything’s all under one roof. I can get the kid taken care of and get . . . what the hell was it? Laundry soap. Yeah, I need laundry soap and something else, that I wrote down . . .” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a PDA. “Here.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get to it then. Don’t forget the wrapping paper, ribbon, a big bow, and a pretty card.”

  “Hold on, hold on.” With the stylus he added the other items. “Bow. You can just buy them ready-made and slap it on, right?”

  “That will do, yes. Good luck.”

  “No. Wait, wait.” He shoved the PDA back in his pocket, shifted the box. His green eyes seemed calmer now and focused on her. “I was going to get in touch with you anyway. Are you finished in here?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Good. Let me grab what I need, then I’ll meet you at the checkout. I’ll help you haul your load out to your car, then take you to lunch.”

  “It’s nearly four. A little late for lunch.”

  “Oh.” He looked absently at his watch to confirm the time. “I think time must warp in places like this so you could actually spend the rest of your natural life wandering aimlessly without realizing it. Anyway. A drink then. I’d really like to have a conversation about the project.”

  “All right. There’s a little place called Rosa’s right across the way. I’ll meet you there in a half hour.”

  BUT HE WASwaiting at the checkout. Patiently, from all appearances. Then insisted on helping her load her bags in her car. He took one look at what was already stacked in the back of her Durango and s
aid, “Holy Mother of God.”

  “I don’t shop often, so when I do I make it count.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “There are less than three weeks left till Christmas.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to shut up.” He hefted the last bag inside. “My car’s that way.” He gestured vaguely toward their left. “I’ll meet you.”

  “Fine. Thanks for the help.”

  The way he wandered off made her think he wasn’t entirely sure just where he’d parked. She thought he should’ve plugged the location into that little personal data thingy he had in his pocket. The idea made her chuckle as she drove over to the restaurant.

  She didn’t mind a certain amount of absentmindedness. To her it simply indicated the person probably had a lot in his head, and it took a little longer to find just what he was after. She’d hadn’t hired him out of the blue, after all. She’d researched Mitchell Carnegie and had read or skimmed some of his books. He was good at what he did, he was local, and though he was pricey, he hadn’t balked—overmuch—about the prospect of researching and identifying a ghost.

  She parked, then walked into the lounge area. Her first thought was to order a glass of iced tea, or some coffee. Then she decided, the hell with that. She deserved a nice glass of wine after such a successful shopping expedition.

  While she waited for Mitch, she called the nursery on her cell phone to let them know she wouldn’t be back in, unless she was needed.

  “Everything’s fine here,” Hayley told her. “You must be buying out the stores.”

  “I did. Then I happened to run into Dr. Carnegie at Wal-Mart—”

  “Dr. Hottie? How come I never run into hunks at Wal-Mart?”

  “Your day will come, I’m sure. In any case, we’re going to have a drink here and discuss, I assume, our little project.”

  “Cool. You ought to spin it out over dinner, Roz.”

  “It’s not a date.” But she did pull out her lipstick and slide a little pale coral on her lips. “It’s an impromptu meeting. If anything comes up, you can give me a call. I should be heading home within the hour anyway.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. And, hey, you’ve both got to eat sometime, somewhere, so why not—”

  “Here he comes now, so we’ll get started. I’ll fill everyone in later. Bye now.”

  Mitch slipped into the booth across from her. “This was handy, wasn’t it? What would you like?”

  She ordered a glass of wine, and he coffee, black. Then he flipped open the bar menu and added antipasto. “You’ve got to need some sustenance after a shopping safari like that. How’ve you been?”

  “Very well, thanks. How about you?”

  “Good, now that the book’s out of my hair.”

  “I never asked you what it was about.”

  “A history and study of Charles-Pierre Baudelaire.” He waited a beat, noted her questioning lift of brows. “Nineteenth-century poet. Wild man of Paris—druggie, very controversial, with a life full of drama. He was found guilty of blasphemy and obscenity, squandered his inheritance, translated Poe, wrote dark, intense poetry, and, long after his death from a sexually transmitted disease, is looked on by many to be the poet of modern civilization—and others as being one sick bastard.”

  She smiled. “And which camp do you pitch your tent in?”

  “He was brilliant, and twisted. And believe me, you don’t want to get me started, so I’ll just say he was a fascinating and frustrating subject to write about.”

  “Are you happy with the work you did?”

  “I am. Happier yet,” he said as their drinks were served, “not to be living with Baudelaire day and night.”

  “It’s like that, isn’t it, like living with a ghost.”

  “Nice segue.” He toasted her with his coffee. “Let me say, first, I appreciate your patience. I’d hoped to have this book wrapped up weeks ago, but one thing led to another.”

  “You warned me at the start you wouldn’t be available for some time.”

  “Hadn’t expected it to be quite this much time. And I’ve given quite a bit of thought to your situation. Hard not to after that experience last spring.”

  “It was a more personal introduction to the Harper Bride than I’d planned.”

  “You’ve said she’s been . . . subdued,” he decided, “since then.”

  “She still sings to the boys and to Lily. But none of us has seen her since that night. And to be frank, it hasn’t been patience so much as being swamped myself. Work, home, a wedding coming up, a new baby in the house. And after that night, it seemed like all of us needed a little break.”

  “I’d like to get started now, really started, if that works for you.”

  “I suppose it was fate that we ran into each other like this, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. What will you need?”

  “Everything you’ve got. Hard data, records, journals, letters, family stories. Nothing’s too obscure. I appreciate the family photos you had copied for me. It just helps me immerse, you could say, if I have photos, and letters or diaries written in the hands of the people I’m researching.”

  “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 ca
re 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.”