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"And I've made some rough sketches of how we might change the layout to improve sales and highlight non-plant purchases. You have a prime location, excellent landscaping and signage, and a very appealing entrance."

  "I hear a 'but' coming on."

  "But..." Stella moistened her lips. "Your first-level retail area is somewhat disorganized. With some changes it would flow better into the secondary area and on through to your main plant facilities. Now,

  a functional organizational plan—"

  "A functional organizational plan. Oh, my God."

  "Take it easy, this really won't hurt. What you need is a chain of responsibility for your functional area. That's sales, production, and propagation. Obviously you're a skilled propagator, but at this point you need me to head production and sales. If we increase the volume of sales as I've proposed here—"

  "You did charts." There was a touch of wonder in Roz's voice. "And graphs. I'm ... suddenly afraid."

  "You are not," Stella said with a laugh, then looked at Roz's face. "Okay, maybe a little. But if you look at this chart, you see the nursery manager—that's me—and you as you're in charge of everything. Forked out from that is your propagator—you and, I assume, Harper; production manager, me; and sales manager—still me. For now, anyway. You need to delegate and/or hire someone to be in charge of container and/or field production. This section here deals with staff, job descriptions and responsibilities."

  "All right." On a little breath, Roz rubbed the back of her neck. "Before I give myself eyestrain reading all that, let me say that while I may consider hiring on more staff, Logan, my landscape designer, has a good handle on the field production at this point. I can continue to head up the container production. I didn't start this place to sit back and have others do all the work."

  "Great. Then at some point I'd like to meet with Logan so we can coordinate our visions."

  Roz's smile was thin, and just a little wicked. "That ought to be interesting."

  "Meanwhile, since we're both here, why don't we take my notes and sketches of the first-level sales section and go through it on the spot? You can see better what I have in mind, and it'll be simpler to explain."

  Simpler? Roz thought as she hopped down. She didn't think anything was going to be simpler now.

  But it sure as holy hell wasn't going to be boring.

  FOUR

  Everything was perfect. She worked long hours, but much of it was planning at this stage. There was

  little Stella loved more than planning. Unless it was arranging. She had a vision of things, in her head,

  of how things could and should be.

  Some might see it as a flaw, this tendency to organize and project, to nudge those visions of things into place even when—maybe particularly when—others didn't quite get the picture.

  But she didn't see it that way.

  Life ran smoother when everything was where it was meant to be.

  Her life had—she'd made certain of it—until Kevin's death. Her childhood had been a maze of contradictions, of confusions and irritations. In a very real way she'd lost her father at the age of three when divorce had divided her family.

  The only thing she clearly remembered about the move from Memphis was crying for her daddy.

  From that point on, it seemed she and her mother had butted heads over everything, from the color of paint on the walls to finances to how to spend holidays and vacations. Everything.

  Those same some people might say that's what happened with two headstrong women living in the same house. But Stella knew different. While she was practical and organized, her mother was scattered and spontaneous. Which accounted for the four marriages and three broken engagements.

  Her mother liked flash and noise and wild romance. Stella preferred quiet and settled and committed.

  Not that she wasn't romantic. She was just sensible about it.

  It had been both sensible and romantic to fall in love with Kevin. He'd been warm and sweet and steady. They'd wanted the same things. Home, family, future. He'd made her happy, made her feel safe and cherished. And God, she missed him.

  She wondered what he'd think about her coming here, starting over this way. He'd have trusted her.

  He'd always believed in her. They'd believed in each other.

  He'd been her rock, in a very real way. The rock that had given her a solid base to build on after a childhood of upheaval and discontent.

  Then fate had kicked that rock out from under her. She'd lost her base, her love, her most cherished friend, and the only person in the world who could treasure her children as much as she did.

  There had been times, many times, during the first months after Kevin's death when she'd despaired of ever finding her balance again.

  Now she was the rock for her sons, and she would do whatever she had to do to give them a good life.

  With her boys settled down for the night, and a low fire burning—she was definitely having a bedroom fireplace in her next house—she sat on the bed with her laptop.

  It wasn't the most businesslike way to work, but she didn't feel right asking Roz to let her convert one

  of the bedrooms into a home office.

  Yet.

  She could make do this way for now. In fact, it was cozy and for her, relaxing, to go over the order of business for the next day while tucked into the gorgeous old bed.

  She had the list of phone calls she intended to make to suppliers, the reorganization of garden accessories and the houseplants. Her new color-coordinated pricing system to implement. The new invoicing program to install.

  She had to speak with Roz about the seasonal employees. Who, how many, individual and group responsibilities.

  And she'd yet to corner the landscape designer. You'd think the man could find time in a damn week to return a phone call. She typed in "Logan Kitridge," holding and underlining the name.

  She glanced at the clock, reminded herself that she would put in a better day's work with a good night's sleep.

  She powered down the laptop, then carried it over to the dressing table to set it to charge. She really was going to need that home office.

  She went through her habitual bedtime routine, meticulously creaming off her makeup, studying her naked face in the mirror to see if the Time Bitch had snuck any new lines on it that day. She dabbed

  on her eye cream, her lip cream, her nighttime moisturizer—all of which were lined, according to point

  of use, on the counter. After slathering more cream on her hands, she spent a few minutes searching for gray hairs. The Time Bitch could be sneaky.

  She wished she was prettier. Wished her features were more even, her hair straight and a reasonable color. She'd dyed it brown once, and that had been a disaster. So, she'd just have to live with ...

  She caught herself humming, and frowned at herself in the mirror. What song was that? How strange

  to have it stuck in her head when she didn't even know what it was.

  Then she realized it wasn't stuck in her head. She heard it. Soft, dreamy singing. From the boys' room.

  Wondering what in the world Roz would be doing singing to the boys at eleven at night, Stella reached

  for the connecting door.

  When she opened it, the singing stopped. In the subtle glow of the Harry Potter night-light, she could

  see her sons in their beds.

  "Roz?" she whispered, stepping in.

  She shivered once. Why was it so cold in there? She moved, quickly and quietly to the terrace doors, checked and found them securely closed, as were the windows. And the hall door, she thought with another frown.

  She could have sworn she'd heard something. Felt something. But the chill had already faded, and there was no sound in the room but her sons' steady breathing.

  She tucked up their blankets as she did every night, brushed kisses on both their heads.

  And left the connecting doors open.

  * * *

  By morning she'd brushed it
off. Luke couldn't find his lucky shirt, and Gavin got into a wrestling match with Parker on their before-school walk and had to change his. As a result, she barely had time for morning coffee and the muffin David pressed on her.

  "Will you tell Roz I went in early? I want to have the lobby area done before we open at ten."

  "She left an hour ago."

  "An hour ago?" Stella looked at her watch. Keeping up with Roz had become Stella's personal mission—and so far she was failing. "Does she sleep?"

  "With her, the early bird doesn't just catch the worm, but has time to saute it with a nice plum sauce for breakfast."

  "Excuse me, but eeuw. Gotta run." She dashed for the doorway, then stopped. "David, everything's

  going okay with the kids? You'd tell me otherwise, right?"

  "Absolutely. We're having nothing but fun. Today, after school, we're going to practice running with scissors, then find how many things we can roughhouse with that can poke our eyes out. After that, we've moving on to flammables."

  "Thanks. I feel very reassured." She bent down to give Parker a last pat. "Keep an eye on this guy,"

  she told him.

  * * *

  Logan Kitridge was pressed for time. Rain had delayed his personal project to the point where he was going to have to postpone some of the fine points— again—to meet professional commitments.

  He didn't mind so much. He considered landscaping a perpetual work in progress. It was never finished.

  It should never be finished. And when you worked with Nature, Nature was the boss. She was fickle

  and tricky, and endlessly fascinating.

  A man had to be continually on his toes, be ready to flex, be willing to compromise and swing with her moods. Planning in absolutes was an exercise in frustration, and to his mind there were enough other things to be frustrated about.

  Since Nature had deigned to give him a good, clear day, he was taking it to deal with his personal project. It meant he had to work alone—he liked that better in any case— and carve out time to swing by the job site and check on his two-man crew.

  It meant he had to get over to Roz's place, pick up the trees he'd earmarked for his own use, haul them back to his place, and get them in the ground before noon.

  Or one. Two at the latest.

  Well, he'd see how it went.

  The one thing he couldn't afford to carve out time for was this new manager Roz had taken on. He couldn't figure out why Roz had hired a manager in the first place, and for God's sake a Yankee. It seemed to him that Rosalind Harper knew how to run her business just fine and didn't need some fast-talking stranger screwing with the system.

  He liked working with Roz. She was a woman who got things done, and who didn't poke her nose into

  his end of things any more than was reasonable. She loved the work, just as he did, had an instinct for it. So when she did make a suggestion, you tended to listen and weigh it in.

  She paid well and didn't hassle a man over every detail.

  He could tell, just tell, that this manager was going to be nothing but bumps and ruts in his road.

  Wasn't she already leaving messages for him in that cool Yankee voice about time management, invoice systems, and equipment inventory?

  He didn't give a shit about that sort of thing, and he wasn't going to start giving one now.

  He and Roz had a system, damn it. One that got the job done and made the client happy.

  Why mess with success?

  He drove his full-size pickup through the parking area, wove through the piles of mulch and sand, the landscape timbers, and around the side loading area.

  He'd already eyeballed and tagged what he wanted— but before he loaded them up, he'd take one more look around. Plus there were some young evergreens in the field and a couple of hemlocks in the balled and burlapped area that he thought he could use.

  Harper had grafted him a couple of willows and a hedgerow of peonies. They'd be ready to dig in this spring, along with the various pots of cuttings and layered plants Roz had helped him with.

  He moved through the rows of trees, then turned around and backtracked.

  This wasn't right, he thought. Everything was out of place, changed around. Where were his dogwoods? Where the hell were the rhododendrons, the mountain laurels he'd tagged? Where was his goddamn frigging magnolia?

  He scowled at a pussy willow, then began a careful, step-by-step search through the section.

  It was all different. Trees and shrubs were no longer in what he'd considered an interesting, eclectic mix of type and species, but lined up like army recruits, he decided. Alphabetized, for Christ's sweet sake.

  In frigging Latin.

  Shrubs were segregated, and organized in the same anal fashion.

  He found his trees and, stewing, carted them to his truck. Muttering to himself, he decided to head into the field, dig up the trees he wanted there. They'd be safer at his place. Obviously.

  Bur first he was going to hunt up Roz and get this mess straightened out.

  * * *

  Standing on a stepladder, armed with a bucket of soapy water and a rag, Stella attacked the top of the shelf she'd cleared off. A good cleaning, she decided, and it would be ready for her newly planned display. She envisioned it filled with color-coordinated decorative pots, some mixed plantings scattered among them. Add other accessories, like raffia twine, decorative watering spikes, florist stones and marbles, and so on, and you'd have something.

  At point of purchase, it would generate impulse sales.

  She was moving the soil additives, fertilizers, and animal repellents to the side wall. Those were basics, not impulse. Customers would walk back there for items of that nature, and pass the wind chimes she was going to hang, the bench and concrete planter she intended to haul in. With the other changes, it would all tie together, and with the flow, draw customers into the houseplant section, across to the patio pots, the garden furniture, all before they moved through to the bedding plants.

  With an hour and a half until they opened, and if she could shanghai Harper into helping her with the heavy stuff, she'd have it done.

  She heard footsteps coming through from the back, blew her hair out of her eyes. "Making progress,"

  she began. "I know it doesn't look like it yet, but..."

  She broke off when she saw him.

  Even standing on the ladder, she felt dwarfed. He had to be six-five. All tough and rangy and fit in faded jeans with bleach stains splattered over one thigh. He wore a flannel shirt jacket-style over a white T-shirt and a pair of boots so dinged and scored she wondered he didn't take pity and give them a decent burial.

  His long, wavy, unkempt hair was the color she'd been shooting for the one time she'd dyed her own.

  She wouldn't have called him handsome—everything about him seemed rough and rugged. The hard mouth, the hollowed cheeks, the sharp nose, the expression in his eyes. They were green, but not like Kevin's had been. These were moody and deep, and seemed somehow hot under the strong line of brows.

  No, she wouldn't have said handsome, but arresting, in a big and tough sort of way. The sort of tough that looked like a bunched fist would bounce right off him, doing a lot more damage to the puncher

  than the punchee.

  She smiled, though she wondered where Roz was, or Harper. Or somebody.

  "I'm sorry. We're not open yet this morning. Is there something I can do for you?"

  Oh, he knew that voice. That crisp, cool voice that had left him annoying messages about functional organizational plans and production goals.

  He'd expected her to look like she'd sounded—a usual mistake, he supposed. There wasn't much cool

  and crisp about that wild red hair she was trying to control with that stupid-looking kerchief, or the wariness in those big blue eyes.

  "You moved my damn trees."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Well, you ought to be. Don't do it again."

  "I don't know what you're talki
ng about." She kept a grip on the bucket—just in case—and stepped

  down the ladder. "Did you order some trees? If I could have your name, I'll see if I can find your

  order. We're implementing a new system, so—"

  "I don't have to order anything, and I don't like your new system. And what the hell are you doing in here? Where is everything?"

  His voice sounded local to her, with a definite edge of nasty impatience. "I think it would be best if you came back when we're open. Winter hours start at ten a.m. If you'd leave me your name..." She edged toward the counter and the phone.

  "It's Kitridge, and you ought to know since you've been nagging me brainless for damn near a week."

  "I don't know ... oh. Kitridge." She relaxed, fractionally. "The landscape designer. And I haven't been nagging," she said with more heat when her brain caught up. "I've been trying to contact you so we

  could schedule a meeting. You haven't had the courtesy to return my calls. I certainly hope you're not

  as rude with clients as you are with coworkers."

  "Rude? Sister, you haven't seen rude."

  "I have two sons," she snapped back. "I've seen plenty of rude. Roz hired me to put some order into

  her business, to take some of the systemic load off her shoulders, to—"

  "Systemic?" His gaze rose to the ceiling like a man sending out a prayer. "Jesus, are you always going

  to talk like that?"

  She took a calming breath. "Mr. Kitridge, I have a job to do. Part of that job is dealing with the landscaping arm of this business. It happens to be a very important and profitable arm."

  "Damn right. And it's my frigging arm."

  "It also happens to be ridiculously disorganized and apparently run like a circus. I've been finding little scraps of paper and hand-scribbled orders and invoices—if you can call them that—all week."

  "So?"

  "So, if you'd bothered to return my calls and arrange for a meeting, I could have explained to you how this arm of the business will now function."

  "Oh, is that right?" That west Tennessee tone took on a soft and dangerous hue. "You're going to

  explain it to me."

  "That's exactly right. The system I'm implementing will, in the end, save you considerable time and