But the sense of knowing who she was, in the heart of herself, had been mangled that day in September of 2001 and had never fully healed.
This was her start, this move back to Tennessee. This final and face-to-face interview with Rosalind Harper. If she didn't get the job—well, she'd get another. No one could accuse her of not knowing how
to work or how to provide a living for herself and her kids.
But, God, she wanted this job.
She straightened her shoulders and tried to ignore all the whispers of doubt muttering inside her head. She'd get this one.
She'd dressed carefully for this meeting. Businesslike but not fussy, in a navy suit and starched white blouse. Good shoes, good bag, she thought. Simple jewelry. Nothing flashy. Subtle makeup, to bring
out the blue of her eyes. She'd fought her hair into a clip at the nape of her neck. If she was lucky, the curling mass of it wouldn't spring out until the interview was over.
Rosalind was keeping her waiting. It was probably a mind game, Stella decided as her fingers twisted, untwisted her watchband. Letting her sit and stew in the gorgeous parlor, letting her take in the lovely antiques and paintings, the sumptuous view from the front windows.
All in that dreamy and gracious southern style that reminded her she was a Yankee fish out of water.
Things moved slower down here, she reminded herself. She would have to remember that this was a different pace from the one she was used to, and a different culture.
The fireplace was probably an Adams, she decided. That lamp was certainly an original Tiffany. Would they call those drapes portieres down here, or was that too Scarlett O'Hara? Were the lace panels under the drapes heirlooms?
God, had she ever been more out of her element? What was a middle-class widow from Michigan doing in all this southern splendor?
She steadied herself, fixed a neutral expression on her face, when she heard footsteps coming down the hall.
'Brought coffee.' It wasn't Rosalind, but the cheerful man who'd answered the door and escorted Stella to the parlor.
He was about thirty, she judged, average height, very slim. He wore his glossy brown hair waved around a movie-poster face set off by sparkling blue eyes. Though he wore black, Stella found nothing butlerlike about it. Much too artsy, too stylish. He'd said his name was David.
He set the tray with its china pot and cups, the little linen napkins, the sugar and cream, and the tiny vase with its clutch of violets on the coffee table.
'Roz got a bit hung up, but she'll be right along, so you just relax and enjoy your coffee. You comfortable in here?'
'Yes, very.'
'Anything else I can get you while you're waiting on her?'
'No. Thanks.'
'You just settle on in, then,' he ordered, and poured coffee into a cup. 'Nothing like a fire in January, is there? Makes you forget that a few months ago it was hot enough to melt the skin off your bones. What do you take in your coffee, honey?'
She wasn't used to being called 'honey' by strange men who served her coffee in magnificent parlors. Especially since she suspected he was a few years her junior.
'Just a little cream.' She had to order herself not to stare at his face—it was, well, delicious, with that full
mouth, those sapphire eyes, the strong cheekbones, the sexy little dent in the chin. 'Have you worked for Ms. Harper long?'
'Forever.' He smiled charmingly and handed her the coffee. 'Or it seems like it, in the best of all possible ways. Give her a straight answer to a straight question, and don't take any bullshit.' His grin widened. 'She hates it when people kowtow. You know, honey, I love your hair.'
'Oh.' Automatically, she lifted a hand to it. 'Thanks.'
'Titian knew what he was doing when he painted that color. Good luck with Roz,' he said as he started out. 'Great shoes, by the way.'
She sighed into her coffee. He'd noticed her hair and her shoes, complimented her on both. Gay. Too
bad for her side.
It was good coffee, and David was right. It was nice having a fire in January. Outside, the air was moist and raw, with a broody sky overhead. A woman could get used to a winter hour by the fire drinking good coffee out of— what was it? Meissen, Wedgwood? Curious, she held the cup up to read the maker's mark.
'It's Staffordshire, brought over by one of the Harper brides from England in the mid-nineteenth century.'
No point in cursing herself, Stella thought. No point in cringing about the fact that her redhead's complexion would be flushed with embarrassment. She simply lowered the cup and looked Rosalind Harper straight in the eye.
'It's beautiful.'
'I've always thought so.' She came in, plopped down in the chair beside Stella's, and poured herself a cup.
One of them, Stella realized, had miscalculated the dress code for the interview.
Rosalind had dressed her tall, willowy form in a baggy olive sweater and mud-colored work pants that were frayed at the cuffs. She was shoeless, with a pair of thick brown socks covering long, narrow feet. Which accounted, Stella supposed, for her silent entry into the room.
Her hair was short, straight, and black.
Though to date all their communications had been via phone, fax, or e-mail, Stella had Googled her.
She'd wanted background on her potential employer—and a look at the woman.
Newspaper and magazine clippings had been plentiful. She'd studied Rosalind as a child, through her youth. She'd marveled over the file photos of the stunning and delicate bride of eighteen and sympathized with the pale, stoic-looking widow of twenty-five.
There had been more, of course. Society-page stuff, gossipy speculation on when and if the widow would marry again. Then quite a bit of press surrounding the forging of the nursery business, her gardens, her love life. Her brief second marriage and divorce.
Stella's image had been of a strong-minded, shrewd woman. But she'd attributed those stunning looks to camera angles, lighting, makeup.
She'd been wrong.
At forty-six, Rosalind Harper was a rose in full bloom. Not the hothouse sort, Stella mused, but one that weathered the elements, season after season, and came back, year after year, stronger and more beautiful.
She had a narrow face angled with strong bones and deep, long eyes the color of single-malt scotch. Her mouth, full, strongly sculpted lips, was unpainted—as, to Stella's expert eye, was the rest of that lovely face.
There were lines, those thin grooves that the god of time reveled in stamping, fanning out from the corners of the dark eyes, but they didn't detract.
All Stella could think was, Could I be you, please, when I grow up? Only I'd like to dress better, if you don't mind.
'Kept you waiting, didn't I?'
Straight answers, Stella reminded herself. 'A little, but it's not much of a hardship to sit in this room and drink good coffee out of Staffordshire.'
'David likes to fuss. I was in the propagation house, got caught up.'
Her voice, Stella thought, was brisk. Not clipped—you just couldn't clip Tennessee—but it was to the point and full of energy. 'You look younger than I expected. You're what, thirty-three?'
'Yes.'
'And your sons are ... six and eight?'
'That's right.'
'You didn't bring them with you?'
'No. They're with my father and his wife right now.'
'I'm very fond of Will and Jolene. How are they?'
