Who had that sweet young girl been?
Nearly thirty years, she thought. And it had gone by in the snap of a finger.
How long had it been since a man had looked at her and told her she was beautiful? Bryce had, certainly, but he’d told her all manner of lies.
But Mitch had said it almost offhand, casually. It made it easier to believe he’d meant it.
And why did she care?
Men. She shook her head and sipped more wine. Why was she thinking of men?
Because, she realized with a half laugh, she had no one to share those sexy toes with. No one to touch her as she liked to be touched, to thrill her. To hold her in the night.
She’d done without those things, and was content. But every now and again, she missed having someone. And maybe she was missing it now, she admitted, because she’d spent an hour talking with an attractive man.
When the water turned tepid, she got out. She was humming as she dried off, creamed her skin, performed her nightly ritual with her moisturizer. Wrapped in her robe, she started into her bedroom.
She felt the chill even before she saw the figure standing in front of her terrace doors.
Not Stella, not this time. The Harper Bride stood in her simple gray gown, her bright hair in a crown of curls.
Roz had to swallow once, then she spoke easily. “It’s been some time since you’ve come to see me. I know I’m not pregnant, so that can’t be it. Amelia? Is that your name?”
There was no answer, nor had she expected one. But the Bride smiled, just a brief shadow of a smile, then faded away.
“Well.” Standing, Roz rubbed the warmth back into her arms. “I guess I’ll assume that’s your way of letting me know you approve that we’re getting back to work.”
She went back to the sitting room and took a calendar she’d begun keeping over the last winter out of her desk. She noted down the sighting on the day’s date.
Dr. Carnegie, she assumed, would be pleased she was keeping a record.
THREE
HE’D NEVER BEENmuch of a gardener. Then again, he’d lived in apartments most of his life. Still, he liked the look of plants and flowers, and had an admiration for those who knew what to do with them.
Rosalind Harper obviously knew what to do with them.
He’d seen some of the gardens on her estate this past June. But even their graceful beauty had paled next to his encounter with the Harper Bride. He’d always believed in the spirit of a person. Why else would he be so drawn to histories, to genealogies, to all those roots and branches of family trees? He believed that spirit could, and did, have influence and impact for generations, potentially centuries.
But he’d never believed in the tangibility, the physical presence of that spirit.
He knew better now.
It was difficult for someone with Mitch’s academic bent to rationalize, then absorb, something as fanciful as ghosts.
But he’d felt and he’d seen. He’d experienced, and there was no denying facts.
So now he was caught up. He could admit it. With his book finally put to bed, he could pour his energies and his time, his skills, into identifying the spirit that had—purportedly—walked the halls of Harper House for more than a century.
A few legalities to get out of the way, then he could dive in.
He turned into the parking area of In the Garden.
Interesting, he thought, that a place that certainly had its prime in spring and summer could look so attractive, so welcoming as December clicked away.
The sky was heavy with clouds that would surely bring a cold, ugly rain before it was done. Still there were things growing. He had no clue what they were, but they looked appealing. Rusty red bushes, lush evergreens with fat berries, silvery green leaves, brightly painted pansies. At least he recognized a pansy when he saw one.
There were industrious-looking piles of material—material he assumed one would need for gardening or landscaping. Long tables on the side that held plants he assumed could handle the chill, a small forest of trees and shrubs.
The low-slung building was fronted with a porch. He saw poinsettias and a small, trim Christmas tree strung with lights.
There were other cars in the lot. He watched a couple of men load a tree with a huge burlapped ball into the back of a truck. And a woman wheel out a red wagon loaded with poinsettias and shopping bags.
He walked up the ramp, crossed the porch to go inside.
There were a lot of wares, he noted. More than he’d expected. Pots, decorative garden stakes, tabletop trees already decorated, books, seeds, tools. Some were put together in gift baskets. Clever idea.
Forgetting his intention of seeking Roz out immediately, he began to wander. When one of the staff asked if he needed help, he just smiled, shook his head, and continued to browse around.
A lot went into putting a place like this together, Mitch mused as he studied shelves of soil additives, time released fertilizer pellets, herbal pest repellents. Time, labor, know-how, and, he thought, courage.
This was no hobby or little enterprise indulged in by a southern aristocrat. This was serious business. Another layer to the woman, he supposed, and he hadn’t begun to get to the center of her.
Beautiful, enigmatic Rosalind Harper. What man wouldn’t want the chance to peel off those layers and know who she really was?
As it was, he owed his sister and niece a big, sloppy thanks for sending him scrambling out to shop. Running into Roz, seeing her with her shopping cart, having an hour alone with her was the most intriguing personal time he’d had in months.
Hardly a surprise he was hoping for more, and that he’d made this trip to her garden center mainly to study yet another side of her.
He wandered through wide glass doors and found an exotic mass of houseplants. There were tabletop and garden fountains as well, and baskets of ferny and viney things hanging from hooks or standing on pedestals.
Through another set of doors was a kind of greenhouse, with dozens of long wooden tables. Most were empty, but some held plants. The pansies he recognized, and others he didn’t. Though, he noted, they were labeled and billed to be winter hardy.
He was debating whether to continue on or go back and ask for Roz when her son Harper came in from the outside.
“Hi. Need some help?” As he walked toward Mitch, recognition crossed his face. “Oh, hey, Dr. Carnegie.”
“Mitch. Nice to see you again, Harper,” he said as they shook hands.
“You, too. That was some game against Little Rock last week.”
“It was. Were you there?”
“Missed the first quarter, but the second half rocked. Josh ruled.”
Pride in his son beamed through him. “He had a good game. Missouri this week. I’ll have to catch that one on ESPN.”
“Same here. You see your son, tell him I said that three-pointer in the last five minutes was a thing of beauty.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You looking for something, or someone?”
“Someone. Your mother, actually.” You have her eyes, he thought. Her mouth, her coloring. “I was taking a little tour before I hunted her up.” As he looked around, Mitch slipped his hands in his pockets. “This is a hell of a place you’ve got here.”
“Keeps us busy. I just left her in the propagation house. I’ll take you back.”
“Appreciate it. I guess I didn’t think this kind of business would have so much going on this late in the year.”
