forty-seventh birthday had to mind her health. She ran to keep strong, as she desired and needed strength. And she ran for vanity. Her body would never again be what it had been at twenty, or even thirty, but, by God, it would be the best body she could manage at forty-seven.
She had no husband, no lover, but she did have an image to uphold. She was a Harper, and Harpers had their pride.
But, Jesus, maintenance was a bitch.
Wearing sweats against the dawn chill, she slipped out of her bedroom by the terrace door. The house was sleeping still. Her house that had been too empty was now occupied again, and rarely completely quiet any longer.
There was David, her surrogate son, who kept her house in order, kept her entertained when she needed entertaining, and stayed out of her way when she needed solitude.
No one knew her moods quite like David.
And there was Stella, and her two precious boys. It had been a good day, Roz thought as she limbered up on the terrace, when she’d hired Stella Rothchild to manage her nursery.
Of course, Stella would be moving before much longer and taking those sweet boys with her. Still, once she was married to Logan—and wasn’t that a fine match—they’d only be a few miles away.
Hayley would still be here, infusing the house with all that youth and energy. It had been another stroke of luck, and a vague and distant family connection, that had Hayley, then six-months pregnant, landing on her doorstep. In Hayley she had the daughter she’d secretly longed for, and the bonus of an honorary grandchild with the darling little Lily.
She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been, Roz thought, until those girls had come along to fill the void. With two of her own three sons moved away, the house had become too big, too quiet. And a part of her dreaded the day when Harper, her firstborn, her rock, would leave the guesthouse a stone’s throw from the main.
But that was life. No one knew better than a gardener that life never stayed static. Cycles were necessary, for without them there was no bloom.
She took the stairs down at an easy jog, enjoying the way the early mists shrouded her winter gardens. Look how pretty her lambs ear was with its soft silvery foliage covered in dew. And the birds had yet to bother the bright fruit on her red chokeberry.
Walking to give her muscles time to warm, and to give herself the pleasure of the gardens, she skirted around the side of the house to the front.
She increased to a jog on the way down the drive, a tall, willowy woman with a short, careless cap of black hair. Her eyes, a honeyed whiskey brown, scanned the grounds—the towering magnolias, the delicate dogwoods, the placement of ornamental shrubs, the flood of pansies she’d planted only weeks before, and the beds that would wait a bit longer to break into bloom.
To her mind, there were no grounds in western Tennessee that could compete with Harper House. Just as there was no house that could compare with its dignified elegance.
Out of habit, she turned at the end of the drive, jogged in place to study it in the pearly mists.
It stood grandly, she thought, with its melding of Greek Revival and Gothic styles, the warm yellow stone mellow against the clean white trim. Its double staircase rose up to the balcony wrapping the second level, and served as a crown for the covered entryway on the ground level.
She loved the tall windows, the lacy woodwork on the rail of the third floor, the sheer space of it, and the heritage it stood for.
She had prized it, cared for it, worked for it, since it had come into her hands at her parents’ death. She had raised her sons there, and when she’d lost her husband, she’d grieved there.
One day she would pass it to Harper as it had passed to her. And she thanked God for the absolute knowledge that he would tend it and love it just as she did.
What it had cost her was nothing compared with what it gave, even in this single moment, standing at the end of the drive, looking back through the morning mists.
But standing there wasn’t going to get her three miles done. She headed west, keeping close to the side of the road, though there’d be little to no traffic this early.
To take her mind off the annoyance of exercise, she started reviewing her list of things to do that day.
She had some good seedlings going for annuals that should be ready to have their seed leaves removed. She needed to check all the seedlings for signs of damping off. Some of the older stock would be ready for pricking off.
And, she remembered, Stella had asked for more amaryllis, more forced-bulb planters, more wreaths and poinsettias for the holiday sales. Hayley could handle the wreaths. The girl had a good hand at crafting.
Then there were the field-grown Christmas trees and hollies to deal with. Thank God she could leave that end to Logan.
She had to check with Harper, to see if he had any more of the Christmas cacti he’d grafted ready to go. She wanted a couple for herself.
She juggled all the nursery business in her mind even as she passed In the Garden. It was tempting—it always was—to veer off the road onto that crushed-stone entryway, to take an indulgent solo tour of what she’d built from the ground up.
Stella had gone all out for the holidays, Roz noted with pleasure, grouping green, pink, white, and red poinsettias into a pool of seasonal color in the front of the low-slung house that served as the entrance to the retail space. She’d hung yet another wreath on the door, tiny white lights around it, and the small white pine she’d had dug from the field stood decorated on the front porch.
White-faced pansies, glossy hollies, hardy sage added more interest and would help ring up those holiday sales.
Resisting temptation, Roz continued down the road.
She had to carve out some time, if not today, then certainly later this week, to finish up her Christmas shopping. Or at least put a bigger dent in it. There were holiday parties to attend, and the one she’d decided to give. It had been awhile since she’d opened the house to entertain in a big way.
The divorce, she admitted, was at least partially to blame for that. She’d hardly felt like hosting parties when she’d felt stupid and stung and more than a bit mortified by her foolish, and mercifully brief, union to a liar and a cheat.
But it was time to put that aside now, she reminded herself, just as she’d put him aside. The fact that Bryce Clerk was back in Memphis made it only more important that she live her life, publically and privately, exactly as she chose.
At the mile-and-a-half mark, a point she judged by an old, lightning-struck hickory, she started back. The thin fog had dampened her hair, her sweatshirt, but her muscles felt warm and loose. It was a bitch, she mused, that everything they said about exercise was true.
She spotted a deer meandering across the road, her coat thickened for winter, her eyes on alert by the intrusion of a human.
You’re beautiful, Roz thought, puffing a little on that last half mile. Now, stay the hell out of my gardens. Another note went in her file to give her gardens another treatment of repellant before the deer and her pals decided to come around for a snack.
Roz was just making the turn into the drive when she heard muffled footsteps, then saw the figure coming her way. Even with the mists she had no trouble identifying the other early riser.
They both stopped, jogged in place, and she grinned at her son.
“Up with the worms this morning.”
“Thought I’d be up and out early enough to catch you.” He scooped a hand through his dark hair. “All that celebrating for Thanksgiving, then your birthday, I figured I’d better work off the excess before Christmas hits.”
“You never gain an ounce. It’s annoying.”
“Feel soft.” He rolled his shoulders, then his eyes, whiskey brown like hers, and laughed. “Besides, I gotta keep up with my mama.”
He looked like her. There was no denying she’d stamped herself on his face. But when he smiled, she saw his father. “That’ll be the day, pal of mine. How far you going?”
