Letting her head fall back, Roz laughed herself breathless. “Oh, she would. I can just hear it. Well, she can balderdash all she likes, but she’s lying. And I know damn well she should have letters, maybe even journals, quite a number of photographs. There were things she took from the house when my father died. She’ll deny it, but I know she helped herself here and there. We had one of our famous set-tos when I caught her taking a pair of candlesticks from the parlor, while my daddy was still being waked. Vicious old badger.”
“I don’t imagine she walked out with them.”
“Not that time, anyway. I didn’t care about the damn candlesticks—ugly things—but my daddy wasn’t even in the
He rubbed his cheek over her hair as if to soothe, but she felt his body shaking with laughter.
“Oh, go ahead and let it out. I know how I sound.”
“I love how you sound, but back to the subject. She might have taken other things, things you didn’t see her with.”
“I know she did, greedy vampire bat that she is. There was a picture of my grandfather as a boy, in a silver frame—Edwardian—a Waterford compote, two Dresden shepherdesses—oh, and other things that vanished after she paid calls.”
“Hmm.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, lazily soaped her arm. “What do you know about this Jane Paulson?”
“Not very much. I’ve met her at various weddings and funerals, that sort of thing, but I barely have a picture of her in my head. And when I do, I see this sweet-faced little girl. She’s nearly twenty-five years younger than I am, if my math is right.”
“Made me think of a puppy who’s been kicked often enough to keep its tail between its legs.”
“If she’s living with Cousin Rissy, I can only imagine. Poor thing.”
“She knows something, though.”
Curious, Roz turned her head so she could see Mitch. “Why do you say?”
“Something went over her face when Clarise claimed not to have any journals, any diaries. As if she were going to be helpful and say: Oh, don’t you remember the one . . . whatever. Then she caught herself, folded up. If I were a betting man, I’d wager heavy that Prissy Rissy has some information we could use.”
“And if she doesn’t want to share it, she’d burn it before she’d give it to you. She’s that perverse.”
“Can’t if she doesn’t know I know she’s got it—and if we can persuade Jane to help us out.”
“What are you going to do, seduce the poor girl?”
“Nope.” He bent down to kiss Roz’s wet shoulder. “You are. What I was thinking was that the girl could use a friend—maybe the prospect of another job. If you were able to contact her without Clarise knowing, give her some options . . .”
“And try to recruit her.” Pursing her lips, Roz thought it through. “It’s very sneaky, very deceptive. And I like it very much.”
He slid his hands up, covered her breasts with them, and with frothy bubbles. “I was hoping you would.”
“I don’t mind playing dirty.” With a wicked gleam in her eye, she squirmed around until she faced him. “Let’s practice,” she said, and dunked them both.
SIXTEEN
UNDER THE HUMMINGchaos of spring season was a kind of simmering stress for the grower, especially if she happened to be the owner as well. Had she prepared enough flats, was she offering the right types and numbers of perennials?
Would the blooms be big enough, showy enough to attract the customers? Were the plants strong enough, healthy enough to maintain the reputation she’d built for quality?
Had they created enough baskets, pots, planters—or too many?
What about the shrubs and trees? Would the sidelines compliment the plants or detract from those sales?
Were the mulch colorants she’d decided to carry a mistake, or would her customer base enjoy the variety?
She left a great deal of this in Stella’s hands; that’s why she’d hired a manager. Roz wanted to compartmentalize many of the details—in someone else’s compartment. But In the Garden was still her baby, and she experienced all the pride and worry a mother might over any growing child.
She could enjoy the crowds and confusion, the customers wheeling their wagons or flatbeds around the tables, over gravel and concrete to select just the right plants for their gardens or patio pots. She could and did enjoy consulting and recommending, and used that to balance out the little pang she experienced at the start of high season when she watched the plants she’d nurtured ride off to new homes.
At this time of year she often lectured herself about being sentimental over what she’d grown. But they weren’t, and never could be, merely products to her. The weeks, months, often years spent nurturing specimens formed a connection for her that was very personal.
For the first few days of every spring season, she mourned the parting. Then she got down to business.
