NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

 The house shimmered out of the mists. She thought: Thank God that’s over for another day. And she circled around to go in as she’d left.

 The house was still quiet, and lovely. And haunted.

 She’d showered and changed for work, and had started down the central stairs that bisected the wings when she heard the first stirrings.

 Stella’s boys getting ready for school, Lily fussing for her breakfast. Good sounds, Roz thought. Busy, family sounds she’d missed.

 Of course, she’d had the house full only a couple weeks earlier, with all her boys home for Thanksgiving and her birthday. Austin and Mason would be back for Christmas. A mother of grown sons couldn’t ask for better.

 God knew there’d been plenty of times when they were growing up that she’d yearned for some quiet. Just an hour of absolute peace where she had nothing more exciting to do than soak in a hot tub.

 Then she’d had too much time on her hands, hadn’t she? Too much quiet, too much empty space. So she’d ended up marrying some slick son of a bitch who’d helped himself to her money so he could impress the bimbos he’d cheated on her with.

 Spilled milk, Roz reminded herself. And it wasn’t constructive to dwell on it.

 She walked into the kitchen where David was already whipping something in a bowl, and the seductive fragrance of fresh coffee filled the air.

 “Morning, gorgeous. How’s my best girl?”

 “Up and at ’em anyway.” She went to a cupboard for a mug. “How was the date last night?”

 “Promising. He likes Grey Goose martinis and John Waters movies. We’ll try for a second round this weekend. Sit yourself down. I’m making French toast.”

 “French toast?” It was a personal weakness. “Damn it, David, I just ran three miles to keep my ass from falling all the way to the back of my knees, then you hit me with French toast.”

 “You have a beautiful ass, and it’s nowhere near the back of your knees.”

 “Yet,” she muttered, but she sat. “I passed Harper at the end of the drive. He finds out what’s on the menu, he’ll be sniffing at the back door.”

 “I’m making plenty.”

 She sipped her coffee while he heated up the skillet.

 He was movie-star handsome, only a year older than her own Harper, and one of the delights of her life. As a boy he’d run tame in her house, and now he all but ran it.

 “David . . . I caught myself thinking about Bryce twice this morning. What do you think that means?”

 “Means you need this French toast,” he said while he soaked thick slices of bread in his magic batter. “And you’ve probably got yourself a case of the mid-holiday blues.”

 “I kicked him out right before Christmas. I guess that’s it.”

 “And a merry one it was, with that bastard out in the cold. I wish ithad been cold,” he added. “Raining ice and frogs and pestilence.”

 “I’m going to ask you something I never did while it was going on. Why didn’t you ever tell me how much you disliked him?”

 “Probably the same reason you didn’t tell me how much you disliked that out-of-work actor with the fake Brit accent I thought I was crazy about a few years back. I love you.”

 “It’s a good reason.”

 He’d started a fire in the little kitchen hearth, so she angled her body toward it, sipped coffee, felt steady and solid.

 “You know if you could just age twenty years and go straight, we could live with each other in sin. I think that would be just fine.”

 “Sugar-pie.” He slid the bread into the skillet. “You’re the only girl in the world who’d tempt me.”

 She smiled, and resting her elbow on the table, set her chin on her fist. “Sun’s breaking through,” she stated. “It’s going to be a pretty day.”

 APRETTY DAY in early December meant a busy one for a garden center. Roz had so much to do she was grateful she hadn’t resisted the breakfast David had heaped on her. She missed lunch.

 In her propagation house she had a full table covered with seed trays. She’d already separated out specimens too young for pricking off. And now began the first transplanting with those she deemed ready.

 She lined up her containers, the cell packs, the individual pots or peat cubes. It was one of her favorite tasks, even more than sowing, this placing of a strong seedling in the home it would occupy until planting time.

 Until planting time, they were all hers.

 And this year she was experimenting with her own potting soil. She’d been trying out recipes for more than two years now, and believed she’d found a winner, both for indoor and outdoor use. The outdoor recipe should serve very well for her greenhouse purposes.

 From the bag she’d carefully mixed, she filled her containers, testing the moisture, and approved. With care she lifted out the young plants, holding them by their seed leaves. Transplanting, she made certain the soil line on the stem was at the same level it had been in the seed tray, then firmed the soil around the roots with experienced fingers.

 She filled pot after pot, labeling as she went and humming absently to the Enya playing gently from the portable CD player she considered essential equipment in a greenhouse.