NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

 “I don’t remember them at all. They each had children. Let’s see, that would be my cousins Frank and Esther—both gone years now—and their children, of course. Ah, Lucerne, Bobby, and Miranda. Bobby was killed in World War II. Lucerne and Miranda are both gone now, too. But they all had children, and some of them have children now. Then there’s Owen, Yancy, ah . . . Marylou. Marylou’s still living, down in Biloxi where she suffers from dementia and is tended by her children, best they can. Yancy, I couldn’t say. He ran off to join a carnival years back, and no one heard from him again. Owen’s a fire-and-brimstone minister, last I heard, in Macon, Georgia. He wouldn’t talk to you about ghosts, I can promise you.”

 “You never know.”

 She made a noncommittal sound as she worked. “And my cousin Clarise, who never married. She has managed to live to a ripe age. Too sour not to. She’s living in a retirement village, other side of the city. She doesn’t speak to me.”

 “Because?”

 “You do ask questions.”

 “Part of the process.”

 “I’m not sure I remember exactly why she stopped speaking to me. I recall she didn’t appreciate that my grandparents left everything to me and my daddy. But they weremy grandparents, after all. My father’s parents, while she was only a niece to them. She came to visit here when the boys were young. I believe that’s when she cut me off, or we cut each other off, which is more accurate. She didn’t care for my style of raising the boys, and I didn’t care for her criticism of them, or me.”

 “Before the family rift, do you recall if she ever talked to you about the Bride?”

 “I don’t, no. Cousin Rissy’s conversations mostly consisted of complaints or her own irritable observations. And I know damn well she pilfered things from the house. Little bits and pieces. I can’t say I’m sorry we’re not on speaking terms.”

 “Will she talk to me?”

 Thoughtfully, Roz turned to him, studied his face. “She might, especially if she thinks I’d prefer she didn’t. If you decide to go see the dried-up old bat, be sure you take her flowers, and chocolate. You spring for Godiva and she’ll be very impressed with you. Then you turn on the charm. Be sure to call her Miss Harper, until she says otherwise. She uses the family name, and is very formal about everything. She’ll ask about your people. If you happen to have any ancestors who fought in the War Between the States, be sure to mention it. Any Yankees in your tree, disavow them.”

 He had to laugh. “I get the type. I have a great-aunt who’s on the same page.”

 She reached under the worktable to a cooler, took out two bottles of chilled water. “You look hot. I’m so used to it, I don’t notice.”

 “Working in all this humidity every day must be what gives your skin that English rose look.” Absently he reached out, flicked a finger over her cheek. When her brows shot up again, he eased back, just a step.

 “Sorry. You had a little dirt . . .”

 “Something else I’m used to.”

 “So . . .” He reminded himself to keep his hands otherwise occupied. “I guess from what I saw the other day, you’re ready for Christmas.”

 “Near enough. You?”

 “Not even close, though I owe you big—once again—for the gift for my sister.”

 “You went for the cashmere, then.”

 “Something the salesgirl called a twinset, and she said no woman could have too many of them.”

 “Absolutely true.”

 “Okay. So, I’m going to put some effort into the rest of it over the next few days. Get the tree out, fight with the lights.”

 “Get it out?” A look that might have been pity, might have been derision covered her face. “I assume that means you’ve got a fake tree.”

 His hands slid into his pockets, his smile spread slowly. “It’s simplest. Apartment life.”

 “And from the state of that dieffenbachia, probably for the best.”

 “State of the what?”

 “The plant you were slowly murdering. The one I took when I came to your place to meet you the first time.”

 “Oh. Oh, right.” When she’d been wearing that lady suit, he thought, and those high heels that had made her legs look ten feet long. “How’s it doing?”

 “It’s just fine now, and don’t think I’ll be giving it back.”

 “Maybe I could just visit it sometime.”

 “That could be arranged. We’re having a holiday party at the house, a week from Saturday. Nine o’clock. You’re welcome to come, if you like. And bring a guest, of course.”

 “I’d like that. Would you mind if I went over to the house now, took a look at the library? Get a ground floor started?”

 “No, that’ll be fine. I’ll just call David and let him know you’re coming.”

 “Good. I’ll go on, then, and get out of your way. I appreciate the time.”

 “I’ve plenty of it.”

 He didn’t see how. “I’ll call you later, then. You have a strong place here, Rosalind.”

 “Yes, I do.”

 When he’d gone out, she set her tools aside to drink deeply from the water bottle. She wasn’t a silly young girl who was flustered and giddy at the touch of a man’s hand on her skin. But it had felt strange and oddly sweet, that careful brush of his fingers over her cheek, and that look in his eyes when he touched her.