NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

GARBED IN Asuit and tie and armed with a dozen yellow roses and a box of Godiva chocolates, Mitch rode the elevator to Clarise Harper’s third-floor apartment in the retirement complex. His letter from her was in his briefcase, and the formal, lady of the South tone had given him a broad clue that this was a woman who would expect a suit—and a floral tribute—just as Roz had instructed.

 She wasn’t agreeing to a meeting, he thought, but was, very definitely, granting him an audience.

 No mention of Rosalind, or any of the occupants of Harper House, had been made in their correspondence.

 He rang the bell and prepared to be charming and persuasive.

 The woman who answered was young, hardly more than twenty, dressed in a simple and conservative black skirt, white blouse, and low-heeled practical shoes. Her brown hair was worn in what he supposed women still called a bun—a style that did nothing to flatter her young, thin face.

 Mitch’s first impression was of a quiet, well-behaved puppy who would fetch the slippers without leaving a single tooth mark on the leather.

 “Dr. Carnegie. Please come in, Miss Harper is expecting you.”

 Her voice suited the rest of her, quiet and well-bred.

 “Thank you.” He stepped inside, directly into the living room furnished with a hodgepodge of antiques. His collector’s eye spotted a George III secretaire chest and a Louis XVI display cabinet among the various styles and eras.

 The side chairs were probably Italian, the settee Victorian—and all looked miserably uncomfortable.

 There was a great deal of statuary, heavy on the shepherdess and cat and swan themes, and vases decorated within an inch of their lives. All the china and porcelain and crystal sat on stiffly starched doilies or runners.

 The walls were painted a candy pink, and the tweed beige wall-to-wall was buried under several floral area rugs.

 The air smelled like the inside of a cedar chest that had been bathed in lavender water.

 Everything gleamed. He imagined if an errant mote of dust dared invade such grandeur, the quiet puppy would chase it down and banish it instantly.

 “Please, sit down. I’ll inform Miss Harper that you’re here.”

 “Thank you, Miss . . .”

 “Paulson. Jane Paulson.”

 “Paulson?” He flipped through the family tree in his mental files. “A relative, then, on Miss Harper’s father’s side.”

 The faintest hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Yes. I’m Miss Harper’s great-niece. Excuse me.”

 Poor baby, he thought when she slipped away. He maneuvered through the furniture and condemned himself to one of the side chairs.

 Moments later he heard the click and step, and the woman herself appeared.

 Though she was rail thin, he wouldn’t have said frail, despite her age. More, he thought at first glance, a form that was tough and whittled down to the basics. She wore a dress of rich purple, and leaned on an ebony cane with an ivory handle.

 Her hair was a pristine white helmet, and her face—as thin as her body—was a map of wrinkles under a dusting of powder and rouge. Her mouth, thin as a blade, was poppy red.

 There were pearls at her ears and her throat, and her fingers were studded with rings, glinting as fiercely as brass knuckles.

 The puppy trailed in her wake.

 Knowing his role, Mitch got to his feet, even managed a slight bow. “Miss Harper, it’s an honor to meet you.”

 He took the hand she extended, brought it to within an inch of his lips. “I’m very grateful you were able to find the time to see me.” He offered the roses, the chocolates. “Small tokens of my appreciation.”

 She gave a nod, which might have been approval. “Thank you. Jane, put these lovely roses in the Minton. Please be seated, Dr. Carnegie. I was very intrigued by your letter,” she continued as she took her seat on the settee and propped her cane on the arm. “You’re not from the Memphis area originally.”

 “No, ma’am. Charlotte, where my parents and my sister still live. My son attends the university here, and I relocated in order to be close to him.”

 “Divorced from his mama, aren’t you?”

 She’d done her research, Mitch thought. Well, that was fine. So had he. “Yes, I am.”

 “I don’t approve of divorce. Marriage isn’t a flight of fancy.”

 “It certainly isn’t. I confess my marital difficulties were primarily on my shoulders.” He kept his eyes level with her piercing ones. “I’m an alcoholic, and though in recovery now for many years, I caused my former wife a great deal of distress and unhappiness during our marriage. I’m pleased to say she’s remarried to a good man, and we have a cordial relationship.”

 Clarise pursed her bright red lips, nodded. “I respect a man who takes responsibility for his failings. If a man can’t hold his drink, he shouldn’t drink. That’s all there is to it.”

 Old bat. “I’m proof of that.”

 She continued to sit, and despite nearly eight full decades of wear and tear, her back was straight as a spear. “You teach?”

 “I have done. At the moment, I’m fully occupied with my research and writing of family histories and biographies. Our ancestry is our foundation.”