Black Rose

questioning lift of brows. “Nineteenth-century poet. Wild man of Paris—druggie, very controversial, with a life full of drama. He was found guilty of blasphemy and obscenity, squandered his inheritance, translated Poe, wrote dark, intense poetry, and, long after his death from a sexually transmitted disease, is looked on by many to be the poet of modern civilization—and others as being one sick bastard.”
    She smiled. “And which camp do you pitch your tent in?”
    “He was brilliant, and twisted. And believe me, you don’t want to get me started, so I’ll just say he was a fascinating and frustrating subject to write about.”
    “Are you happy with the work you did?”
    “I am. Happier yet,” he said as their drinks were served, “not to be living with Baudelaire day and night.”
    “It’s like that, isn’t it, like living with a ghost.”
    “Nice segue.” He toasted her with his coffee. “Let me say, first, I appreciate your patience. I’d hoped to have this book wrapped up weeks ago, but one thing led to another.”
    “You warned me at the start you wouldn’t be available for some time.”
    “Hadn’t expected it to be quite this much time. And I’ve given quite a bit of thought to your situation. Hard not to after that experience last spring.”
    “It was a more personal introduction to the Harper Bride than I’d planned.”

    “You’ve said she’s been... subdued,” he decided, “since then.”
    “She still sings to the boys and to Lily. But none of us has seen her since that night. And to be frank, it hasn’t been patience so much as being swamped myself. Work, home, a wedding coming up, a new baby in the house. And after that night, it seemed like all of us needed a little break.”
    “I’d like to get started now, really started, if that works for you.”
    “I suppose it was fate that we ran into each other like this, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. What will you need?”
    “Everything you’ve got. Hard data, records, journals, letters, family stories. Nothing’s too obscure. I appreciate the family photos you had copied for me. It just helps me immerse, you could say, if I have photos, and letters or diaries written in the hands of the people I’m researching.”
    “No problem. I’ll be happy to load you up with more.”
    “Some of what I’ve managed so far—between bouts with Baudelaire—is what we’ll call a straight job. Starting to chart the basic family tree, getting a feel for the people and the line. Those are the first steps.”
    “And at the end of the day, something I’ll enjoy having.”
    “I wonder if there’s a place I could work in your house. I’d do the bulk in my apartment, but it might be helpful if I had some space on site. The house plays a vital part in the research, and the results.”
    “That wouldn’t be a problem.”
    “For the Amelia portion of the project, I’d like a list of names. Anyone who’s had any sort of contact with her I’ll need to interview.”
    “All right.”
    “And the written permission we talked about before, for me to access family records, birth, marriage, death certificates, that sort of thing.”

    “You’ll have it.”
    “And permission to use the research, and what I pull out of it, in a book.”
    She nodded. “I’d want manuscript approval.”
    He smiled at her, charmingly. “You won’t get it.”
    “Well, really—”
    “I’ll be happy to provide you with a copy, when and if, but you won’t have approval.” He picked up a short, thick breadstick from the wide glass on the table and offered it to her. “What I find, I find; what I write, I write. And if I write a book, sell it, you owe me nothing for the work.”
    She leaned back, drew air deep. His casual good looks, that somewhat shaggy peat-moss brown hair, the charming smile, the ancient high-tops, all disguised a clever and stubborn man.
    It was a shame, she supposed, that she respected stubborn, clever men. “And if you don’t?”
    “We go back to the original terms we discussed at our first meeting. The first thirty hours are gratis, and after that it’s fifty an hour plus expenses. We can have a contract drawn up, spelling it all out.”
    “I think that would be wise.”
    When the appetizer was served, Roz declined a second glass of wine, absently selected an olive from the plate. “Won’t you need permission from anyone you interview as well, if you decide to publish?”
    “I’ll take care of that. I