Black Rose

“I’m dizzy.”
    “Snap out of it,” Roz suggested. “Stella, why don’t you help Jane get her things?”
    “Sure. Come on, Jane.”
    Trusting Stella to deal with the situation, Roz turned to Hayley. “Watch the door,” she ordered.
    “Oh, boy, hot damn. Lookout man.”
    Despite herself, Roz chuckled all the way into Clarise’s bedroom. There was more lavender here, with an undertone of violets. The bed had a padded headboard of gold tufted silk, with an antique quilt Roz knew damn well had come out of Harper House. As had the occasional table by the window, and the art nouveau lamp.

    “Pilfering old bitch,” Roz grumbled and went directly to the desk. She turned the key, and couldn’t quite hold back the gasp when she saw the stacks of old leather-bound journals.
    “This is going to be a kick right in your bony ass,” she decided and, opening the satchel she carried over her shoulder, carefully slid the books inside.
    To make certain she had them all, she opened the rest of the drawers, riffled without qualm through the nightstands, the bureau, the chest of drawers.
    Though she felt silly, she wiped off everything she’d touched. She wouldn’t put it past Clarise to call the cops and claim burglary. Then she left the key, plainly in sight, on top of the desk.
    “Stella took her down,” Hayley announced when Roz stepped out. “She was shaking so hard we thought she might have like a seizure unless she got out of here. Roz, the poor thing only had one suitcase. She got everything she owned into one suitcase.”
    “She’s young. She’ll have plenty of time to get more. Did you touch anything in here?”
    “No. I thought, you know, fingerprints.”
    “Smart girl. Let’s go.”
    “You got them?”
    Roz patted the satchel. “Easy as taking candy from a baby, which Clarise has been known to do.”
    It wasn’t until they’d settled Jane into her apartment and were well on the way home that Roz noticed Hayley was uncharacteristically silent.
    “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts, guilty qualms, whatever.”
    “What? Oh, no. No. Those journals are yours. If it’d been me, I’d have taken the other things that belonged to Harper House, too. I was thinking about Jane. I know she’s younger than me, but not all that much. And she seems so, I don’t know, fragile and scared about everything. Still, she did a brave thing, I guess.”
    “She didn’t have what you had,” Roz said. “Your gumption, for one, and a lot of that’s just the luck of the draw. But she didn’t have a father like yours. One who loved her and taught her, and gave her a secure and happy home. She doesn’t feel strong and attractive, and you know you are.”
    “She needs a good haircut, and better clothes. Hey, Stella, wouldn’t it be fun to make her over?”
    “Down, girl.”
    “No, really. Later when we’ve got the time. But I was thinking, too, how she looked when she walked into that little apartment. How grateful and surprised she was that you’d sent some things over, Roz. Just basic things like a couch and bed, and food for the kitchen. I don’t guess anyone’s ever done anything for her, just to be decent. I felt so sorry for her, and happy for her at the same time, the way she looked around, all dazzled and weepy.”
    “Let’s see what she does with it.”
    “You gave her the chance to do something. Just like you did with me, and Stella, too.”
    “Oh, don’t start.”
    “I will. We all came to this corner, and you’re the one who gave us a hand to get around it and start down the road. Now Jane’s got a place of her own, and a new job. I’ve got a beautiful baby and a wonderful home for her. And Stella’s getting married tomorrow.”
    She began to sniffle, and Roz rolled her eyes toward the rearview mirror. “I really mean don’t start.”
    “I can’t help it. I’m so happy. Stella’s getting married tomorrow. And y’all are my best friends in the whole, wide world.”
    Stella passed tissues over the seat, and kept one out for herself.

    THERE WERE SIXTEEN journals in all, five of her grandmother Elizabeth Harper’s, and nine written by her great-grandmother Beatrice. And each was filled, first page to last.
    There were some sketches as well, Roz noted on a quick flip-through—her grandmother’s work. It made her feel warm to look at them.
    But she didn’t need Mitch to tell her that even though they had the books, the job of reading them and finding anything