Black Rose

cashmere sweaters at Dillard’s. Any brother who sprang for one of those for Christmas would completely erase a forgotten birthday.”
    “Is that guaranteed? Like a female rule of law?”
    “From a husband or lover, it better glitter, but from a brother, cashmere will do the trick. That’s a promise.”
    “Dillard’s.”
    “Dillard’s,” she repeated, and started the engine. “Bye.”
    “Bye.”
    She pulled out, and as she drove away glanced in the rearview mirror to see him standing there, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets.
    Hayley was right. He was hot.
    ONCE SHE GOT home, she pulled the first load out, carried it in the house and directly up the stairs to her wing. After a quick internal debate, she piled bags into her sitting room, then went down for more.
    She could hear Stella’s boys in the kitchen, regaling David with the details of their day. Better that she got everything inside by herself, upstairs and hidden away before anyone knew she was home.
    When she was finished, she stood in the middle of the room, and stared.

    Why, she’d gone crazy, obviously. Now that she saw everything all piled up, she understood why Mitch had goggled. She could, easily, open her own store with what she’d bought in one mad afternoon.
    How the hell was she going to wrap all of this?
    Later, she decided after dragging both hands through her hair. She’d just worry about that major detail later. Right now she was going to call her lawyer, at home—the benefit of knowing him since high school—and get the contract done.
    And because they’d gone to high school together, the conversation took twice as long as it might have. By the time she’d finished, put some semblance of order back into her sitting room, then headed downstairs, the house was settled down again.
    Hayley, she knew, would be up with Lily. Stella would be with her boys. And David, she discovered, when she found the note on the kitchen counter, was off to the gym.
    She nibbled on the potpie he’d left for her, then took a quiet walk around her gardens. The lights were on in Harper’s cottage. David would have called him to let him know he’d made potpie—one of Harper’s favorites. If the boy wanted some, he knew where to find it.
    She slipped back inside, then poured herself another glass of wine with the idea of enjoying it in a long, hot bath.
    But when she went back upstairs, she caught a movement in her sitting room. Her whole body tightened as she went to the door, then loosened again when she saw Stella.
    “You got my juices up,” Roz said.
    It was Stella who jolted and spun around with a hand to her heart. “God! You’d think we’d all stop jumping by now. I thought you’d be in here. I came by to see if you’d like to go over the weekly report, and saw this.” She swept a hand toward the bags and boxes lining the wall. “Roz, did you just buy the mall?”

    “Not quite, but I gave it a good run. And because I did, I’m not much in the mood for the weekly report. What I want is this wine and a long, hot bath.”
    “Obviously well deserved. We can do it tomorrow. Ah, if you need help wrapping some of this—”
    “Sold.”
    “Just tap me any evening after the kids are in bed. Ah, Hayley mentioned you were having drinks with Mitch Carnegie.”
    “Yeah. We ran into each other, as it seems everyone in Tennessee does eventually, at Wal-Mart. He’s finished his book and appears to be raring to go on our project. He’s going to want to interview you, and Hayley among others. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
    “No. I’m raring, too. I’ll let you get started on that bath. See you in the morning.”
    “’Night.”
    Roz went into her bedroom, closed the door. In the adjoining bath she ran water and scent and froth, then lit candles. For once she wouldn’t use this personal time to soak and read gardening or business literature. She’d just lie back and veg.
    As an afterthought, she decided to give herself a facial.
    In the soft, flickering light, she slipped into the perfumed water. Let out a low, lengthy sigh. She sipped wine, set it on the ledge, then sank nearly to the chin.
    Why, she wondered, didn’t she do this more often?
    She lifted a hand out of the froth, examined it—long, narrow, rough as a brick. Studied her nails. Short, unpainted. Why bother painting them when they’d be digging in dirt all day?
    They were good, strong, competent hands. And they looked it. She didn’t