Black Rose

how to use it to her advantage. God knew she had plenty of practice fixing herself up, and enough vanity to put effort into looking her best when looking her best was called for.
    At the same time, there was a certain advantage to having other women, younger women in the household, she supposed, and she’d take their advice on the wardrobe.
    Except for the pants.
    She crossed to her dresser, opened the middle drawer where she kept her good sweaters. She did love those soft fabrics, she thought as she went through the folded garments. The cashmeres and brushed cottons, the silks.
    She took out the dark green, unfolded it.
    The chill hit with a shock, a punishing little slap, that had her taking a step back. Then freezing as the sweater was ripped out of her hands. She watched with disbelief as it hit the opposite wall, then fell to the floor.
    Her knees wanted to buckle, but she kept her feet and walked slowly across the room to pick it up.
    There were jagged tears across the front, as if angry nails had raked through the material. Her breath streamed out in visible vapors as she fought to stay calm.
    “Well, that was nasty, and small of you. Petty and mean. I was fond of this sweater. Very fond. But it won’t make a damn bit of difference.”
    Angry now, she whirled around, waiting, hoping to see something, someone, to battle. “I’ve got more, and if you’re thinking to repeat this performance on the rest of my clothes, I’ll tell you now I’ll walk out of here bare-assed naked before I give in to this kind of blackmail. So you go have your temper fit somewhere else.”
    Roz tossed the sweater onto her bed, marched back to her dresser. She grabbed a sweater at random, dragged it over her head. Her fingers trembled as much with rage as distress as she pulled on jeans.
    “I make my own decisions,” she ranted, “and always have. Keep this up, you just keep this up, and I’ll sleep with him just to piss you off.”
    She finished dressing, shoved her feet into her boots, grabbed the leather coat, then had to order herself not to slam the door.
    On the other side, she leaned back against it, breathed in and out until she was calm again. One thing for certain, she decided, she and Mitch wouldn’t lack for things to talk about en route to the game.
    Still she waited until they were on their way, with the lights of Harper House behind them. “There are a couple of things I need to tell you, then I think it’d be nice if both of us put business aside for a few hours.”
    “Something happen?”
    “Yes. First, I had an irritating encounter at work one day recently with an acquaintance who has gold-medaled in the gossip Olympics for more than twenty consecutive years.”
    “Hell of a record.”
    “And she’s proud of it. It dealt with my ex-husband, and isn’t important of itself, but it upset me a bit, gave me what I call a temper headache, so I went home, took some aspirin, and decided to lie down for a few minutes. I wasn’t asleep, just sort of hovering in that nice, cozy in-between—and in my head I was out in the garden, sitting on the bench in the shade, and it was late spring.”
    “How did you know it was spring?”

    “Late spring, early June. I could tell by the plants, the flowers that were blooming. Then it got cold.”
    She told him the rest, careful with every detail.
    “This is the first dream you’ve mentioned.”
    “It wasn’t a dream. I wasn’t asleep.” She gave an impatient wave of her hand. “I know people say that all the time, when they thought they were awake. I was awake.”
    “All right. You should know.”
    “She took me there in my mind. I felt the cold, I smelled the flowers—the white roses on the arbor—I felt the air on my skin. All the while I was aware, in another part of myself, that I was still in my room, on the bed, with the headache pounding.”
    “Disconcerting.”
    “You’re subtle,” she replied. “Yes, it was disconcerting. Disorienting and upsetting. I don’t like having anyone direct my thoughts. And the way she looked at me, when she opened her eyes in that grave, it was with a terrible kind of... love. She’s never hurt me, and I’ve never felt that she would. Until tonight.”
    He pulled off the side of the road, braked hard, then turned to her. The calm she most usually saw in him, felt from him, was replaced by a percolating anger. “What do you mean? Did she attack you? For God’s sake—”
    “Not me, but a very nice cashmere