Blue Dahlia

back and forth on the heels of her muddy boots. “Other than that, I’ve got a landscape designer. Had to pay him a fortune to steal him away from a competitor. Had to give him damn near free rein, too. But he’s the best. I want to expand that end of the business.”
    “What’s your mission statement?”
    Roz turned, her eyebrows lifted high. There was a quick twinkle of amusement in those shrewd eyes. “Now, there you are—that’s just why I need someone like you. Someone who can say ‘mission statement’ with a straight face. Let me think.”
    With her hands on her hips now, she looked around the stocked area, then opened wide glass doors into the adjoining greenhouse. “I guess it’s two-pronged—this is where we stock most of our annuals and hanging baskets starting in March, by the way. First prong would be to serve the home gardener. From the fledgling who’s just dipping a toe in to the more experienced who knows what he or she wants and is willing to try something new or unusual. To give that customer base good stock, good service, good advice. Second would be to serve the customer who’s got the money but not the time or the inclination to dig in the dirt. The one who wants to beautify but either doesn’t know where to start or doesn’t want the job. We’ll go in, and for a fee we’ll work up a design, get the plants, hire the laborers. We’ll guarantee satisfaction.”
    “All right.” Stella studied the long, rolling tables, the sprinkler heads of the irrigation system, the drains in the sloping concrete floor.
    “When the season starts we have tables of annuals and perennials along the side of this building. They’ll show from the front as people drive by, or in. We’ve got a shaded area for ones that need shade,” she continued as she walked through, boots slapping on concrete. “Over here we keep our herbs, and through there’s a storeroom for extra pots and plastic flats, tags. Now, out back here’s greenhouses for stock plants, seedlings, preparation areas. Those two will open to the public, more annuals sold by the flat.”
    She crunched along gravel, over more asphalt. Shrubs and ornamental trees. She gestured toward an area on the side where the stock wintering over was screened. “Behind that, closed to the public, are the propagation and grafting areas. We do mostly container planting, but I’ve culled out an acre or so for field stock. Water’s no problem with the pond back there.”
    They continued to walk, with Stella calculating, dissecting. And the lust in her belly had gone from tangled knot to rock-hard ball.
    She could do something here. Make her mark over the excellent foundation another woman had built. She could help improve, expand, refine.
    Fulfilled? she thought. Challenged? Hell, she’d be so busy, she’d be fulfilled and challenged every minute of every day.
    It was perfect.
    There were the white scoop-shaped greenhouses, work-tables, display tables, awnings, screens, sprinklers. Stella saw it brimming with plants, thronged with customers. Smelling of growth and possibilities.
    Then Roz opened the door to the propagation house, and Stella let out a sound, just a quiet one she couldn’t hold back. And it was pleasure.
    The smell of earth and growing things, the damp heat. The air was close, and she knew her hair would frizz out insanely, but she stepped inside.
    Seedlings sprouted in their containers, delicate new growth spearing out of the enriched soil. Baskets already planted were hung on hooks where they’d be urged into early bloom. Where the house teed off there were the stock plants, the parents of these fledglings. Aprons hung on pegs, tools were scattered on tables or nested in buckets.
    Silently she walked down the aisles, noting that the containers were marked clearly. She could identify some of the plants without reading the tags. Cosmos and columbine, petunias and penstemon. This far south, in a few short weeks they’d be ready to be laid in beds, arranged in patio pots, tucked into sunny spaces or shady nooks.
    Would she? Would she be ready to plant herself here, to root here? To bloom here? Would her sons?
    Gardening was a risk, she thought. Life was just a bigger one. The smart calculated those risks, minimized them, and worked toward the goal.
    “I’d like to see the grafting area, the stockrooms, the offices.”
    “All right. Better get you out of here. Your suit’s going to wilt.”
    Stella looked down at herself, spied