Rosalind had dressed her tall, willowy form in a baggy olive sweater and mud-colored work pants that were frayed at the cuffs. She was shoeless, with a pair of thick brown socks covering long, narrow feet. Which accounted, Stella supposed, for her silent entry into the room.
Her hair was short, straight, and black.
Though to date all their communications had been via phone, fax, or e-mail, Stella had Googled her. She'd wanted background on her potential employer - and a look at the woman.
Newspaper and magazine clippings had been plentiful. She'd studied Rosalind as a child, through her youth. She'd marveled over the file photos of the stunning and delicate bride of eighteen and sympathized with the pale, stoic-looking widow of twenty-five.
There had been more, of course. Society-page stuff, gossipy speculation on when and if the widow would marry again. Then quite a bit of press surrounding the forging of the nursery business, her gardens, her love life. Her brief second marriage and divorce.
Stella's image had been of a strong-minded, shrewd woman. But she'd attributed those stunning looks to camera angles, lighting, makeup.
She'd been wrong.
At forty-six, Rosalind Harper was a rose in full bloom. Not the hothouse sort, Stella mused, but one that weathered the elements, season after season, and came back, year after year, stronger and more beautiful.
She had a narrow face angled with strong bones and deep, long eyes the color of single-malt scotch. Her mouth, full, strongly sculpted lips, was unpainted - as, to Stella's expert eye, was the rest of that lovely face.
There were lines, those thin grooves that the god of time reveled in stamping, fanning ou
t from the corners of the dark eyes, but they didn't detract.
All Stella could think was, Could I be you, please, when I grow up? Only I'd like to dress better, if you don't mind.
"Kept you waiting, didn't I?"
Straight answers, Stella reminded herself. "A little, but it's not much of a hardship to sit in this room and drink good coffee out of Staffordshire. "
"David likes to fuss. I was in the propagation house, got caught up. "
Her voice, Stella thought, was brisk. Not clipped - you just couldn't clip Tennessee - but it was to the point and full of energy. "You look younger than I expected. You're what, thirty-three?"
"Yes. "
"And your sons are . . . six and eight?"
"That's right. "
"You didn't bring them with you?"
"No. They're with my father and his wife right now. "
"I'm very fond of Will and Jolene. How are they?"
"They're good. They're enjoying having their grandchildren around. "
"I imagine so. Your daddy shows off pictures of them from time to time and just about bursts with pride. "
"One of my reasons for relocating here is so they can have more time together. "
"It's a good reason. I like young boys myself. Miss having them around. The fact that you come with two played in your favor. Your resume, your father's recommendation, the letter from your former employer - well, none of that hurt. "
She picked up a cookie from the tray, bit in, without her eyes ever leaving Stella's face. "I need an organizer, someone creative and hardworking, personable and basically tireless. I like people who work for me to keep up with me, and I set a strong pace. "
"So I've been told. " Okay, Stella thought, brisk and to the point in return. "I have a degree in nursery management. With the exception of three years when I stayed home to have my children - and during which time I landscaped my own yard and two neighbors' - I've worked in that capacity. For more than two years now, since my husband's death, I've raised my sons and worked outside the home in my field. I've done a good job with both. I can keep up with you, Ms. Harper. I can keep up with anyone. "
Maybe, Roz thought. Just maybe. "Let me see your hands. "
A little irked, Stella held them out. Roz set down her coffee, took them in hers. She turned them palms up, ran her thumbs over them. "You know how to work. "