Black Rose - NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

“Casual, lots of other people, a specific form of entertainment.” He smiled at her easily, when she turned back. “Seemed like a good place to start. And you might be more inclined toward that sort of socializing than a quiet dinner for two. But if you prefer the latter, I find my calendar free the night after next.”

“A basketball game might be interesting.”

LILY SAT ONthe Bokhara in Roz’s bedroom, banging the buttons of a toy phone with a plastic dog. Lily’s mother had her head in the closet.

“Just try the eyeshadow, Roz.” Hayley’s voice was muffled as she pawed through clothing. “I knew it was the wrong color for me when I bought it, but I just couldn’t stop myself. It’ll look awesome on you, won’t it, Stella?”

“It will.”

“I’ve got enough makeup of my own for three women,” Roz objected and tried to concentrate on using it. She wasn’t entirely sure how her personal space had come to be invaded by females. She just wasn’t used to females.

“Oh, my God! You have to wear these!”

Hayley pulled out the pants David had talked Roz into buying—and which, to date, had never been on her body again. “I certainly don’t.”

“Roz, are you kidding?” She waved them at Stella. “Look at these.”

Stella did. “I couldn’t get my hips in those with a crowbar.”

“Sure you could, they stretch.” Hayley demonstrated. “Besides, your hips are perfect, seeing as you have breasts. But these are too long for you. You know that sweater I got for Christmas, the red angora David gave me? It’d be fabulous with these pants.”

“Then you take them,” Roz suggested.

“No, you’re wearing them. Watch the baby a minute, okay? I’ll run and get the sweater.”

“I’m not wearing your sweater. I have plenty of my own. And for heaven’s sake, this is just a basketball game.”

“No reason not to go looking like the complete babe you are.”

“I’m wearing jeans.”

Deflated, Hayley dropped onto the bed beside Stella. “She’s a hardcase.”

“Here, I’ll use your eyeshadow. We’ll consider it a compromise.”

“Can I pick out your earrings?”

Roz shifted her gaze in the mirror until her eyes met Hayley’s. “Will you stop nagging the skin off my back?”

“Deal.” Hayley leaped up, and when Lily reached toward her, scooped the baby on the fly. Settling Lily on her hip, she began to go through Roz’s everyday jewelry box one-handed. “What top are you wearing?”

“I don’t know. Some sweater or other.”

“The green cashmere,” Stella told her. “The dark green mock turtle, and that great black leather coat? The knee-length.”

Roz considered as she worked on her eyes. “Fine. That’ll work.”

“All right, then . . . these.” Hayley held up silver spiral dangles. “Shoes?” she asked, turning to Stella.

“Those black leather half boots with the stubby heel.”

“You get those, I’ll get the sweater, and—”

“Girls,” Roz interrupted. “Scoot. I can handle the rest of this myself.” But she leaned over to kiss Lily’s cheek. “Y’all go play somewhere else now.”

“Come on, Hayley, before she decides to wear a sweatshirt and gardening shoes just to spite us. She was right about the eyeshadow,” Stella added as she pulled Hayley out.

Maybe so, Roz decided. It was an interesting shade of brown, with a hint of gold to jazz it up. She knew 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 sweater. It was a birthday gift, so I’ve only had it since November, and I’m still mad she ruined it.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

When she had, he sat back, tapped his fingers on the wheel. “She didn’t want you coming out with me tonight.”

“Apparently not, but that’s too bad. Here I am.”

He looked at her again. “Why?”

“I said I would, and I do what I say I will. Then you can add that she made me mad, and I don’t back down, either. And lastly, I wanted to explore whether or not I’m going to like your company on a purely social level.”

“You shoot very straight.”

“I do. It irritates some people.”

“I’m not one of them. Sorry about the sweater.”

“So am I.”

“We could speculate—”

“We could,” Roz interrupted. “But I’d just as soon not, right now. She didn’t stop the evening, so I don’t see why she should drive it, either. Why don’t we talk about something else until it’s time to get down to business again?”

“Sure. What would you like to talk about?”

“I could start by wondering out loud how long you intend to sit here beside the road, and how late that’s going to make us to your son’s game.”

“Oh. Right.” He pulled onto the road again. “How about if I start this conversation off by telling you I’ve got a new cleaning lady.”

“Is that so?”

“She’s a friend of a friend of a friend. Sort of. She’s into feng shui, so she’s rearranging everything in the place—career areas, and health areas, I dunno. And making me lists for things I have to buy, like a money frog for my prosperity corner—or something. And these Chinese coins. And she says I have to have a green plant. I think it’s for the health area, I’m not sure, and I’m too afraid of her to ask. So I was wondering if I could possibly have that plant back you took from my place last spring.”

“The one you were murdering.”

“I didn’t know I was murdering it. I didn’t even know it was there.”

“Benign neglect is still neglect.”

“Hardass. How about I sign an oath to take better care of it? The fact is, she’ll be the one taking care of it, at least every other week. And you could have visitation rights.”

“I’ll think about it.”

THE AUDITORIUM WASalready packed when they arrived, and humming with pregame excitement. They moved through the noise and color and excitement, scooting down the row to their seats while both teams practiced layups on the court.

“That’s Josh there, number eight.”

She watched the tall boy in his trimmed-in-blue white jersey lope forward and tap the ball off the backboard and into the net. “Nice form.”

“He was the NBA’s number-ten draft pick. He’ll play for the Celtics next year. It’s hard for me to believe it. I’m not going to brag all night, but I had to get that one in.”

“He’s going pro? The Celtics? Brag all you want. I would.”

“I’ll keep it to a minimum. In any case, Josh is point guard, that’s the position that directs the team’s offense from the point.”

She listened, sipping the soft drink he’d bought her, as he ran through a primer of basketball terms and explanations.

At tip-off she watched the action, enjoyed the lightning movements on court, the echoing voices, the thunder of the ball on wood.

Now and again through the first quarter, Mitch would lean closer to explain a call, a strategy, or a play.

Until she got to her feet with the rest of the Memphis crowd to boo a blown call. “What, do those refs need eye surgery? We had established position, didn’t we—does he need three feet planted on the ground? That was charging, for God’s sake. All he was missing was a Visa card!”