In the Garden Trilogy

  Contents

  Blue Dahlia

  Black Rose

  Red Lily

  Dear Reader:

  I don’t have hobbies. I have passions. Gardening is one of my passions, and spring—when it’s time to get out there and dig in the dirt—is my favorite season.

  I live in the woods, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and my land is rough and rocky. A tough field for a passionate gardener to play in. I’ve solved part of the problem with many raised beds, but the rocks still find a way. Every spring, it’s a battle—me against rock, and most years I win.

  I’m fortunate to be married to a man who enjoys yard work. Because if I want to plant a daffodil bulb in the stony ground, I’ve got to call my guy with the pick. But it’s worth it. Every spring when I see my daffodils popping, watch my willows greening, see the perennials I’ve planted in place of rock spearing up, I’m happy. Just as I’m happy to get out there with my spade and cultivator to start prepping the soil for what I might plant this season.

  It’s hard, sweaty, dirty work, and it pleases me to do it, year after year. For me, a garden is always a work in progress, never quite finished, and always a delight to the eye. Nearly twenty years ago, my guy planted a tulip magnolia in front of our house. Now, every spring, my bedroom windows are full of those gorgeous pink blooms. And when they fade and drop, something else will flower to make me smile.

  At the end of a long day, whether it’s writing or gardening, or just dealing with the dozens of chores life hands out, there’s nothing quite like a walk in the garden to soothe the mind and heart.

  So plant some flowers, watch them grow. The rewards far out-reach the toil.

  NORA ROBERTS

  Titles by Nora Roberts

  HOT ICE

  SACRED SINS

  BRAZEN VIRTUE

  SWEET REVENGE

  PUBLIC SECRETS

  GENUINE LIES

  CARNAL INNOCENCE

  DIVINE EVIL

  HONEST ILLUSIONS

  PRIVATE SCANDALS

  HIDDEN RICHES

  TRUE BETRAYALS

  MONTANA SKY

  SANCTUARY

  HOMEPORT

  THE REEF

  RIVER’S END

  CAROLINA MOON

  THE VILLA

  MIDNIGHT BAYOU

  THREE FATES

  BIRTHRIGHT

  Anthologies

  FROM THE HEART

  A LITTLE MAGIC

  A LITTLE FATE

  MOON SHADOWS (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  The Once Upon Series (with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)

  ONCE UPON A CASTLE

  ONCE UPON A STAR

  ONCE UPON A DREAM

  ONCE UPON A ROSE

  ONCE UPON A KISS

  ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT

  Series

  The In the Garden Trilogy

  BLUE DAHLIA

  The Key Trilogy

  KEY OF LIGHT

  KEY OF KNOWLEDGE

  KEY OF VALOR

  The Irish Trilogy

  JEWELS OF THE SUN

  TEARS OF THE MOON

  HEART OF THE SEA

  The Chesapeake Bay Saga

  SEA SWEPT

  RISING TIDES

  INNER HARBOR

  CHESAPEAKE BLUE

  Three Sisters Island Trilogy

  DANCE UPON THE AIR

  HEAVEN AND EARTH

  FACE THE FIRE

  The Born In Trilogy

  BORN IN FIRE

  BORN IN ICE

  BORN IN SHAME

  The Dream Trilogy

  DARING TO DREAM

  HOLDING THE DREAM

  FINDING THE DREAM

  Titles by Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb

  REMEMBER WHEN

  Titles by J. D. Robb (in order of publication)

  NAKED IN DEATH

  GLORY IN DEATH

  IMMORTAL IN DEATH

  RAPTURE IN DEATH

  CEREMONY IN DEATH

  VENGEANCE IN DEATH

  HOLIDAY IN DEATH

  CONSPIRACY IN DEATH

  LOYALTY IN DEATH

  WITNESS IN DEATH

  JUDGMENT IN DEATH

  BETRAYAL IN DEATH

  SEDUCTION IN DEATH

  REUNION IN DEATH

  PURITY IN DEATH

  PORTRAIT IN DEATH

  IMITATION IN DEATH

  DIVIDED IN DEATH

  Anthologies

  SILENT NIGHT (with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)

  OUT OF THIS WORLD (with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)

  Also available ...

  THE OFFICIAL NORA ROBERTS COMPANION (edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Blue Dahlia: Book One of the Garden Trilogy

  A JOVE Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2005 by The Jove Publishing Group. This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability. For information address: The Jove Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49499-8

  A JOVE BOOK®

  JOVE Books first published by Berkley Publishing Group,

  a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to

  Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May 2005

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Dan and Jason.

  You may be men, but you’ll always be my boys.

  If the plant root ball is tightly packed with roots,

  these should be gently loosened.

  They need to spread out after planting,

  rather than continue to grow in a tight mass.

  —FROM THE TREASURY OF GARDENING, ON TRANSPLANTING POTTED PLANTS

  And ’tis my faith that every flower

  Enjoys the air it breathes.

  —WORDSWORTH

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  Nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  Memphis, Tennessee August 1892

  BIRTHING A BASTARD WASN’T IN THE PLANS. WHEN she’d learned she was carrying her lover’s child, the shock and panic turned quickly to anger.

  There were ways of dealing with it, of course. A woman in her position had contacts, had avenues. But she was afraid of them, nearly as afraid of the abortionists as she was of what was growing, unwanted, inside her.

  The mistress of a man like Reginald Harper couldn’t aff
ord pregnancy.

  He’d kept her for nearly two years now, and kept her well. Oh, she knew he kept others—including his wife—but they didn’t concern her.

  She was still young, and she was beautiful. Youth and beauty were products that could be marketed. She’d done so, for nearly a decade, with steely mind and heart. And she’d profited by them, polished them with the grace and charm she’d learned by watching and emulating the fine ladies who’d visited the grand house on the river where her mother had worked.

  She’d been educated—a bit. But more than books and music, she’d learned the arts of flirtation.

  She’d sold herself for the first time at fifteen and had pocketed knowledge along with the coin. But prostitution wasn’t her goal, any more than domestic work or trudging off to the factory day after day. She knew the difference between whore and mistress. A whore traded quick and cold sex for pennies and was forgotten before the man’s fly was buttoned again.

  But a mistress—a clever and successful mistress—offered romance, sophistication, conversation, gaiety along with the commodity between her legs. She was a companion, a wailing wall, a sexual fantasy. An ambitious mistress knew to demand nothing and gain much.

  Amelia Ellen Conner had ambitions.

  And she’d achieved them. Or most of them.

  She’d selected Reginald quite carefully. He wasn’t handsome or brilliant of mind. But he was, as her research had assured her, very rich and very unfaithful to the thin and proper wife who presided over Harper House.

  He had a woman in Natchez, and it was said he kept another in New Orleans. He could afford another, so Amelia set her sights on him. Wooed and won him.

  At twenty-four, she lived in a pretty house on South Main and had three servants of her own. Her wardrobe was full of beautiful clothes, and her jewelry case sparkled.

  It was true she wasn’t received by the fine ladies she’d once envied, but there was a fashionable half world where a woman of her station was welcome. Where she was envied.

  She threw lavish parties. She traveled. She lived. Then, hardly more than a year after Reginald had tucked her into that pretty house, her clever, craftily designed world crashed.

  She would have hidden it from him until she’d gathered the courage to visit the red-light district and end the thing. But he’d caught her when she was violently ill, and he’d studied her face with those dark, shrewd eyes.

  And he’d known.

  He’d not only been pleased but had forbidden her to end the pregnancy. To her shock, he’d bought her a sapphire bracelet to celebrate her situation.

  She hadn’t wanted the child, but he had.

  So she began to see how the child could work for her. As the mother of Reginald Harper’s child—bastard or no—she would be cared for in perpetuity. He might lose interest in coming to her bed as she lost the bloom of youth, as beauty faded, but he would support her, and the child.

  His wife hadn’t given him a son. But she might. She would.

  Through the last chills of winter and into the spring, she carried the child and planned for her future.

  Then something strange happened. It moved inside her. Flutters and stretches, playful kicks. The child she hadn’t wanted became her child.

  It grew inside her like a flower that only she could see, could feel, could know. And so did a strong and terrible love.

  Through the sweltering, sticky heat of the summer she bloomed, and for the first time in her life she knew a passion for something other than herself and her own comfort.

  The child, her son, needed her. She would protect it with all she had.

  With her hands resting on her great belly, she supervised the decorating of the nursery. Pale green walls and white lace curtains. A rocking horse imported from Paris, a crib handmade in Italy.

  She tucked tiny clothes into the miniature wardrobe. Irish and Breton lace, French silks. All were monogrammed with exquisite embroidery with the baby’s initials. He would be James Reginald Conner.

  She would have a son. Something at last of her own. Someone, at last, to love. They would travel together, she and her beautiful boy. She would show him the world. He would go to the best schools. He was her pride, her joy, and her heart. And if through that steamy summer, Reginald came to the house on South Main less and less, it was just as well.

  He was only a man. What grew inside her was a son.

  She would never be alone again.

  When she felt the pangs of labor, she had no fear. Through the sweaty hours of pain, she held one thing in the front of her mind. Her James. Her son. Her child.

  Her eyes blurred with exhaustion, and the heat, a living, breathing monster, was somehow worse than the pain.

  She could see the doctor and the midwife exchange looks. Grim, frowning looks. But she was young, she was healthy, and she would do this thing.

  There was no time; hour bled into hour with gaslight shooting flickering shadows around the room. She heard, through the waves of exhaustion, a thin cry.

  “My son.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “My son.”

  The midwife held her down, murmuring, murmuring, “Lie still now. Drink a bit. Rest now.”

  She sipped to soothe her fiery throat, tasted laudanum. Before she could object, she was drifting off, deep down. Far away.

  When she woke, the room was dim, the draperies pulled tight over the windows. When she stirred, the doctor rose from his chair, came close to lift her hand, to check her pulse.

  “My son. My baby. I want to see my baby.”

  “I’ll send for some broth. You slept a long time.”

  “My son. He’ll be hungry. Have him brought to me.”

  “Madam.” The doctor sat on the side of the bed. His eyes seemed very pale, very troubled. “I’m sorry. The child was stillborn.”

  What clutched her heart was monstrous, vicious, rending her with burning talons of grief and fear. “I heard him cry. This is a lie! Why are you saying such an awful thing to me?”

  “She never cried.” Gently, he took her hands. “Your labor was long and difficult. You were delirious at the end of it. Madam, I’m sorry. You delivered a girl, stillborn.”

  She wouldn’t believe it. She screamed and raged and wept, and was sedated only to wake to scream and rage and weep again.

  She hadn’t wanted the child. And then she’d wanted nothing else.

  Her grief was beyond name, beyond reason.

  Grief drove her mad.

  one

  Southfield, Michigan September 2001

  SHE BURNED THE CREAM SAUCE. STELLA WOULD always remember that small, irritating detail, as she would remember the roll and boom of thunder from the late-summer storm and the sound of her children squabbling in the living room.

  She would remember the harsh smell, the sudden scream of the smoke alarms, and the way she’d mechanically taken the pan off the burner and dumped it in the sink.

  She wasn’t much of a cook, but she was—in general—a precise cook. For this welcome-home meal, she’d planned to prepare the chicken Alfredo, one of Kevin’s favorites, from scratch and match it with a nice field greens salad and some fresh, crusty bread with pesto dipping sauce.

  In her tidy kitchen in her pretty suburban house she had all the ingredients lined up, her cookbook propped on its stand with the plastic protector over the pages.

  She wore a navy-blue bib apron over her fresh pants and shirt and had her mass of curling red hair bundled up on top of her head, out of her way.

  She was getting started later than she’d hoped, but work had been a madhouse all day. All the fall flowers at the garden center were on sale, and the warm weather brought customers out in droves.

  Not that she minded. She loved the work, absolutely loved her job as manager of the nursery. It felt good to be back in the thick of it, full-time now that Gavin was in school and Luke old enough for a play group. How in the world had her baby grown up enough for first grade?

  And before she knew it, Luke woul
d be ready for kindergarten.

  She and Kevin should start getting a little more proactive about making that third child. Maybe tonight, she thought with a smile. When she got into that final and very personal stage of her welcome-home plans.

  As she measured ingredients, she heard the crash and wail from the next room. Glutton for punishment, she thought as she dropped what she was doing to rush in. Thinking about having another baby when the two she had were driving her crazy.

  She stepped into the room, and there they were. Her little angels. Gavin, sunny blond with the devil in his eyes, sat innocently bumping two Matchbox cars into each other while Luke, his bright red hair a dead ringer for hers, screamed over his scattered wooden blocks.

  She didn’t have to witness the event to know. Luke had built; Gavin had destroyed.

  In their house it was the law of the land.

  “Gavin. Why?” She scooped up Luke, patted his back. “It’s okay, baby. You can build another.”

  “My house! My house!”

  “It was an accident,” Gavin claimed, and that wicked twinkle that made a bubble of laughter rise to her throat remained. “The car wrecked it.”

  “I bet the car did—after you aimed it at his house. Why can’t you play nice? He wasn’t bothering you.”

  “I was playing. He’s just a baby.”