Blue Dahlia (In the Garden #1)

Daphne. Roz’s son spared her the briefest glance.

Evergreen variety. And you’ve used a splice side-veneer graft.

He stopped, swiveled on his stool. His mother had stamped herself on his face – the same strong bones, rich eyes. His dark hair was considerably longer than hers, long enough that he tied it back with what looked to be a hunk of raffia. Like her, he was slim and seemed to have at least a yard of leg, and like her he dressed carelessly in jeans pocked with rips and a soil-stained Memphis University sweatshirt.

You know something about grafting?

Just the basics. I cleft-grafted a camellia once. It did very well. Generally I stick with cuttings. I’m Stella. It’s nice to meet you, Harper.

He rubbed his hand over his jeans before shaking hers. Mom says you’re going to organize us.

That’s the plan, and I hope it’s not going to be too painful for any of us. What are you working on here? She stepped over to a line of pots covered with clean plastic bags held clear of the grafted plant by four split stakes.

Gypsophilia – baby’s breath. I’m shooting for blue, as well as pink and white.

Blue. My favorite color. I don’t want to hold you up. I was hoping, she said to Roz, we could find somewhere to go over some of my ideas.

Back in the annual house. The office is hopeless. Harper?

All right, okay. Go ahead. I’ll be there in five minutes.

Harper.

Okay, ten. But that’s my final offer.

With a laugh, Roz gave him a light cuff on the back of the head. Don’t make me come back in here and get you.

Nag, nag, nag, he muttered, but with a grin.

Outside, Roz let out a sigh. He plants himself in there, you have to jab a pitchfork in his ass to budge him. He’s the only one of my boys who has an interest in the place. Austin’s a reporter, works in Atlanta. Mason’s a doctor, or will be. He’s doing his internship in Nashville.

You must be proud.

I am, but I don’t see nearly enough of either of them. And here’s Harper, practically under my feet, and I have to hunt him like a dog to have a conversation.

Roz boosted herself onto one of the tables. Well, what’ve you got?

He looks just like you.

People say. I just see Harper. Your boys with David?

Couldn’t pry them away with a crowbar. Stella opened her briefcase. I typed up some notes.

Roz looked at the stack of papers and tried not to wince. I’ll say.

And I’ve made some rough sketches of how we might chang

e the layout to improve sales and highlight non-plant purchases. You have a prime location, excellent landscaping and signage, and a very appealing entrance.

I hear a ‘but’ coming on.

But. . . Stella moistened her lips. Your first-level retail area is somewhat disorganized. With some changes it would flow better into the secondary area and on through to your main plant facilities. Now, a functional organizational plan –

A functional organizational plan. Oh, my God.

Take it easy, this really won’t hurt. What you need is a chain of responsibility for your functional area. That’s sales, production, and propagation. Obviously you’re a skilled propagator, but at this point you need me to head production and sales. If we increase the volume of sales as I’ve proposed here –

You did charts. There was a touch of wonder in Roz’s voice. And graphs. I’m . . . suddenly afraid.