“Then you’ll have to get funny, because we can’t help it. Not with everything that’s going on.”
“Last night, it was so . . . I’ve used all the words before. Strong, strange, bizarre, intense. But this was the most of all of them. Stella, I didn’t tell Harper everything. I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t tell him what I felt. He’d wig, the way guys do. I’m counting on you not to.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s a feeling—and I don’t know if it’s just stress or if it’s real. But I feel. Stella, she wants the baby. This baby.” Hayley pressed a hand to her belly.
“How—”
“She can’t. No power on this earth, no power anywhere, is strong enough to push me aside. You know, because you’ve had a child inside you. Harper, he’d freak.”
“Explain this to me, so I don’t.”
“She gets mixed up is the best way I can explain it. From the here and now, to back in her own time. She wavers back and forth. When she’s in the now, she wants what I have. This child, the life, the body. Even more, wealth and privilege. She wants the sensations and the payoff. Do you understand?”
“All right, yes.”
“She’s much more frightening, much more selfish when her mind’s in the now. When it’s back, when she’s caught up in what happened to her, it’s like it is happening. Then she’s just angry and vindictive, so she wants someone to pay for what happened to her. Or she’s sad, and pitiable, and she just wants it all to stop. She’s tired. Harper thinks she committed suicide.”
“I know. We talked a little.”
“He thinks she hanged herself in the nursery. Right there while the baby slept. She could’ve done it. She was lost and crazy enough to have done it.”
“I know that, too.” Stella rose, walked to the edge of the patio to look out over the yard. “I’ve been having dreams again.”
“What? When?”
“Not here, not at night. Daydreams, you could say. At work. On Harper ground. Images like before of the dahlia. The blue dahlia. Only it’s monstrous. That’s how she wants me to see it. Petals like razors, waiting to slice your fingers to ribbons if you touch it. It’s not growing out of a garden this time.” She turned back; met Hayley’s eyes. “But out of a grave. Unmarked, black dirt. The dahlia is the only thing that grows there.”
“When did they start?”
“A few days ago.”
“Do you think Roz has had them, too?”
“We’ll need to ask her.”
“Stella, we have to go up to the old nursery.”
“Yes.” She walked back, took the hand Hayley held out to her. “We will.”
IT WAS EASY to talk without men when the announced activity was wedding planning. Men, Hayley noted, scattered like ants when terms like guest lists and color schemes were mentioned.
So they were able to sit on Stella’s patio in the balm of the evening with Lily being passed from one pair of arms to another, or playing in the grass with Parker.
“I didn’t think it would be so easy to chase Harper off,” Hayley complained. “You’d think he’d want some input into the wedding plans. He’s getting married, too.”
Roz and Stella exchanged amused looks before Roz reached over, patted Hayley’s hand. “Sweet, foolish child.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter, since that’s not what we’re doing. But still.” Annoyed with herself, Hayley waved her hands. “Anyway. Amelia’s been messing with you, too.”
“Twice,” Roz confirmed. “Both times when I was alone in the propagation house. I’d be working, and then I’d be somewhere else. It’s dark, too dark to tell where, and cold. Very cold. I’m standing over an open grave. When I look down I see her, looking back at me. Her hands are clasped over the stem of a black rose. Or it looks black in the dark.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Stella demanded.