The Ghosts of Roses

by C. J. La Belle

“We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorns have roses.”

Alphonse Karr

Prologue

(Author’s note: Katherine and Vincente originally appear in both The Diary of Kate the Chandler, and Catherine the Chandler, by CJ. LaBelle. And while this story is not ‘about’ them, they do make an appearance.)

For at least two generations, every bride of the Chandler family carried a bridal bouquet of red and white roses. The sons of Vincente and Katherine Chandler wooed their wives with roses from their mother’s garden, and the flowers in the bouquet were a given.

Two of the four Chandler wives added other flowers as well (Elizabeth Sheridan Chandler added apple blossoms from her favorite tree, and Annabelle Wind Singer Chandler loved the irreverence of dandelions, tucked among the blooms), and one (Marie Constance) wanted far more red roses than white, but the understanding that at least some bridal blossoms would come from a very specific rose bush and from a certain secret garden, were givens.

As was often done, some of the flowers were preserved (as wedding bouquets are wont to be) by having select blooms pressed in books, a thing of which Vincente heartily approved. Chandler family diaries, Bibles, ship’s logs, books of poetry, sketch books, and later, portrait albums, almost all carried the scent of Kate’s roses.

Marie even experimented with having her entire bouquet dried and preserved, but the march of time did to it what the march of time usually does: the blossoms eventually fell to dust inside a cedar chest. The day the chest was emptied, their remains scattered to the wind.

Such is life. Especially rose life. Sometimes, only a ghost of their fragrance remained, to tantalize those with the keenest of noses.

The four sons of Vincente and Kate the Chandler, (who grew to be fine men, all) were generally considered just as adventurous as their mysterious father, and at least as intelligent and kind as their loving and talented mother, though none of them seemed to inherit her gift for carving wax. They were insightful, inquisitive, hearty, healthy, and (at both parents’ insistence) educated men, for the times. But none were great artists of any caliber.

There are some who say such talents tend to skip a generation or two, and so it was, with the Chandlers.

One, however, James Charles, the third of the four boys, was better than average at getting things (many things) to grow. He had a deep love for the New York land, and while his brothers often wandered, a bit, (One became a ship’s captain, the other a military man, the third part of the westward expansion.) James Charles loved the sylvan places, loved tending the forestland, and buying great lots of open property for the timber that stood there. He grew corn and apples near his home, but it was shipbuilding where he made his fortune, and he grew that fortune, carefully.

It was said that JC Chandler could make anything increase, make anything prosper, and some hid a smile behind their hands and pointed to his gorgeously beautiful wife and six offspring (three boys, three girls, all handsome, and fairly bright, one particularly so) when they said it. JC’s family garden was said to contain only the best of blooms.

But time takes away many things, and so it was that as Kate and Vincente’s family grew, James could not elect to remain in the home of his birth. (None of the Chandler children did, or could. The Chandler residence was a commune of sorts, for a collection of mostly French refugees, from the Reign of Terror, a time few of the home’s residents cared to speak about.)

The original Chandler home site expanded, and was left to those who still inhabited it, while the boys moved on. It became a refuge for those in need, even after Kate the Chandler stopped making her wares. It expanded some more, and became known as a place of shelter for the poor. It was understood that Kate had strong ties to Catholicism (some gossiped that she’d been a nun in France), and so the place always had a bit of that church’s cachet attached to it.

If there was ever a formal deed on the property, it was lost to time, though everyone knew the name “Chandler” over the front door. (The heavy oak sign still exists. Adam Vincente Chandler nailed it to his third ship, as a way for his grandmother to travel. It’s a seafaring token to this day, passed down among his descendants.)

When the homestead formally became a shelter for those in need, everyone knew Vincente and Kate Chandler would have approved. Both of it, and the Sisters of Mercy Dedicated to Our Lady Regina, who ran it, long after Vincente and Kate’s eventual passing.

But our story is not about the homestead, or what became of it, or the Chandlery, or even Kate and Vincente, whose spirits still are said to be chasing each other through the deep forests, where twining rose vines thrive. (More than a few of which were put there by James, thanks to cuttings from the original bush.)

This story is about the roses, and how the tradition of a red and white rose bouquet eventually (and almost entirely by chance) made its way back into the Chandler family, after being a thing long absent from it.

Now, it is understood that roses aren’t as sturdy as oak signs, and that any garden fades, and changes. Weeds and briars move in to choke the flower beds, or construction happens overtop of them (a garden wall being almost all that remains, as either the forest takes back its own, or progress takes up the land, and the green spaces).

It’s also understood that living things have progeny, each in their way, and though some things might be lost, that which is lost can be found, again.

It’s been said by the native people (and Vincente was very close to them) that every living thing has a spirit; a life force that never dies. And therefore, every living thing has a ghost.

It’s a way to explain the essences of all living things, and that they are still present, all around us. You have only to understand, see, and accept this truth: “Everything that exists has a spirit.”

It’s a saying Vincente and Katherine both understood.

The Ghosts of Roses

By C. J. La Belle

Vignette One

Planting Magic

~ Vincente and Kate, Spring, 1792 ~

“You surprise me with your continued devotion to this walled place. I’d have thought you hated gardening. Wasn’t it used as a punishment for you, at the convent?” Vincente asked his industrious wife. Her hands were covered with rich, loamy soil, and she was carefully tending a struggling bush, helping to free it from a root-bound pot.

“It was,” she answered, with a nod. “But as with many things, I discover much pleasure in tending what is mine.” She gave him a sweet smile that let him know she spoke of more than the bedraggled plant she was set on moving.

“That one may not be worth the saving, Beloved,” he said gently. “It had been cast aside near the docks, when I found it. Probably brought from some distant land to sell, or with some wanderer, who left it to die. If it was meant for barter, it’s clearly not worth the trading.”

“Then it’s a refugee, just like us,” Kate declared firmly. “And I am not giving up on it. I’m going to try putting it in a spot where it gets the good morning sun. Not too much, mind you, just enough.”

Vincente bent down near his wife, and helped her move the earth and pot over to where she indicated. “Ma Belle, as roses go, I think you have finer ones. The wild blooms are lovel—”

“This one will be lovely too, Belle Homme. You’ll see – Oh!”

Kate Chandler snatched her hand back from her labors. A single drop of blood welled on her index finger then mixed with the soil near the plant.

Vincente took her hand in his immediately, and kissed away the hurt. “Be careful, my love. This particular stray has sharp thorns. It knows how to defend itself.”

“And all I’m trying to do is save it.” Her voice was all love and memory. “That doesn’t mean we give up. I remember when something far larger than this straggling bush left a mark on my skin.”

She pushed up the flounced sleeve of her white cotton blouse. Concentric, pink lines indicated a scar, on her upper arm. One she considered an accidental love token, considering she’d gotten it the first time he’d ever rescued her from danger.

“I remember that day.” Vincente’s deep eyes warmed, recalling the wound with a mixture of contrition and gratitude. He deeply regretted ever causing her harm, however unintentionally it had been done. But he also blessed every star in the heavens that the beautiful woman before him had consented to become his.

He looked down at the rich ground. “Your blood is mixed with the soil. Superstition says the blooms will now be red,” he said.

“I was hoping for white. Like the fitful moon, the first night I met you.” The damage to her finger was inconsequential, and she traced her love’s bearded cheek with the back of her gentle fingers.

Brown eyes held her green ones, steadily, his leonine features darkly handsome. “Perhaps you will have both. This will bear almost the same time you do,” he predicted, eyeing her rounded belly. “Give or take a few weeks.”

Her smile was beatific. “It will be a magnificent summer, then. Will you draw water from the well for our refugee?” she asked.

“Better from the stream,” he said, wrapping her finger with his neckerchief. “There’s an old mystic who lives with the Algonquin. They say she has magic in her, for growing things. And some certain mixture she uses for fertilizer. Fish heads and dried corn silk. Egg shells and … fairy dust,” he said, letting her rest, while he drew the earth around the little plant with his firm, haired hands. “She says it works best when mixed with running water, not still.”

“You’ll bring me some?” Kate asked, loving him utterly.

“I will. She might want to barter for her potion. Will you carve her something, in exchange?” he asked.

“Yes! Tell her I’ll carve her a fine rose. So that when the bush blooms, I’ll have one kind of blossom, and she’ll have another.”

“She will like that,” Vincente approved. “Go in and clean the cut. I’ll go to her and make your bargain, get what we need. I should be back in time for supper. We’ll finish this tonight, by the light of the full moon. We will ask the Gods for a blessing for our orphan.”

“I think the rose will like that.” Kate looked over at her little plant.

Settled in the spot near the wall, flanked by thyme and wild rosemary, and in the perfect spot for the morning sun, she thought it looked better already.

“Gardening at night?” Her sandy eyebrow arched. “You really are inviting something magical to happen, my love.” She smiled, rising to do as he bid her, looking back at her growing garden, and the incredible man who was making it all possible.

Thyme and rosemary. Courage and remembrance. And roses are for love. How… fitting that those three things should be together.

Vincente brushed the dirt from his unusual, taloned fingers. “Beautiful Katherine, something magical has been happening to me since the moment I met you.”

************

Vignette Two

Spreading Magic

~ James Charles and Annabelle, Spring, 1825 ~

“The day we’re married, I’ll bring you a dove,” James Charles Chandler told his bride-to-be. “It will be my first gift for my beloved wife.”

They stood together in the narrow gateway of Annabelle’s home. The darkness of early evening surrounded them, relieved only by a few flickering street lamps at the junction further down the block. They had walked too far together, and as a consequence, he was late, in returning his love to her home.

James sensed there was more than one set of eyes fixed upon them. The lifting of a curtain at the parlor window of the house said they were being close-watched, but he didn’t care.

They were to be married. Soon, he wouldn’t have to share her with anyone. That was all that mattered.

Turning his back to the house, he drew closer to his love. “A pretty white dove. It will sing a cooing song for you, every morning.”

“You’re very sweet.” Annabelle reached up to touch his darkly bearded cheek. “But I don’t like the notion of keeping some poor creature trapped in a cage, James. It will not sing, because its poor soul will be crushed.”

James knew his love was sensitive about such things. “You’re right, of course.” James smiled his understanding.

His future bride was a wild little thing, with a doe’s eyes and a sharp mind. Her grandfather was an Iroquois priest, her grandmother a teacher, who was good with numbers. He loved her mind, and he adored the ebullience of her loving spirit.

She’d told him she often saw things, mystical things. Things he couldn’t always grasp, or understand. But, given his own heritage, and his father’s unique gifts, he’d learned to judge nothing, and no-one, at face value.

He understood the deeply spiritual beliefs of Annabelle’s people: Name everything unknown as mystery, and if some things chose to reveal themselves to you in time, either through dreams or some other device, then you were blessed.

He knew he had been very blessed.

“Very well, my love. I can see we will need to build a dovecot for the doves in the garden, and leave the door open. Then the choice to go or stay will be theirs. Does that ease your mind?”

She frowned, considering his proposal. “That might work. And now you speak of more than one dove.” She didn’t miss his use of the words “doves” and “theirs.”

She looked up into his handsome face. It was hard to see him in the darkness, and sometimes, her vivid imagination played tricks, but there were times when she saw those who had come before, looking back at her from his expressive eyes. James and all his brothers were human featured. That didn’t mean some in this land didn’t know who his father was.

Their families had long been friends and companions, both in trade, and in the battle to stay independent of the increasingly busy world around them. Annabelle’s people knew what that was like, intimately.

She shivered slightly, in the evening’s chill, but felt the warmth of loving regard, all around her. As always, she felt the presence of unseen others, nearby. She felt their love, and knew they wished her well.

She knew that her husband was an exceptional man. As the child of Vincente and Katherine (Kate) Chandler, and though human featured, many of his traits were his father’s. He was intuitive, and physically strong. Dark hair and a firm jawline dominated his fine visage, a gift of his Portuguese ancestry. Yet Kate Chandler’s green eyes were framed by his dark lashes, the green a slightly lighter color on him than they were on his mother. They looked almost uncanny, beneath his dark eyebrows, even as they reflected nothing but pure love, at the moment.

“Dovecots are for more than one bird. ‘Theirs?’” she asked. “So now there will be more than one?”

“If there’s one thing that meeting you has confirmed for me, Annabelle, it’s that nothing… absolutely nothing, should be alone in this world,” he replied. “We all need someone to love, and to keep us warm in the night…”

He caught her around the waist and drew her against him for a swift, socially frowned-upon kiss. They were not yet married. He could well imagine the sudden disapproval in the house behind him.

But no light appeared, and no one came to the door. He took that as a good sign.

“And if raising doves doesn’t work out, we can always serve them for dinner, if times get hard,” he teased her.

Her laugh was infectious, and immediate. “So you’ll bring me a poor bird and call it a gift for me. Then you’d have me clean it and cook it for you, when you get hungry?” She patted his trim waistline. “It’s difficult to see how that is a present. You’re not fooling anyone, James.” Her ability to size up the situation quickly was one of her chief virtues, as was her ability to make the normally serious James Chandler smile, more than a little.

He took her hand in his, and closed his fingers around it, keeping it where it was, with her fingertips brushing his midsection.

She didn’t mention that such poverty was an unlikely thing, between them. He had orders through next year for the tall ships, the sale of which increased his odds at prosperity.

Other countries were running short of good timber, thanks to their smaller size and overdevelopment. The Americas were a treasure trove of natural resources. Ones that had made the some of the nation’s founding fathers – and those who came after – very wealthy men.

“Not fooling anyone is my intention.” He tightened his grip on her hand, a moment, just for the sweet pain of having it there. He longed for the day she would become his wife, and they would have children together. “It’s you I want, Annabelle. Only you. Tell me what I can bring you. I long to please you. To keep you smiling.”

He released her hand and brushed a darkly honeyed lock of hair away from her fair face, already pining to hold the beautiful daughters she’d make. And the handsome sons, to follow him.

“What I wish for, you cannot buy.” Annabelle gave him a sweet look. “For it is priceless.”

Her tawny hair and fair skin made her the image of her Dutch mother, except for her deep brown eyes, a gift from her noble father. James knew she loved her family. Also that she loved him, and by extension, his own unique family. Annabelle loved sitting with Vincente almost as much as she loved being with Kate. That was no small consideration, for James.

“Tell me,” he commanded, with gentle force.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t make you smile to go adventuring?” She posed a serious question, lightly. “Your brothers are all but vagabonds and explorers. You know how you all love to travel. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sail ships, than make them? Like Ethan?”

“Loving you is all the adventure I need.” His tone was deadly serious, and the green eyes held hers, for emphasis.

Annabelle swore they seemed to all but lighten, when he felt something intensely, and they nearly did so, now. She accepted his pronouncement and let the moment pass.

She turned away from her own home, to gaze at the impressive new structure that had recently been built on the large plot of land next to it. It was a big house that was even now, settling in on its foundations. The large structure and open land behind it would be good for her children, and for her. It looked like it intended to stand for years uncounted. It gave her a good feeling of security and permanence.

“I was thinking that this fine new home you’ve made for us needs a garden, but aside from wildflowers, there isn’t very much. Do you think we might have a cutting or two from your mother’s place? Some of the roses, perhaps?” she asked, knowing she was about to get just that.

“I’ll speak to her at the earliest convenience,” he replied, already planning it. “If it will please you, my love.”

“It will please me very well, sir.” Annabelle smiled, and to James Charles, that was a gift all its own.

“I think my mother is almost as in love with you as I am,” he said, holding her to him for a longer, more intimate kiss.

Annabelle returned it, then pushed him away, gently, with obvious regret. “They watch us, still. My poor mother will be having seventeen different kinds of blue fits, by now. We must not make her think she has to send my father out to talk to you.”

Though her skin was fair, she was nobility, among her father’s people, and princesses had to comport themselves with a certain level of decorum. Especially around handsome rogues like James Charles.

James spoke from his heart. “It’s that when I am with you, I can think of nothing else but the sweetness of you, mixed with the wildness. You bewitch me, woman. I am spellbound in love.”

“You flatter me, sir. Come to call on me in the morning, and take me out for another walk.” She held out her hand again, one he immediately took. “The spring rains were heavy, last night,” she explained. “There’s a meadow full of dandelions down near the river, or there should be. I would love to see it. I have plans for them.”

“You love the roses as well as you love the weeds,” he chided her, smiling.

Her answer was a sure one. “Everything has a right to live, and love. They are plants you can make a wish on, come fall. Indulge me tomorrow, and I’ll show you how to make a chain of them.”

She reached up to kiss his lowered cheek swiftly, before gathering her skirts and walking away towards the house. The front door opened almost immediately, and she was briefly illuminated by candlelight, before being firmly whisked inside. The heavy wooden door was snapped shut, and the lights soon extinguished.

“Bonne nuit, dors bien, ma belle…” James watched until Annabelle’s bedroom window showed light, before he turned and walked away, whistling a jaunty tune.

One day, nothing and no one would come between them, ever again.

*****

The next day they spent the afternoon together, wandering the river meadow. The dandelions were indeed in place, and he’d watched her make both bracelets and crowns, for herself. James swore no gemstone could enhance her sweet beauty more.

As soon as he set her on her horse for home, Annabelle knew that James would go visit his parents that evening, and he’d bear a rose or two back to her by tomorrow, the next day at the latest. It was a glorious thing, to be loved by him.

Not everyone treated those with Native American blood kindly, though of course when it came to being of mixed blood, James was in a category all by himself. (Or if not “all by himself,” one populated only by himself and his siblings.)

Such things didn’t matter to Annabelle and her family. Vincente was a welcome guest in her father’s home. He was a respected and fearsome warrior, and his sage counsel was sought by many. It always had been. Annabelle felt blessed to be loved by his son.

She would make a wish on the dandelions, when their yellow petals turned to whispering grey seeds. She knew the gift James would fetch would be bearing blossoms in time to make a wedding bouquet.

And so it was.

************

Vignette Three

The Law and the Magic

~ William Lee Chandler, Summer, 1858 ~

And so, throughout the years that followed, James Charles Chandler acquired his cuttings from Kate’s secret garden, his gloriously fair wife, and the children he longed for, very much in that order.

Sometimes, life works out very much like you plan it, and James was proof of that. If you considered things carefully, and left nothing of consequence to la belle chance, good things tended to come. Especially if you worked for them, and tended them, once they arrived. So it was with James Charles Chandler and his family, and so it was, with the roses.

The carefully tended offspring of James and Annabelle’s impressive rose bush wandered a bit, and many of its cuttings went travelling with those who requested them. And though they did well enough in other climes, it was patently true only the New York blooms really thrived. Those carried to other places seemed to not like the dusty Midwest, or the humid South.

Taken away from New York, it seemed that they would bloom infrequently, or not for very long. That the blooms themselves seemed to shrink, outside the Empire State, and make themselves somewhat less desirable, away from the place where Kate Chandler had first cultivated them, from a sad, little shrub her loving husband had brought her.

The roses’ tacit refusal to do well outside their place of origin was a thing that kept them rare. The beauty of the blooms was unquestionable, but for a reason no horticulturalist could clearly explain, the red and white blossoms only did well near the tangy Atlantic air, rooted deep within good, northern soil. They did better near a wall than away from one, a nod to the need for shade, and the unusual plant never really caught on, in gardening circles, even though several attempts were made to duplicate it, outside New York.

The rose bush was very choosy, you see. It liked to save its love and beauty for those who understood it, and loved it, despite its thorns, and sometimes irascible behavior. It seemed to wait for just the right place and time to bloom. That was when it showed off its true magic…

When the first rose bush became twiggy and uncooperative, one of James’ children (or one of his nieces or nephews) would show him that at least one of its descendant was doing well, and thriving. It was a thing that gladdened his heart, always.

The day his youngest son, William, announced his intention to pursue law, Annabelle gave her child two roses bound with a gone-over dandelion and told him to make a wish for his future, as he blew on the wispy dandelion seeds and scattered them. It was a tradition, in their family, and one of the reasons she’d insisted on carrying the mercurial weed in her bridal bouquet.

William did as she asked, and hugged her hard, for her support.

“This thing you wish for. It will make you a great man, William. The law is a noble thing,” she advised.

“I come from a very long line of great men, and noble people, Mother,” he replied, loving her.

Annabelle could only nod at his statement, as she watched the seeds scatter in the wind. “You are brilliant, and will go far,” she pronounced, feeling the omens borne by his wish. A gusty breeze carried the dandelion seeds even more distant than she expected. “Very far,” she added.

He brushed a loving kiss on the crown of her head, watching the same thing she did. He never questioned her gifts of prophecy. William Lee considered himself the son and grandson of mighty, singular men. The scholar in him burned to know more, to be all he could, as a gesture of respect to his forebears, and as an acknowledgement of his own gifts.

He’d enter Columbia College, in the fall, the place of higher learning that would one day be known as Columbia University. The college was about to open a School of Law, and he wanted to be one of its first graduates.

Most people said the sandy haired young man with the firm jaw and green eyes was very much the image of his grandmother, Kate. The year was 1858.

The coming years bore witness that he would achieve all he planned, and more. The day he graduated from Columbia, a brilliant red rose was pinned to his lapel. It was descended from the same bush that had provided his mother’s wedding bouquet.

His aunt Marie swore she’d never seen a bloom so crimson.

And as chance would have it, it caught the eye of a very beautiful girl seated in the third row, at his graduation ceremony. Her name was Beth. Which was to say it was Elizabeth Forbes Caldwell, but she was content with “just Beth.” She’d come to watch her brother George, graduate. William Chandler and George Caldwell had spent much of their school days sitting near each other, owing to the alphabetical arrangement of their seats.

Beth hoped for an introduction. The deep red rose on William’s lapel seemed to draw her like a siren…

************

Vignette Four

Prodigal Magic

~ Catherine Chandler, Fall, 1989 ~

Catherine Chandler (who’d obviously never met William, but bore at least some resemblance to him, thanks to Kate’s strong genes,) had been feeling restless, of late.

The concrete jungle (which really was feeling like a jungle, complete with people who insisted on behaving worse than animals,) was beginning to wear on her usually steady nerves.

Every building seemed like a huge confederation of brass and glass, mixed with concrete and steel. Incandescent light bulbs seemed too plentiful, too harsh, and too bright.

She knew she could go where the light was softer, and hard, straight lines were all but nonexistent, in the architecture. Vincent’s world held amazing places of beauty, it was true, but for all that, it did not hold flowering plants, or much in the way of green spaces, and Catherine felt she wanted more of those.

This is ridiculous, she thought, as she found a parking space for her car. Getting out, she crossed the pavement and opened the door to Panache Flowers, a well-reputed nursery and florist shop. I have Central Park right outside my door if I want to go look at plants, they’re there. Most people would kill just for the green view I’ve got.

But, once inside the shop, she inhaled the fragrance of multiple plants mixed with good earth, and felt herself relax. Bags of potting soil and river rock reminded her of some of the scents of the tunnels. A wrought iron planter reminded her of the gate just inside the tunnel entrance from the park, and a wooden one reminded her of Cullen’s workshop. She drew another deep breath, and briefly closed her eyes. The only missing ingredients were the mingled aromas of candle smoke and beeswax.

She sighed, as she looked around, helplessly. The choices were many, and so varied. And perhaps a little… intimidating.

Who am I fooling? I can barely keep things like this ivy alive. She grimaced, frowning at a huge hanging basket full of the trailing plant. It put hers to shame.

Maybe that’s what I need. Another bunch of ivy, or another palm. Just something green and alive, to cheer me up.

But the moment she thought that, she knew it was wrong. She didn’t want just “green.” She wanted something with color; some kind of flower. Hopefully, one she could cultivate successfully.

Her frowning gaze strayed to a shelf full of potted cacti. There was the coward’s way out. They were green, and some had flowers. Surely they’re not so easy to kill…

Catherine took a couple of steps towards them, already singling out her choice, and then she stopped moving. In the back of her mind, she heard her mother’s soft voice, saying, “Gardening is an activity that takes practice. But once you know how, Catherine, it’s like magic. It’s so easy, darling…you just have to try…”

Try…if only it was that easy… Catherine sighed, giving up on the notion of adding a cactus to her balcony. They looked too “unwelcoming,” and out of place.

But what should I get? she wondered.

Her father had once lovingly chided her that, like him, anything green she attempted to look after usually only did so well. He confided they had both somehow missed out on the renowned “green thumb” of the rest of the Chandler clan. It was their shared burden of regret.

Catherine’s mother had loved tending growing things, however. It was part of her loving nature to help things succeed. Flowers, her only child, her husband’s fledgling law firm…

And Caroline Chandler had adored roses. With thorns, or without, she’d loved them all. The ivory rose she’d given Catherine was proof of that, and she’d loved to spend warm spring days in the sun, tending to various plants.

She had attempted to teach her daughter some skills. Catherine grew up knowing the basics.

But then life had engulfed her, and plants, even as undemanding as they sometimes were, seemed to ask for time she often didn’t have.

“I guess I can’t really go wrong with some more ivy…” Catherine turned back towards the pots at the door of the shop. “Or something artificial…” she acknowledged the latter with a wry twist of a half-hopeless smile. She knew she was running out of time to make her selection. Work demanded her attention, as it always did.

Her critical eyes strayed to a lovely piece of artwork depicting an exquisitely detailed painting of a flowering rose bush set against a dawn sky. Gleaming droplets of early morning dew seemed to quiver on the rose’s velvet, red petals. It was one of a series of small paintings that hung above the shelf of potted plants. They were all beautifully detailed. The unknown painter obviously had talent.

Catherine’s mouth quirked wryly. There would be zero upkeep with any of them. She almost reached for the first one, then sighed. Coward. No, you can’t buy a picture of a plant rather than a real one…

Maybe if I need a Christmas present I’ll come back for one of these, she thought. They were that good. But that holiday was still a few months away. And now more time was ticking past, and she was no closer to making a real selection.

“Can I help you, Miss?” a young man’s voice asked, from behind her.

“Busted...” Catherine muttered, as she turned to face him.

She saw he had red hair that looked as if it would be right at home on a carrot, it was so golden. It was long too, tied neatly with a leather thong at the nape of his neck. Dressed in old blue jeans and a baggy, black t-shirt, he had more the look of an artist, than a gardener. There was even a white paint smear on the knee of his denims. She wondered if the paintings were his.

His welcoming smile was warm, and entirely genuine. It reached deep into his dark blue eyes, and made them dance with knowing humor.

“Do you need help making your selection?” he prompted.

Her eyes scanned her verdant surroundings. “I don’t…” Catherine swallowed her trepidation. “I… I’m not sure. I was just passing. Someone told me this was a very nice shop, that the owner is very good with different kinds of plants. Ones that do well in the city?”

“I’m afraid Verity’s out right now. You just missed her. You’ll have to make do with me. I’m Roddy, her best assistant. Which makes me her only assistant.” He flashed the friendly smile, again. “I make the deliveries and do the grunt work, mostly.” He held out a large hand, which Catherine took, briefly.

She glanced pointedly at her wristwatch, hoping he got the message that she was running out of time. Maybe the cactus, or the ivy would have to do…

“I’m looking for a plant. I think.”

“We’ll soon get you settled,” he promised, indicating the shop’s wares with a sweep of his hand. “We aim to please.”

The man’s widening smile was as bright as his hair. She liked him, immediately. There was something disarming about him. And he didn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d judge her unkindly, if she confessed her limited capabilities.

Roddy hooked his thumbs into the side pockets of his jeans. “And you’re entirely right about our rep. I know a lot about what we sell. Was there something particular you were looking for? Or would you just like to browse?”

“Just browse, I think,” Catherine answered quickly. She cast one last look at the row of small paintings, before moving resolutely away. “I want to get my bearings. But… don’t go too far. I’m probably going to ask a lot of ridiculous questions.” She huffed a dissatisfied sigh. “My mother was a good gardener. But in a way, I’m very new to all of this.”

Roddy grinned sympathetically. “Well, for starters, there’s no such thing as a ridiculous question. And there’s only two kinds of answers, according to Verity. The right one and the other one.”

“There are, indeed.” Catherine nodded quickly. The mysterious Verity sounded like a very practical woman.

It had been Lady May who’d first mentioned this particular shop. The old lady said she knew the owner, a fine girl. Catherine had come in, hoping for help. It looked like Roddy was going to be that help.

“Okay, for starters…” Roddy tilted his head, watching her indecision about where to begin. “There’s a lot in this section you can enjoy, but… for the very special stuff, you might want a peek back there.” He indicated a slatted plastic curtain of a doorway, one that led to another area of the shop.

The doorbell jangled, and another customer came in. Roddy immediately returned to his “best assistant” mode, guiding the newcomer towards the rows of potted plants they’d asked to see. He seemed at ease and very knowledgeable.

Catherine watched him work for a few moments, as she continued to browse the shelves.

Petunias… no. Too delicate. Too… impermanent, she decided, looking over row after row of flowering plants.

Marigolds had a too-sharp fragrance and violets, though lightly scented, seemed too small. She guessed she was looking for a statement piece. Something to boost her confidence.

The geraniums were mostly single-toned, and the many-colored mums weren’t aromatic enough. Catherine nodded towards Roddy as she moved near the plastic curtain, and he nodded back, as he continued to help the choosy female customer.

Hope she’s having more luck than I am, Catherine thought, as she pushed aside the clear, dangling strips of plastic.

It was warmer in the back, and Catherine knew she was standing in an area that was built to be a greenhouse. A cloth-screened plastic roof let in the sun, and kept the space feeling balmy. The room was large, and very verdant. Orchids trailed and lilies bloomed, and a massive staghorn fern dominated the space. The whole room smelled divine.

And way beyond her limited skills.

In the middle of the room, a small, stone fish pond, complete with tinkling fountain, bubbled happily. Inside, tiny speckled fish shimmered, orange, black, and white. Water lilies floated and dipped gracefully. An electric blue dragonfly skimmed the surface.

Catherine stared at all this life, all this… abundance on show. She wanted to turn and leave, but she was not a coward.

Drawing in a deep breath, she decided to do a quick tour of the area. What could it hurt? She had about fifteen minutes yet, before she had to run back to her car. Joe had been held up in court, so no-one would notice if she was a few minutes later than usual.

This whole place looks like it’s protected from the chill. Like only something that likes the heat would do well here, she thought, aware that while it wasn’t hot in here, it was indeed warmer than it was in the shop area.

The abundance of choices made things seem worse, rather than better, and again the niggling feeling that she’d be no good at any of this, persisted.

Maybe I just need to buy a bouquet and stick it in a vase, she thought dispiritedly. Might as well turn around and just…

It was then that she spotted them. Roses. Her mother’s favorite flower. Dozens of bushes of them, all lined up to one side of the room, close against the plastic “wall.”

A yellow one vied with a deep pink one for attention, the size of the blooms looking huge, to Catherine’s wondering eyes.

“Roses!” she said it out loud, as she drew toward the blossoms as if pulled by an unseen magnet. Of course! She thought, remembering her mother’s ivory rose, the one Vincent currently wore around his neck in the leather bag she had made. Why haven’t I ever thought about growing roses?

But she knew why. Roses needed a good amount of care, and the New York climate was sometimes hard on them. Too much moisture would blight the leaves, and not enough would kill the plant. Roses were known for being difficult to cultivate, anywhere. Much less on a New York balcony, and by a woman who barely had time to remember to water the palm.

She remembered her mother’s small, neat rose garden, and the ordered rows of stunning color her father’s gardener had managed to produce, through the years. Her heart sank right to her shoes. Roses took a great deal of time and care, priceless commodities she did not possess, in her busy life as a Manhattan D.A.

“Ah, I see you’ve found our best treasure,” Roddy remarked, appearing right at the wrong moment, in the plastic doorway. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

He turned to tie the strips aside, so that Catherine could feel comfortable being in the room alone with him, and so that he could listen for more customers. Catherine realized he must have finished with his other client.

“They are,” she exclaimed, lovingly stroking the petals of a yellow rose. “But, I’m afraid all I can do is look. These are way beyond my skills.”

“Well, those are very special.” He walked over to one of the larger bushes. “Yellow roses mean friendship. And that particular bush came from Robert E. Lee’s garden, according to its provenance. Do you like it?” he asked.

Catherine smiled, and inhaled the heady fragrance. “I do. I just don’t know if I’ve got the talent to grow something so… demanding,” she said, trailing her way down to the pink ones. She moved on to a peach-colored bloom. It looked deeply ruffled.

“These are lovely.”

“The lady likes antiques! That’s an Adam rose. Hard to find them around here. 1835, on the original blooms. They’re one of the oldest varieties of tea roses ever produced. Most people like them as hedges, since the blossoms are so large.”

“I barely have enough room for a pot.” Catherine shook her head, impressed with his knowledge. “I didn’t realize roses had dates attached to them.”

“The more highly prized ones do, the particular varieties. Were you interested in this one?”

Catherine considered it, but shook her head. “I’m not really interested in growing a hedge. I live in an apartment. And… I’m not really much of a gardener.” She stepped down the row and touched her hand to a pink petal so light it was nearly white. “Does this one have a name?”

“Antoine Rivoire. 1890’s. She’s younger than Adam, but just as pretty. But… the names of them aren’t so important. It’s more how it makes you feel, to look at them. At least… that’s how I always felt about it. Horticulturalists might disagree.”

Catherine liked him more and more. “I agree with you.” She studied the last few bushes, one of which had no open blooms.

I guess you have a secret, she thought. She smiled to herself, knowing she had a few of those, as well.

She turned back to Roddy. “I think these are making me feel inferior, to tell you the truth,” she confided. “It must take a lot of time to do these justice. I don’t think I have that.” She glanced at her wristwatch, again. Time was ticking by. She needed to leave very soon, if she was to make it back to her desk in time.

Roddy folded his arms and smiled. “Now, don’t you go thinking that. A plant grows itself, doesn’t need you doing anything too special. Most people get all intimidated by the flower snobs, thinking if they don’t tend the plants 24/7, they’ll all just up and die. Truth is, a plant needs sun and water, and fed a couple times a year.”

He indicated the small fish pond. “Keeping these goldfish alive is much more demanding.”

He drew closer to the remaining bushes. “Roses aren’t so picky. They just want to know you love ‘em.” He squatted down. “Water them from down near the roots and keep them where there’s plenty of morning sun, and they’ll be good to you. Let ‘em dry out in between the waterings, and feed them a little bone meal twice a year to make up for the fact that they’re in a pot, and they should do well. I can sell you a small bag, if you want, but not right now. Ours have all been fed.”

Catherine walked quickly to a stand of pretty American Beauty roses. “I don’t know…” She doubted herself.

Roddy stood, but remained still, letting her look, and not wanting to pressure her. “We still have those pots of ivy in the front…or there’s the cacti. If you’d rather take the safe option.”

Catherine frowned. Was that a challenge? She knew it wasn’t. He was too polite for that, and he wanted to make a sale. Yet the words spurred her, a bit.

“What about this one?” she asked, eyeing the last rosebush on the end. It was the one with buds, but no open blooms. “What color will it be?” she asked.

Roddy’s blue eyes tracked to where she indicated. “Oh, that one. That one is a bit of a mystery, yet. Kind of special. Verity says even she doesn’t know, for sure. We’re waiting.”

“You don’t know?” Catherine asked. “Isn’t that a little odd?”

He gave the bush a long look. “Some things we get have a long provenance. Others, not so much.” Roddy shrugged. He looked at a clip board hanging on a hook near a set of shelves that held large, empty pots. He checked a description he’d read once before.

“It says it’s a New Yorker, and does well in the area. Must not mind the cold, come winter, though of course it will be pruned back, by then.” He maintained his position opposite from Catherine, and near the mysterious rose bush. “Must be a late bloomer,” he said, tracing a careful hand up one of the stems. The leaves were lushly green. “It’s healthy, though,” he proclaimed. “The paperwork on it says it might even have more than one color of bloom.” He looked at the plant with a bit of a question in his blue eyes, as he said it.

“Isn’t that … unusual?” she asked.

He turned back to the clipboard and flipped the page, looking for more. There wasn’t anything. “All but unheard of, if they mean two really different colors, and not just variations on the same shade, like different pinks.” He looked at the closed buds, wonderingly.

“How is that possible?” she asked.

Her tall companion shook his head. “It shouldn’t be, but you know nature. Something exceptional happens every day.” He moved back, leaving her to admire the least lovely rose bush they currently had. Roddy knew that most people wouldn’t buy a bush if it wasn’t blooming. Especially if you couldn’t tell what the colors were.

Something exceptional happens every day. Catherine thought. Especially in nature. You have no idea, Roddy.

She stepped closer to the plant. “My terrace gets morning sun…” Her eyes remained on the vigorous green rose bush. It was dotted with closed buds. “And shade from the hottest part of the day…”

Roddy watched her face closely. Her eyes had the look of a woman who was falling in love, just a little. Or who was thinking about that.

She’s intrigued, he thought.

“Should be perfect for just about anything,” he said, as she looked all the way around the bush to confirm that there were tightly closed buds on all sides. There were.

She knelt down next to it, adopting Roddy’s earlier pose. The area near the bottom of the plant gave her no information she didn’t already have.

“Any idea what part of New York it came from?” she asked.

Roddy checked the clipboard, again. “Not really. Just that it’s local. Kind of a native.”

“Like me. So it should do well here,” she surmised, trailing her hand up a long stem.

“Careful. She’s got some thorns. She’s an old-fashioned girl. She hasn’t been stripped of all her protection, like the more modern roses.”

Catherine gave him a slight smile. “That means she’s a scrapper. I like that.” Green eyes followed the path of the stem to where a tight-closed bud gleamed. “She was born, and she survived…” she whispered.

Roddy’s eyebrows rose, but he made no reply to that.

Catherine stayed right where she was. The bush shouldn’t seem attractive to her, and yet it was. The green color of the leaves seemed just the right shade of green, as did its New York status, and the fact that it was both rare, and not entirely known, as a commodity.

Take a chance, Catherine thought. Though it was her thought, she swore she could almost hear Vincent’s voice, in her mind. She smiled. Life is for living…

“This one.” She decided, before she could question the instinct. “I’d need a large pot?” she asked, rising quickly and stepping back.

“Great choice…” Roddy smiled, knowing that sometimes, the plants seemed to call out to their prospective owners. Clearly, this was just such a time.

“There’s a big one right here. And oh, look. It’s on sale,” he said, hefting the large clay pot.

Catherine assessed her needs, checking off a hastily-complied mental list. “I’ll need some potting soil.” She glanced at her watch one more time, and exhaled a dissatisfied sigh. “I have to go, very soon. Work calls.”

“Okay, we’ll make this quick. We have the best soil, for roses. I’ll get you some.”

He carefully placed the rose bush inside the clay pot, before adding a bag of soil. They both heard the bell over the shop door jangle, as the owner came in. Both Catherine and Roddy emerged from the greenhouse area, together.

“Hey, Verity. Just taking care of this lady, right here. Looks like she’s getting your mysterious rose bush,” Roddy said, taking the pot to the counter.

“Oh, that one! She’s keeps her beauty a secret. Came in with a shipment from just outside of town. She’s a local girl, but I don’t know much more. I’m surprised you’re getting her. I can’t say for sure even what color she’ll be. Yet. Colors. Maybe.”

“Roddy says it might not do that?”

“Hybrids tend to produce one color, though you’ll get varieties of that. Like when you mix a yellow and a red to get an orange, or peach colored bloom. The new bush makes only that color, though you might get some nice shade variations of that. It rarely throws back to visit its parents,” Verity confirmed. She looked at the bush speculatively, as Roddy rang up the sale and took Catherine’s offering of money.

“Good luck with it. Did Roddy tell you everything you need to know? You really do need to be aware of her thorns.” She held up one forefinger. “She even bit me last week. My own fault.”

“Roddy has been most helpful,” Catherine replied. “I guess I’ll find out if I can manage, soon enough. And I’ll be careful to give her the respect she deserves.”

“Thanks for shopping with us. Let us know if we can be of help.” Verity smiled.

“My pleasure,” the young woman replied. “Your… assistant was very helpful. But, I really need to run, now. Or my boss will kill me.”

“Come on, let’s get you sorted out, then.” Roddy followed her out with a handcart and loaded up her car, placing the pot and bush very carefully, in the foot space of the back seat.

On a last-second impulse he dragged out one of the rumpled business cards he carried in his back pocket. It advertised the name and address of his art studio, which was really his tiny apartment down the street. He figured a well-connected patron could be good for business, and he’d noticed her giving his paintings an appreciative eye.

“There you go,” he confirmed, closing the rear door for her.

“Thanks,” she replied.

He stood back and watched as his customer got in and started the engine, pulling her sedan seamlessly into the stream of impatient traffic with the ease of long-practice.

Roddy watched the rapid flow of cars swallow her up, before he returned to find Verity straightening the day’s paperwork, near the register.

“Nice job,” she complimented, checking the register tape. “You’ve been busy while I’ve been at the bank.”

“No problem,” he said, wrestling the handcart back through the shop door. “I think that makes us officially cash flush for the week. Want to close early and go grab a pizza? Celebrate?” he asked.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Verity shook her head in the negative, sending her own red curls to dancing. Her shade of red was much darker than Roddy’s, though they teased that they might be related. A thing Verity doubted, given her circumstances as a tunnel-born woman.

“I have… someplace I really need to be this weekend. And I have so much I have to do, yet. I still have that new order for those wedding bouquets to get finished before tomorrow. But, go ahead and flip the sign,” she said, noting the clock on the wall now indicated it was nearly three o’clock; almost quitting time, on Fridays. “…if you want to get away early,” she added.

She liked to close early on Friday afternoon. It cleared the way for her important weekend wedding duties. And Roddy had places he preferred to be, like out of town, on any given weekend. He usually could be found at the beach, watching the waves roll in. He said he needed the space to breathe, and think.

Besides, Verity knew Vincent sometimes liked to stop by, but never when the shop was open. If he was going to do that this evening, she wanted the place clear for him. Perhaps he’d want another rose for his lady. The one Verity thought she had yet to meet. One or two of the American Beauties would make a fine courting gift.

Verity was still waiting for him to request a bunch of red roses. He had once asked her for a single red rose, and Verity knew it had been for someone special. But, time had passed, and the expected order had not yet eventuated.

The holiday season was a few months away, but still. That didn’t mean Vincent wouldn’t get his new love something. Maybe there was hope, after all. Perhaps Verity thought she just needed to make a little extra push, to focus his attention.

She still held out hope her adopted brother would open up and tell her more about the mysterious woman he loved. She could work on her wedding bouquets while she waited to see if he would arrive. She never retired to bed until well after midnight. Sleeping was such a waste of precious time…

“You’re always so mysterious about where you get to,” Roddy complained. “Is this that same ‘someplace’ you vanish off to sometimes? The one doesn’t even have a phone?” he asked, storing away the cart. “How do I contact you?” he added. “I mean, in case of fire, or something like that.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” she deflected.

The fact that her last customer had walked out of the shop with what was their only non-blooming rose bush tickled a sensitive spot of awareness, in Verity’s puzzle-loving mind.

“Odd choice your last customer made,” she commented, purposely diverting him. “In a nursery full of blooming plants, she picked the one with no flowers on it, yet. Hope she doesn’t get impaled on a thorn, and change her mind before Monday. I’ll be … busy, until then.”

Verity had liked the strange rose bush, and had gotten one of her odd “feelings” about it, from almost the moment she’d taken it off the truck. She wanted to see it if it really would produce two different colored blooms. And if it did, she wanted it gone to a good home, with a good caretaker. She wasn’t sure if the chic young woman who’d walked out of here with it could provide what it needed.

“Yeah,” Roddy agreed. “She seemed… drawn to it. And she appeared okay,” Roddy said, straightening the bags of potting soil near the register.

Drawn to it? Was she now? Verity wondered, liking the idea of that.

Roddy shoved one bag on top of the other so that the pile was more even. “She has the kind of face made to be captured in oils. But I don’t think she’s an artist’s model. Too classy for that. Pity, though. I’d surely like to paint her.”

“Do you think she’s a local?” Verity asked, trying to disguise any real curiosity. Roddy didn’t know about her family “gifts,” other than that she seemed very intuitive, and good at matching people with the flowers they favored.

Roddy shrugged. “Probably. She made some remark about being a native. New York plates and the car was in good shape. She looked like Park Avenue. No wedding ring, though. Divorced, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Verity replied. “You get a name?”

“Nope.” He shrugged casually. “Paid with cash. It’s in the till. I’m gonna go straighten up in the back, then leave. You sure you don’t want pizza? I haven’t had a chance to eat today, and I’m starving.”

Verity opened the cash drawer to total up the day’s take. “No, thanks. I really do have something to d—”

The last vowel died on her lips as her fingertips contacted the twenties in the old-fashioned metal till. The notes on top belonged to the mysterious young woman, the last customer of the day. And a sensation similar to a mild electric shock raced up Verity’s arm. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose.

Well, well, she thought, leaving her fingertips where they were, right over the picture of Andrew Jackson. Her hand fairly hummed. Mild tremors of sensation pulsed through her.

Maybe somebody very special took that bush home, after all.

Though Verity possessed a certain amount of sympathetic magic, thanks to her great grandmother, it was a rare thing when money sent her such a vibe. Money was often handled, and rarely sentimental. It was usually only a piece of jewelry or some special memento that sent her this kind of feeling.

The ivory rose Vincent wore in a leather pouch around his neck fairly shouted at her, and the king on Father’s chess board had had Jacob’s fingers on it more times than she could comfortably count, so she “felt” him, if she handled it. But cash? Not usually. Almost never.

Unless she’s somehow connected to money. To wealth. And now to the rose bush…

Verity looked up toward the shop door. She closed her eyes, still able to “see” the young woman, and her soft, winsome beauty. There had been something about her she could not quite put her finger on. Some mysterious connection that was yet to be made.

For a reason she couldn’t identify, she now wanted a name and an address to go with her last customer.

The last time my hand felt like this, Vincent let me see the rose he wears around his neck. The one the woman he loves gave to him on the night of their first anniversary...

Verity shook her head. In time, all things revealed themselves, if left alone to do so.

She knew she hadn’t sat down with her family to gossip in a good long while, and the time had just slipped by her. For reasons she couldn’t quite name, it seemed like it was past time for another reunion.

“Good thing I’m planning on going down soon,” she whispered, adding up the drawer, mentally exchanging the words “day after tomorrow,” for “soon.”

Roddy drew the blinds on the shop window, and adjusted a row of African violets away from the window ledge.

“Roddy, that woman that was in here, that last customer. Can you tell me anything more about her?”

Roddy shrugged. “Not sure. Why the curiosity?”

Verity frowned, still holding the twenties from the drawer. “Just humor the woman who signs your paychecks.”

He straightened from his task. “I’m a struggling artist.” He laughed back at her. “I work for tip money on the deliveries, and the small wage you now pay me. But you couldn’t do without me now, and we both know it.”

“Says who?” Verity frowned as she considered him. His face that was not quite handsome, but was indeed kind, settled into a thoughtful smile.

“Says me,” he teased, then shrugged. “Not much I can tell you about her. She was really afraid of trying a rose bush at first, then left with that one. Says she’s got a terrace, and-“

“A terrace? Like… an upstairs balcony kind of terrace?”

“I think that’s what she said, yeah. She said she lives in an apartment.”

“Anything else?”

“She said it gets good morning sun. What’s this about, Verity?”

“Good morning sun would mean her face places east. She’s getting the morning sun as it lights that side of the city. Did she say anything else? Anything about living off the park?”

“No. Me saying ‘she’s Park Avenue’ is just an expression. Why? Is one of the bills she gave me fake?” he asked, suddenly concerned. He’d been trying to help out. He didn’t want to cost Verity any money.

“No, no,” she said, holding up the cash. “As a matter of fact, I get the feeling that this is the most real money that’s been spent in here in a while.”

Roddy had no idea what she meant. Verity often said odd things like that. “I haven’t got a clue as to what that—”

“It means once you’re real, you can’t be made unreal. Like it says in the book.”

“What book?” Roddy stared at her. He shook his head. His employer was sometimes a mystery to him. One he’d like to know better. But she had more thorns than the old-fashioned roses she sold, sometimes. “Still clueless, over here.”

Verity pushed the cash register drawer shut, and wrote down the total on a piece of paper. They could go, now. There wasn’t enough cash to warrant a second trip to the bank.

She lifted her gaze to frown at the clock on the wall. “You know, I’m rethinking that pizza. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I’ll have time to share a slice or two with you, after all. And while we sit there, I’ll tell you the story of The Velveteen Rabbit. Your literary education needs some major revising.”

“Okay…” Roddy brightened.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Without further explanation, she retreated through the heavy curtain that screened the steps into the basement area of the shop.

She wrote a note on a small chalkboard and hung it up for Vincent to find, warning him she was going to be busy tonight. She wouldn’t be free for a visit.

She returned to the shop level, and reached for her coat. “But, since we’re going out now, Roddy, it means that later, your time is mine. You’re going to have to help me with all those bouquets. It’ll take the two of us, if we’re to be done before midnight. We’ll upgrade your literary education, while we work.”

“Sure!” Roddy replied, counting his good fortune, quickly dismissing the idea he had of going surfing for the weekend. “My grandmother grew a lot of flowers. But she was always too busy to tell me a lot of stories.”

Verity nodded, understanding that her own upbringing was fairly different. She’d been raised longing for green places, but awash in tall tales, myths, legends, and just plain “good stories.” They were opposites in many ways.

“Looks to be a nice afternoon out,” she said, waiting while he shrugged into his coat. “There should be a pretty moon, tonight.”

Her hand still tingled, and now, so did her other sense of awareness. Roddy was pulling on a Mets baseball cap, both as head gear and to cover his bright hair.

“There should be,” Roddy agreed, holding the door open for her. “Maybe even good for planting roses.”

“Planting roses at night, by moonlight? That would be just begging for something magical to happen,” Verity replied, stepping out onto the street.

************

Epilogue

Vincent stood near the balcony wall for several long moments, indulging his enduring need to watch his love. She was on her knees, packing earth around the stem of a budding rose bush. The clay pot was a large one, and her hands were pushed deep into the dark, loamy soil.

Her hair was mussed and smudges of soil marked her old sweater. Vincent had not seen her looking so relaxed and happy in a long time. The set of her shoulders, and the shimmering of their mutual bond told him this. It tugged at his heart, and made him sigh.

For a reason Vincent couldn’t quite name, it didn’t seem right to interrupt her. Like a person reading a particular page from a book, or a musician in mid-song, she was focused, and intent to her purpose.

He looked closer. Though her back was to him, he could sense her smile, and Vincent found that he didn’t want to interrupt that, either, as he felt her through their bond.

She’s happy about this. Pleased with herself, and her plans. Don’t stop, Catherine. You have no idea how lovely you are, like this. I wish…

Still unaware of being observed, Catherine rose up on her knees to pack down the good earth, her hands as bare as the nape of her soft neck, her hair pulled back in a haphazard pony tail. The sweater she wore was washed to aged softness. She’d dressed in old clothes to do this, not the chic, business-like styles she normally favored. She didn’t look like she normally looked. And she didn’t feel like she normally felt.

Though often content, and regularly engrossed in her work, Vincent knew that Catherine rarely did something like this. She’s having an adventure, some small bit of fun. She’s happy with herself, and feeling… connected to something, even as she’s not quite sure what. Vincent could explain the feelings coming from her no better than that.

Her hands continued to pack the soil around the base of the plant, and her feeling of pleasure continued to shine, both in her face and in their bond. Her happiness was tinged with nostalgia, as if she’d done this before, with someone she loved.

Tightly closed green buds hid their scattered treasure, but Catherine was smiling at them as if they were the rarest blooms, in full and stunning flower. Her hands drew a half circle around the base of the plant, liking the feel of Roddy’s potting soil under her fingertips. It reminded her of childhood. It reminded her of her mother.

A new pair of gardening shears gleamed near her right hand, the price tag still glued to the handle. A plastic bag with the word “Panache Flowers” scrawled on the front sat to one side, now devoid of potting soil.

Vincent smiled. “Panache” was a very French word, and a flower shop he knew quite well. Catherine had been to see Verity. Coincidence, perhaps. But just maybe serendipity had also played its part in their meeting.

Vincent pondered how much each woman knew of the other. He decided he need to see Verity again, and soon.

In the same instant, Catherine took up the shears, reached around the plant, and caught her hand, on a thorn. Yelping in dismay, she turned her head and saw him watching her…

************

From down in the park, two spirits looked up at a couple who might have been echoes of them, almost two hundred years ago.

“She is concentrating, and only now does she see him there,” Vincente told his wife. “Do you think he loves her as I love you?”

Kate Chandler smiled, as she beheld her very great granddaughter, and the descendant of her own, beloved rose bush.

“I am sure of it, mon belle homme. His eyes hold nothing but love. Look how still he stands. Like you, in the doorway of a barn. He likes to observe, and dream of their future, together. But he holds those dreams close, fearing they may evaporate with the light of day…”

“Yes, I was watching you, as you walked down the pathway. And I dreamed the same. I remember, Beauty.” Huge arms enfolded her in an ether-wrought cloak. “You were far beyond every one of my most impossible dreams.”

“Ah, then, what are the odds our granddaughter would find one so featured?” Kate mused. “She dreams, as he does. They dance like two lovers who are yet to truly embrace each other.”

Vincente smiled at that, a hint of long fangs, showing. “What are the odds she wouldn’t find one such as he?” he returned. “I think it is more of a miracle that she and the child of your rose bush found their way to each other.” His soft chuckle was a whisper through the rustling leaves of the New York night.

“And why is that?” queried Catherine’s very great grandmother.

He planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Simple, little one. Rose bushes do not have legs. He does.”

Kate laughed at her husband. “And only a fool would not find his way to our granddaughter, and realize she is very special.”

Catherine chose that particular moment to reach for the gardening shears and jabbed her finger on a thorn.

Vincent was at her side, immediately. The two spirits watch him kneel beside her, and take her hand in his.

“Ah, see, they are like us.” Vincente’s smile widened. “And now the ground has been consecrated, again. All will be well, in the end. You will see.”

“Serendipity?” Kate’s eyebrows arched, lovingly.

“Of course…” Vincente hugged her close. “Everything is a mystery, until something chooses to reveal itself.”

They both watched Vincent care for his love, as he held her hand, then placed the small wound against his loving mouth, to tend her hurt.

“And this one… he looks like he is no fool.” Vincente approved of the gallant gesture.

“They’ll need courage,” Kate said. They both knew that was true.

“The original bush was planted next to thyme. Thyme is for courage; for facing your fears. Do you remember?” he asked.

Of course she did. “Between thyme and rosemary. Love, between strength and remembrance. It was just chance.”

“As is everything. And… nothing is,” he remarked, taking in the scene, as he caressed his wife’s shoulders.

“I wonder, where he does comes from? Where does he live?” Kate pondered the man her granddaughter loved, as he lifted his leonine head from tending her small hurt. “The rose bush drew us here, and now I am deeply curious to know more. He does not appear to be of this place. Mayhap there is another? Some… world of his own?”

“You always need to know, ma belle,” Vincente chided gently. “Is it not enough to know that this one loves our grandchild? Do the details of his truths matter that much to you?”

Kate’s fair head nodded. “It could be important. We should follow him and discover those truths.” She turned within his embrace, reaching up to kiss his bearded cheek, before moving on to caress his full mouth with her own. “Are you ready for a new adventure, my love? Because, I am. I feel so alive, so needed, in this New World.”

“Wither thou goest, there too, go I…” Vincente settled his mouth over hers, and the soft wind drifting through the park found no hindrance in their joined forms.

For they had dissolved slowly, as ghosts often do. But there remained in the air, the merest hint of roses.

The enduring ghosts of roses…

************

“When you have planted

the rose of Love into your heart

your life has not been in vain.”

Omar Khayyám

No matter where you are when prodigal magic comes home to you, I wish you love. ~ C.J.

For the further adventures of Roddy, Verity, and our couple, please see the accompanying story “Loving Verity,” by CJ. LaBelle, on Treasure Chambers.