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nibbled on the potpie he’d left for her, then took a quiet walk around her gardens. The lights were on in Harper’s cottage. David would have called him to let him know he’d made potpie—one of Harper’s favorites. If the boy wanted some, he knew where to find it.
    She slipped back inside, then poured herself another glass of wine with the idea of enjoying it in a long, hot bath.
    But when she went back upstairs, she caught a movement in her sitting room. Her whole body tightened as she went to the door, then loosened again when she saw Stella.
    “You got my juices up,” Roz said.
    It was Stella who jolted and spun around with a hand to her heart. “God! You’d think we’d all stop jumping by now. I thought you’d be in here. I came by to see if you’d like to go over the weekly report, and saw this.” She swept a hand toward the bags and boxes lining the wall. “Roz, did you just buy the mall?”

    “Not quite, but I gave it a good run. And because I did, I’m not much in the mood for the weekly report. What I want is this wine and a long, hot bath.”
    “Obviously well deserved. We can do it tomorrow. Ah, if you need help wrapping some of this—”
    “Sold.”
    “Just tap me any evening after the kids are in bed. Ah, Hayley mentioned you were having drinks with Mitch Carnegie.”
    “Yeah. We ran into each other, as it seems everyone in Tennessee does eventually, at Wal-Mart. He’s finished his book and appears to be raring to go on our project. He’s going to want to interview you, and Hayley among others. That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
    “No. I’m raring, too. I’ll let you get started on that bath. See you in the morning.”
    “’Night.”
    Roz went into her bedroom, closed the door. In the adjoining bath she ran water and scent and froth, then lit candles. For once she wouldn’t use this personal time to soak and read gardening or business literature. She’d just lie back and veg.
    As an afterthought, she decided to give herself a facial.
    In the soft, flickering light, she slipped into the perfumed water. Let out a low, lengthy sigh. She sipped wine, set it on the ledge, then sank nearly to the chin.
    Why, she wondered, didn’t she do this more often?
    She lifted a hand out of the froth, examined it—long, narrow, rough as a brick. Studied her nails. Short, unpainted. Why bother painting them when they’d be digging in dirt all day?
    They were good, strong, competent hands. And they looked it. She didn’t mind that, or the fact there were no rings on her fingers to sparkle them up.
    But she smiled as she raised her feet out. Her toenails now, they were her little foolishness. This week she’d painted them a metallic purple. Most days they’d be buried in work socks and boots, but she knew she had sexy toes. It was just one of those silly things that helped her remember she was female.
    Her breasts weren’t as perky as they’d once been. She could be grateful they were small, and the sagging hadn’t gotten too bad. Yet.
    While she didn’t worry too much about the state of her hands—they were, after all, tools for her—she was careful about her skin. She couldn’t stop all the lines, but she pampered it whenever she could.
    She wasn’t willing to let her hair go to salt-and-pepper, so she took care of that, too. Just because she was being dragged toward fifty didn’t mean she couldn’t dig her heels in and try to slow down the damage time insisted on inflicting.
    She had been beautiful once. When she’d been a young bride, fresh and innocent and radiantly happy. God, she looked at those pictures now and it was almost like looking at a stranger.
    Who had that sweet young girl been?
    Nearly thirty years, she thought. And it had gone by in the snap of a finger.
    How long had it been since a man had looked at her and told her she was beautiful? Bryce had, certainly, but he’d told her all manner of lies.
    But Mitch had said it almost offhand, casually. It made