kick out of Bertha’s unpredictable methods of getting what she wanted. But he had never been the object of her finagling. He liked working for her. She paid him well, and he knew she needed his help around Rose Hill Farm. But now he was stuck babysitting her granddaughter for the rest of the afternoon—a girl who acted as nervous as a cottontail and had a hard time stringing more than two words together that made any sense. He found younger girls to be tiresome: they giggled a lot and refused to take anything seriously.
A horrible thought darted through his mind. He hoped Bertha wasn’t trying her hand at matchmaking. He was real fond of Bertha, even if she was crafty, and he didn’t want to lose this job. It was more than a job to him. It was his future. This was what he wanted to do with his life. He could never work up much enthusiasm pushing a plow behind a team of mules, but this—experimenting to create a better plant—this felt like something he was born to do. He studied books about roses, he wrote away to experts and asked their opinions, and he kept precise records—something Bertha had no interest in. It was a sin to be prideful and he was careful not to indulge in it, but it did please him when folks said they drove long distances to buy rose stock from Rose Hill Farm. Last week, an English lady came all the way from Pittsburgh because someone at Penn State told her this was the only place to buy a rose that smelled like one grown a hundred years ago. “The hybrids might be the rage,” the lady told Billy, “but they have no fragrance. But these roses”—she scanned the fields—“you can tell they’re grown with passion.”
How his father and older brothers would laugh at that comment. They thought his ideas were nonsense, so he stopped doing experiments and bringing his horticulture books home from the library. But his mother had understood. She and Bertha had been good friends and neighbors. His mother must have told Bertha the kinds of things Billy liked to learn about, because at his mother’s funeral, she asked him to come work at Rose Hill Farm.
But as much as he liked and admired Bertha Riehl, as much passion as he felt for the roses, he knew he would never be passionate about this skinny girl sitting on the buggy seat next to his cousin Maggie. He guessed Bess could hardly weigh ninety-nine pounds soaking wet. She had an unnaturally scrubbed look, like she’d been dipped in a bottle of bleach and came out with ultra blond hair and white eyelashes. And that anxious-to-please expression on her face made him nervous.
He was glad his cousin was with them. Maggie could talk to a brick wall and never notice it wasn’t answering back. At least he was off the hook from trying to come up with any more painful attempts at conversation, like he had to do—just out of politeness—when Bess was out helping him pick roses.
Still, the least he could do was to be nice, for Bertha’s sake, so he took the long way to the Smuckers to show Bess his favorite spot on earth, Blue Lake Pond. A little jewel of a pond with pine trees that lined the shores. It was deserted, just as he expected. That was another thing he loved about this lake. He stopped the horse, hopped down, and tied its reins to a tree branch. He took a few steps and then stopped to wave to the girls. “Well, come on.”
“Not me. I’m going to stay here,” Maggie said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “What about you, Bess? Every visitor to Stoney Ridge needs to get acquainted with Blue Lake Pond.”
Thrown that small morsel of encouragement, Bess leaped off the buggy and trotted behind Billy.
Down by the shoreline, he put his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. “This is the best lake in the county. In all of Pennsylvania. I spend every free hour on these shores—swimming in the summer, skating in the winter. Fishing in between.”
A horrible thought darted through his mind. He hoped Bertha wasn’t trying her hand at matchmaking. He was real fond of Bertha, even if she was crafty, and he didn’t want to lose this job. It was more than a job to him. It was his future. This was what he wanted to do with his life. He could never work up much enthusiasm pushing a plow behind a team of mules, but this—experimenting to create a better plant—this felt like something he was born to do. He studied books about roses, he wrote away to experts and asked their opinions, and he kept precise records—something Bertha had no interest in. It was a sin to be prideful and he was careful not to indulge in it, but it did please him when folks said they drove long distances to buy rose stock from Rose Hill Farm. Last week, an English lady came all the way from Pittsburgh because someone at Penn State told her this was the only place to buy a rose that smelled like one grown a hundred years ago. “The hybrids might be the rage,” the lady told Billy, “but they have no fragrance. But these roses”—she scanned the fields—“you can tell they’re grown with passion.”
How his father and older brothers would laugh at that comment. They thought his ideas were nonsense, so he stopped doing experiments and bringing his horticulture books home from the library. But his mother had understood. She and Bertha had been good friends and neighbors. His mother must have told Bertha the kinds of things Billy liked to learn about, because at his mother’s funeral, she asked him to come work at Rose Hill Farm.
But as much as he liked and admired Bertha Riehl, as much passion as he felt for the roses, he knew he would never be passionate about this skinny girl sitting on the buggy seat next to his cousin Maggie. He guessed Bess could hardly weigh ninety-nine pounds soaking wet. She had an unnaturally scrubbed look, like she’d been dipped in a bottle of bleach and came out with ultra blond hair and white eyelashes. And that anxious-to-please expression on her face made him nervous.
He was glad his cousin was with them. Maggie could talk to a brick wall and never notice it wasn’t answering back. At least he was off the hook from trying to come up with any more painful attempts at conversation, like he had to do—just out of politeness—when Bess was out helping him pick roses.
Still, the least he could do was to be nice, for Bertha’s sake, so he took the long way to the Smuckers to show Bess his favorite spot on earth, Blue Lake Pond. A little jewel of a pond with pine trees that lined the shores. It was deserted, just as he expected. That was another thing he loved about this lake. He stopped the horse, hopped down, and tied its reins to a tree branch. He took a few steps and then stopped to wave to the girls. “Well, come on.”
“Not me. I’m going to stay here,” Maggie said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “What about you, Bess? Every visitor to Stoney Ridge needs to get acquainted with Blue Lake Pond.”
Thrown that small morsel of encouragement, Bess leaped off the buggy and trotted behind Billy.
Down by the shoreline, he put his hands on his hips and inhaled deeply. “This is the best lake in the county. In all of Pennsylvania. I spend every free hour on these shores—swimming in the summer, skating in the winter. Fishing in between.”
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