Two #2
“Goldenrod,” I said quickly.
“That’s a weed.”
I shrugged. “Depends on who’s looking, I guess. I like it. So do the bees and butterflies. It is great for cutting, easy to grow.”
“You’d put goldenrod in a vase?”
“Yes, ma’am. You could mix in some hydrangeas, purple coneflowers. It makes a nice arrangement. A little more informal than this, I suppose.” I placed the peonies on the mantel and turned to leave.
“Have you spent much time around gardens?” Mrs. Alexander asked, stopping my retreat.
“My whole life. My grandmother liked it. We spent a lot of time growing things together.”
“Such as?”
“Food, mostly. My grandmother grew almost everything we ate. But she loved flowers, especially roses. They’re too much work, in my opinion, but they brought her a lot of joy.”
Mrs. Alexander pointed to an arrangement in the center of the table, tightly bloomed roses in varying shades of pink. “Can you identify those?”
I peered at the arrangement. I couldn’t figure out this woman, but I excelled at tests. Before my mother could stop me, I started rattling off the names of the roses. “The dark pinks are Gallicas and these brighter ones are centifolias. They’re easy to spot because of their petals—cabbage roses. The lightest ones are probably noisettes.” I pulled a leaf off one stem. “There are some spots here. I’d spray for aphids soon, before they take over the plant.”
Mrs. Alexander walked toward the arrangement and examined the leaf I removed. “You’re right.”
I knew I was right, about the aphids and about her weird test on rose varieties, but it was still nice to hear. I felt like my grandmother was smiling down at me, unlike my mother, who hadn’t taken a breath since this conversation began.
“And you’re working here this summer?” Mrs. Alexander asked.
My mother finally interjected. “I’m Ms. Milton’s summer house manager and cook. This is my daughter.”
“I see.”
“The other guests will be arriving soon. We better finish up the cooking,” my mother said as she turned and left the room.
I faced Mrs. Alexander and curtsied, which was one of the more ridiculous things I had ever done, but that room was getting to me.
Mrs. Alexander laughed. “You’ll get used to this place. It’s not as fancy as it looks.”
I walked toward the kitchen, but Mrs. Alexander followed me into the hallway.
“Tess?”
“Yes,” I said, nerves bubbling inside.
“What are you doing this summer? While your mother is working here?” Mrs. Alexander asked.
I shrugged. “Helping out, I guess. I don’t think my mom and Ms. Milton have talked that over yet.”
She cocked her head slightly. “Would you like to work with me this summer? I could use some help with my gardens.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. It didn’t seem like a question I had the authority to answer. “Do you think that would be okay with Ms. Milton?”
“Oh, I’ll handle Madeline. Would it be okay with your mother?”
I nodded. “She’d be happy to have me occupied.” I hesitated and then asked the question that every teenage girl needed to know: “Is this a paying job?”
Mrs. Alexander’s face remained somber as she said, “Yes, I would compensate you for your time.”
“Okay.”
“Would you like to negotiate your rate?”
I made four dollars an hour babysitting for the twin toddlers that lived next door to my grandmother. This job sounded easier, but this woman looked like she could afford more. “Five dollars an hour?” I asked tentatively.
“All right. Come by at seven tomorrow morning. Is that too early?”
“No, that’s fine. I’m used to waking up early with my mom.” I turned, excitement bubbling inside. I had a summer job.
Mrs. Alexander’s voice stopped me. “Tess, I would have paid seven dollars an hour. Negotiate better next time.”
I smiled as I said, “I would have done it for free.”
Mrs. Alexander laughed, her eyes twinkling as she took another bite of the scone.
The next day, I woke up at five in the morning to help my mother. Despite the early hour, I hopped out of bed, wanting to confirm the reality of this situation because it still felt like a dream. My mother seemed equally giddy, smoothing the sheets longingly as she made her bed. We were both on a high after the success of the afternoon tea party. My mom’s food was a hit, even among the diet-conscious crew, and Ms. Milton kept thanking us both for saving the day.
“I still can’t believe we’re living here,” I said.
The cottage we were assigned was an old stable that had been remodeled into a guesthouse. It was without question the nicest place I had ever slept. Wooden beams lined the ceiling. Crisp white plaster on the walls contrasted with the giant stone fireplace in the middle of the room. I immediately claimed the upstairs loft with its bed tucked under the eaves and a porthole window view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The furniture was old but not in a thrift-store way. It was furniture that had been loved for decades, the wooden farm table with more history than my mother and a four-poster bed that looked like it was built when women had dowries. I found myself sitting up straighter and walking more carefully in this space.
Part of my mother’s job was making breakfast for the seasonal workers required to run the farm. Madeline Milton was an avid horseback rider, and the care and training of her animals was a significant operation, especially in the busy spring and summer months. We made big pots of grits, bowls of scrambled eggs, and platters of biscuits. Everyone seemed thrilled that there was finally a cook on the property, greeting my mother with smiles and sly requests for seconds. She was in her element, basking in the praise of her cooking. As out of place as we felt at the tea yesterday, it was a relief to feel immediately accepted by Ms. Milton’s other employees.
I understood why my mother was nervous about this job and eager to make the best impression. Most of Ms. Milton’s employees had been working there for years. They liked it. They had health insurance. They lived in real houses and didn’t worry about a leaky roof during a rainstorm. This job felt like a precious opportunity, a winning lotto ticket threatening to blow away in the wind. I wanted to help my mother hold on.
After breakfast service, I shoveled a plate of food into my mouth and left for my first day of work. It was just next door, which should have meant walking a few steps. But here, there was close to a half-mile between properties, and I had to cut through the back field.
I walked past the barn with the same bubbling nerves as the first day of school. I wanted this job to work out, but if it was anything like school, I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
I groaned at the thought of one last year of high school. Potentially at a new school, if Madeline Milton hired my mother full-time. It felt overwhelming, the idea of starting over at the beginning of my senior year, although there was a part of me that welcomed a fresh start. I hadn’t exactly been the most popular girl at my last high school, especially not with the opposite sex.
Up until then, I had kissed three boys. One was a mortifying game of truth or dare. No one’s first kiss should be in front of an audience where half the room is cheering and half the room is saying “yuck.” The second was my friend Emily’s cousin. I’m pretty sure she paid him to kiss me. The third and final kiss was the culmination of a painful junior prom where my date drank three beers and burped into my mouth.
All terrible kisses. My track record was an embarrassment. I had faint hopes that my luck would change this summer in a new place. I suppose I had a reputation for being hard. I had little patience for the antics of boys my age, and I couldn’t make myself giggle at their jokes like the girls who got kissed properly could. I also had an unfortunate habit of reciting facts whenever I got nervous, and boys made me nervous. But maybe it would be different here where I was unknown. Maybe I would be different.
By the time I made it to Mrs. Alexander’s property, the walk had calmed my nerves. I surveyed her house. It was smaller and older than Madeline Milton’s house but no less grand. It was made entirely of stone, thick mortar making it seem unbreakable, ivy-covered walls making it seem ancient. I started walking to the front door but heard a voice calling me.
“Tess, I’m out back. Come around.”
I walked to the back of the house and my breath hitched. I’d never seen gardens like these in my life, not in any of the books I pored over at the library, memorizing the names of plant varieties my grandmother and I daydreamed about growing. We’d tear out pages of magazines with beautiful gardens and my grandmother would circle what she liked, teaching me the importance of color and texture and scale in a way that she seemed to innately understand. I’d go to the library and research the plants, studying famous British gardens and grand American estates. I’d draw up plans and my grandmother would smile as she’d say, “Someday, Tess, you’ll live in a place like that.”
Here, I found myself standing in a place far better than I could have dreamed. Mrs. Alexander’s gardens extended into the countryside, stone terraces melting into the rolling hills with wild grasses. There were raised beds with more flower varieties than I could count and an entire expanse dedicated to tea roses. Lines of lavender and lightly mowed paths led into a wild explosion of color, purples and pinks and reds melting into the rising sun. There was a formality to the garden that matched the home, plenty of sculpted boxwoods and neatly maintained pathways with pea gravel, but the patches of colorful chaos were my favorite.
I was so mesmerized that I didn’t even notice Mrs. Alexander standing next to me.
“What do you think?”
“They are the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen,” I said and sighed.
I turned to Mrs. Alexander and was surprised by the difference. Gone was her slinky silk dress and boldly applied makeup. She was barefaced, her short blond hair hiding behind a baseball cap. She wore an oversized T-shirt and knee-length biking shorts. Somehow, she looked younger in this stripped-down version of herself. The bold persona seemed to have disappeared with the bold clothing. Her voice was quiet as she said, “Let’s get to work.”
“Should I check in with your gardening staff about where to start?” I asked.
“This isn’t Madeline’s house. You’re looking at the staff.”
I looked around at the expanse of manicured gardens, shock settling over my face. “You take care of this yourself?”
She nodded slightly. “Yes. It is something to fill my days, as my husband would say.”
“Wow.” It was the only reaction I could muster.
“This is my space. I don’t let others touch my flowers.”
“But you’re going to let me touch your flowers?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Alexander said. “You surprised me.”
“With my flower knowledge?”
She nodded.
“I’m weird. I don’t know why I can’t be like other teenagers.”
She shook a finger in my direction. “Different isn’t weird. Don’t dismiss the things that make you special.”
I felt my shoulders straightening like they did only when I was around my grandmother.
“Let’s get to work,” she said, handing me a pair of gardening gloves and a cultivator. “I don’t like to use chemicals. I hope you are prepared to hand-weed for most of the summer.”
I nodded enthusiastically. “That’s how I was taught. Thank you for this job, Mrs. Alexander.”
“I’ve never met anyone else as excited to weed as me,” she said. “You can call me Kay.”
We worked in silence for most of the morning. I was focused, careful with my work in this beautiful space. Weeding was a fairly simple task, but it was still early summer and some of the perennials were emerging. There were a million questions I wanted to ask Kay about living here, and the gardens, and how she could be a woman in a silk dress one day and covered in dirt the next. But I kept my mouth shut, my mother’s advice echoing in my ears. Do a good job, Tess. Be quiet, focus on the work, and stay out of trouble.
My stomach began to grumble and I glanced at my watch, surprised that it was after eleven. It always amazed me how time evaporated with focused tasks, hours seeming like minutes.
Kay seemed to feel the same because she stood up from the garden bed, her hand on the small of her back as she stretched. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make us some sandwiches. You can clean up in the mudroom through that door.”
I watched as she shed her boots, hat, and gloves, scrubbing her hands before entering the kitchen. I did the same, surprised by the silence between us. There was a solemnity to Kay that seemed to extend beyond taking her gardens seriously.
I walked into the kitchen, finding Kay staring at a mug of coffee on the white countertops. She lifted the mug, a ring of brown liquid staining the counter. Suddenly, she raised the mug slightly before throwing it against the floor, shards of porcelain scattering.
She inhaled deeply, her eyes closed, her body vibrating with anger. I heard her exhale, the hiss of air filling the room. I wished I could disappear, but instead I stood absolutely still.
“I apologize,” Kay said.
I smiled nervously and shrugged, for once unable to find any words that seemed appropriate in response to an unexplained mug-flinging outburst.
“My husband knows that these counters stain. And yet he sneaks away this morning, without a word, this mug on the counter telling me everything I need to know.”
“I guess he’s in for it tonight, huh?” I sheepishly replied.
“No,” she said through tightly pulled lips. “He won’t be coming home tonight. His job is very demanding. He is rarely home, either staying at our town house in Washington, D.C., or traveling for business.”
“I guess that’s the trade-off,” I said tentatively, slowly walking toward the kitchen sink and reaching into the cabinet underneath, fortuitously locating the dustpan. I started to sweep up the pieces of porcelain, hoping if I removed the evidence, we could forget this ever happened.
“What do you mean, the trade-off?” Kay asked.
“I guess he has to work really hard to pay for a house this beautiful.” I swallowed, regretting that I brought up this topic.
“My husband did not buy this house. This was my parents’ house,” she said sharply as she swept her hands over the counters. “My mother picked out this marble. I love this marble.”
“Got it. That’s the other way.”
“The other way?”
I bit my lip, suddenly very aware that my mouth navigated me into a minefield that I needed to immediately escape if I was going to keep my summer job. “Never mind,” I said, dumping the swept-up pieces of mug into the trash.
“Tess, I believe I told you yesterday, if someone asks your opinion, you should seize those opportunities and speak.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t mean anything. I say stupid things all the time. My mother is constantly telling me to be quiet.”
Kay leaned against the counter as she said, “That may be true, but I want to hear what you have to say. What did you mean by ‘the other way’?”
“I’ve never been around places like this, houses this big, furniture this fancy. I asked my mother how someone affords this life and she basically said either you’re born rich or you marry rich.”
Kay’s face was tight. She didn’t speak, so I filled the silence with babbling. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Things pop into my head and I should keep them there. Please don’t fire me.”
“I’m not going to fire you,” Kay said. “I suppose there’s some unfortunate truth in your mother’s statement. At least for me, those were the two most likely opportunities. I inherited this house from my parents and my husband’s career pays for its upkeep. We married young, and had a baby, and I supported his career. But then I blinked and now I’m standing in this kitchen with you. I’m not like Madeline, with a job of my own and the freedom that buys.”
Two days in and I didn’t understand the rules of this world and why this woman seemed to view her place in life just as rigidly as my mother did.
Kay looked off, staring into the cavern of her large home. “Maybe someday you’ll live in a grand home that you earn yourself. Life would certainly be better with less entanglements. At least, there would be fewer broken coffee cups.”
She walked toward the refrigerator. “Sandwiches,” she said on an exhale. “I suppose I should make something for my son too, assuming he eventually wakes. His father would be furious knowing he slept in like this.” She seemed nervous as she rambled on. “My husband brought him here last night. My son will be spending the summer with me.”
“Your son doesn’t live with you?” I asked.
“Not usually, no.” She seemed embarrassed as she quickly added, “He’s in boarding school most of the year, at his father’s insistence. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“He’s a year older. You’ll probably see him around. His name is Grant.”
Almost as if he could hear his name, we heard footsteps clomping down the stairs, the sound of a sleep-filled boy who was still learning to navigate a body that grew nightly.
He rounded the corner and I saw him. I’d never been a romantic, notions of love at first sight lost on my practical nature. But the moment I saw Grant walking into the kitchen, wiping the sleep away from his eyes, his hair sticking up in a million directions, our eyes meeting for the first time—that moment was pure electricity.