Wild Rose

“I’m sorry.” He’d hardly known her late husband.

“Don’t be. He’s in a better place. And I shall join him again someday soon.” She smiled as if in absolute tranquility at the inevitable eventualities of life.

Caleb had achieved no such equanimity as yet. He got up from his chair, suddenly restless.

As if sensing his change in mood, Mrs. Bradford set down her cup and saucer. “Who was that person walking up the road when I drove up? He seemed to be coming from here.”

Caleb turned back to his visitor in surprise. “That was my neighbor. Miss Patterson.”

“A woman?” Mrs. Bradford looked puzzled. “How strange. The way she was dressed…from a distance…that hat shading her features…” She shook her head with a chuckle. “You see a lot of odd characters in these parts. I should be used to that by now.” She tapped her finger against her lip. “Patterson…Patterson. That’s a common family name around here. Wait a minute. She isn’t Big Jeb Patterson’s little girl, is she? He was a woodsman who lived down this road.”

“Sounds like the one, from your description,” Caleb answered.

She shook her head. “My, my. I remember her as this quiet, shy little thing, always looking underfed, wearing faded calico dresses and going around with dirty, bare feet. What was she doing here?”

For some inexplicable reason, Caleb didn’t like the way the conversation was going. “She’s my neighbor. From time to time she’s offered me advice on my garden.” At the question in her eyes, he smiled. “I have to do something with my time, so I thought I’d try my hand at gardening. I enjoy it, actually.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Gardening can be soothing to the soul. How nice that your neighbor has proved helpful.”

It was on the tip of Caleb’s tongue to ask Mrs. Bradford’s advice about some primers for Geneva’s lessons, but he stopped himself before voicing the question.

Perhaps as a reaction against having undergone Mrs. Bradford’s gentle, yet discerning, probing of his own affairs, he felt suddenly protective of Geneva. Her secrets were her own, and he respected that.

He was also getting tired of hearing only negative things about Geneva every time her name came up. Mrs. Bradford’s recollection brought to mind a hungry, unwashed young waif.

He’d order the reading books through the company’s agent in New York, bypassing any questions that would come up through the shipping company’s Boston office. Yes, that was what he’d do.

Jake’s barking alerted Geneva before she heard the crunch of wheels or the clip-clop of hooves, telling her that Captain Caleb’s visitor was departing.

“Hush, Jake,” she said automatically, though she knew he wouldn’t be still until the buggy had passed. Geneva went on with her task, picking off the dead pansy and marigold heads from the flowers she had planted in her front yard. The sweet smell of pinks mingled with the pungent odor of the broken flowers in her hand.

When the sound of buggy wheels stopped and Jake stood stiff-legged by the road, barking for all he was worth, Geneva finally looked up.

She rose at the sight of the buggy at her entrance and dusted off her knees. The woman handling the reins was clearly a lady. Geneva went to Jake and took him by the collar. “Hush, boy. Sit.” Although he obeyed her, she could feel the tension in his body. He was itching to be up again. She soothed him with her hand, running it down his neck, while observing the elegant-looking lady in the buggy. Her dun-colored jacket and skirt were simple, almost mannish, yet they looked well tailored and did not detract from the lady’s femininity.

Geneva watched her loop the reins around the whipstock. When she stood to descend, Geneva stepped forward, holding out a hand to help her down. At the sight of her leaf-stained fingers, and the thought of what they would do to the woman’s hand, Geneva pulled them back.

But the woman held out her hand with a smile, and slowly Geneva reached out once again. The woman was as tall as she was. Geneva always felt awkward, dwarfing most of the women she talked to, yet this woman exuded elegance rather than ungainliness.

“You have a fine watchdog,” the lady said, eyeing Jake approvingly.

It was the first time anyone had ever given Jake a compliment. “Always raising a racket,” Geneva answered, “but he don’t mean no harm.”

“What pretty flowers you have growing,” the lady continued, smoothing down the lapels of her jacket.

“Just ordinary flowers.”

“They make a pretty effect, nonetheless. You have an eye for color.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she mumbled.

The woman looked at her with frank curiosity. “You wouldn’t be Jeb Patterson’s daughter, would you?”

“Yes’m,” she answered in surprise, unable to imagine this lady acquainted with her father.

“He used to bring me some fine trout. I remember you as a young child.”

Geneva shook her head, still amazed. “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t recollect.”

“No, I don’t expect you do. My name is Maud Bradford. I’ve been coming up here for a good many years during the summer months. I have a house in the village, the yellow one up on a hill, up past the hotel.”

Geneva nodded. “I know it. If you ever be needin’ some fresh fruits or vegetables, I supply some of the summer folks with produce once a week.”

“That would be lovely. Come around anytime.” She looked back down the hill toward the Point. “I was just paying a call on your neighbor, Caleb Phelps. I’m an old friend of the family.”

Geneva looked at Mrs. Bradford, hoping she’d continue talking, yet afraid to make any comment lest the lady think her curiosity unseemly.

“He seems to be doing well here. He mentioned you had helped him with his garden.”

He had talked about her? To hide her surprise, Geneva shrugged. “I didn’t do nothin’ much. Guess he’d never done any gardenin’ before, and it’s not easy up here.”

“No, I imagine not. He appreciates your help.” Mrs. Bradford smiled. “I’m glad he’s found a good neighbor.”

Geneva returned the smile, feeling accepted by the lady as she never had by any of the village women. At the enormity of the thought, she stepped back. She must be imagining it! She shoved her soil-stained hands in her pockets and looked away.

Mrs. Bradford didn’t seem to notice the motion but continued speaking. “Growing up here, you’re no doubt well acquainted with the woods and trails, as well as the seashore?”

“A fair amount, I’d say.”

“I enjoy bird-watching. But as I’m growing older, my family back in Boston tend to worry, thinking of me out alone anywhere.” She smiled, her gray eyes crinkling at the corners. “It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them I’m not alone, that the good Lord is ever present.” She sighed. “At any rate, to ease their minds, I’ve decided to hire a companion, a guide of sorts. I suspect you’d be too occupied in summer to consider such a position?”

Geneva’s mind had ceased taking in much of the conversation. When she realized Mrs. Bradford was looking at her, expecting an answer, she could only say, “Beg pardon?”

“I said you were no doubt too busy to consider any sort of additional occupation during the summer months.”

“I fish during the summer months mainly, but I’m always lookin’ for ways to make a few dollars. The winters are mighty long, without much chance to earn anything.”

“Would you consider acting as a guide a few times a week, the weather permitting, for my expeditions?”

Geneva nodded, not quite certain to what she was committing herself.

“Good, then. Shall we say, a week from Thursday, in the morning, if the weather is clear?”

“I’ll be there next Thursday morning. I’ll come around to the harbor in my boat.”

“A boat? How lovely. Perhaps we could go for a sail around the coast. Maybe we’ll spot a few eagles?”

“Sure. I’ll take you to Seal Island and you can see the puffins nesting.”