I spent my days honing new skills and crafts and learning more about myself than I thought possible. Who knew that being the same person for over twenty years didn’t automatically mean you knew who that person was? I was proud to learn something new every single day.
My favorite thing—which surprised me—had to be the lessons in home decorating that Mrs. Frey gave. I had always appreciated beautiful things, but creating it myself gave me even more joy.
One morning, I made a wreath out of pine boughs and dried golden grasses from one of the unplanted fields. An afternoon or so later, I got the hang of weaving baskets and picture frames from rushes—an ancient practice used for both practical and decorative purposes.
I also enjoyed going out in the afternoon with Mr. Frey, who would take groups fishing. It was something his father had done with him as a child, and his grandfather and great grandfather for generations. My father had never bothered to spend much time with me.
During the golden hours, while we watched dragonflies skim the water and bass jump to catch them, I asked him a question. “Mr. Frey, how long has your family been in the farming business?”
We sat next to one another on the creek bank.
His bushy white eyebrows rose as he thought. “Well… If I had to be honest, I couldn’t give you an exact date, but I know my great grandfather came overseas from Britain, vowed to be the most prosperous farmer in the colonies, and settled down with my great grandmother only a few miles from here. Ever since then, farming has been in my blood.”
“Could you see yourself doing anything different?” I asked, flicking my fishing rod ever so gently to create a point of interest for any curious fish.
Another long pause hovered between us.
“No, I really don’t think I could.” He took a deep breath, looked over at me with his heavily wrinkled face, and gave me a long-toothed smile. “You never think you can be happy with less until that’s what you have. That’s one of the reasons Rosemary Farm is so popular with city folk. The temptation to uptake the technology, the media, the entertainment doesn’t exist. Here, there is none of that. Just simplicity.”
I could get behind that. The simplicity was comforting. I had been nervous that first night, just like most. How would I sleep without the TV on? How would I eat without something to watch and entertain me?
It wasn't long until I slept with the sounds of birds and bugs lulling me into the deepest slumber I had ever experienced. Dinnertime entertainment consisted of people, not shows. Conversation. Quality time. Priceless interactions with others. It warmed my soul—it reminded me I had one.
“I can agree with that,” I said to the old man and sat back in my place with a smile on my face. Before long, the tip of my fishing rod bounced and bobbed over the water, and I gave it a quick flick and then began to reel in when the fish gave me just enough slack to do so.
Before long, I had a beautiful rainbow trout in my hands, and Mr. Frey was taking a picture. He gave me the polaroid photo, and I didn’t think I had ever seen myself smile so broadly. No billboard had that picture of me, not with a twig in my hair and my shirt wrinkled and wet. Not with fish slime on my hands and sunburn on my cheeks. That was my moment, my life, and I cherished it.
At night, or early evenings, when Lillian had finished for the day, we would get together to relax and talk about stuff we had done that day. It was like a bookmark between days that allowed us to recap and de-stress if needed. Sometimes we would go back to Lilly’s house if she invited me. I thought the tiny houses were luxurious despite their sizes. It was cozy, especially as I had watched Lillian’s plant collection grow while I was there. They added a softness to her space that just made it feel more like home.
The Freys were incredibly kind to provide such luxurious housing to their workers, and Lilly often exclaimed how proud she was of her place.
Anna would gift her some pots of seeds now and again, or maybe a vine of something or another, and somehow Lilly would coddle it and bring it to life, turning something that wasn’t any more than a pebble into a string or sprig of greenery. I was always a little jealous, but more than not, I was impressed by her. She could take nothing and put life in it, just like she did with me.
Other nights we would have dinner on the beautiful wraparound porch together. Workers often weren’t allowed to eat with guests in the evening, but that didn’t mean that Mrs. Frey didn’t cook food for them. She always had a pot boiling on the stove or a tray of something baking in the oven that everyone was free to indulge in throughout the day and night.
The lanterns on the porch, coupled with the carefully tended flowers, made our meals seem so romantic. A restaurant in the city, no matter how secluded, could never match the level of intimacy we shared on the porch. Crickets chirped, the breeze whispered, and Lillian laughed at my bad jokes.
“All right, okay, listen to this one,” I would tell her with a French fry hanging out of my mouth.
She would already be giggling, pleading with me not to torture her through another one, but I couldn’t help myself. I loved making her laugh even if the jokes were terrible.
“What did Mrs. Duck say when she bought a new tube of lipstick?” I waggled my eyebrows at her, my chin down as I challenged her to give me an answer.
“Oh, God, no way.” She cackled, almost spilling her iced tea. “Um... I don’t know.”
She shied away, not wanting to risk a wrong answer.
“Put it on my bill. Ha-ha.” I gave her a snap of my fingers and stole a pickle from her plate, one that was sitting next to her burger. “Come on, Lilly. You knew that one.”
“Did not. But they are too cute.”
We spent hours and hours laughing on that porch together, and I often wondered if that was what Mr. and Mrs. Frey could be caught doing when no one was looking. Had they been sweet on each other like that before the farm was open? Somehow throughout my time there, they had become the epitome of what I wanted my relationship with Lillian to mirror—they were devoted to each other, and it showed.
Another one of my favorite nights happened to be the evening that Lillian was done with work early. Both of us, along with Anna, had gone down to the creek at the base of the farm’s valley to cool off. It had been almost a hundred degrees that day, and everyone was thankful for the opportunity to swim in the chilly water. Many of the guests and workers came with us that afternoon—it was like a secret farm-wide party.
Lillian was wearing a white and copper bikini. She looked gorgeous, striking. I gawked at her body when she came out of her little lavender house, even if she was wearing a coverup. She had become so fit and shapely over the summer from all the hard work and hearty food. Her skin had tanned to a golden cinnamon color—she must have burned more than tanned at the beginning of it all because there was a slight hint of pink that lingered under her glow. I couldn’t blame her for her fair complexion.
Lillian made it obvious she enjoyed me too. Her eyes never stopped roaming me, and I never wanted them to. My swim trunks hung on the corners my hips, accentuating the valleys my muscles had chiseled into my skin. My muscles were grown in a gym, but with the hard work I had been doing out on the farm, they were developing even more—stronger, bigger to be functional, and more helpful in my everyday activities. There was no such thing as a “glamour muscle” on me anymore. My natural tawny skin tone had always made Lilly’s heart flutter, especially when coupled with my warm eyes and dark hair. I could practically see her swoon out of my peripherals when she thought I wasn’t looking.