Was he going to turn me away? Did I make such an unfavorable statement that I could have risked having the last chance to find who I really was? What would I do if he declined to have me, crawl back home and listen to William talk about how he was always right? My thoughts started to spiral, and I had more “what ifs” than could be counted swirling around in my head. My brow furrowed with worry.
“Well, no harm, no foul. Let me give you a little bit of a tour.”
I audibly released the tension. I was holding in a massive breath. When had I stopped breathing?
“I would love that!”
Mr. Frey stood on the threshold of the massive red double door that led into the home and ushered me inside. He took the bag tied to my belt and set it in the foyer where we entered. We stood in a room that was wall-to-wall dark hardwood, which I learned online were the original floor beams from back when the home was constructed in 1772. When the Freys remodeled, they tried to keep as much of the original home in the home as possible, even if it wasn’t its original place.
Mr. Frey looked around, speaking as if we had been standing there for hours, talking about the house. " This place is a true colonial treasure. Our family inherited it, and it's now a historical site. We had been entrusted to upkeep the Rosemary Estate and did so by turning it into a functional farm about ten years ago. When farming wasn’t paying off, we decided to open our doors to the public for help. We were astonished at the number of people who would pay to escape the dreadful city life and spend some time with us in the country. They would get the sweat and sadness out of them with a few days of hard labor, rewarded with sweet relaxation, and then return home rejuvenated. It's a different style of getaway."
"Wow," I replied, following his gaze around. "I definitely never heard of anything like it."
His nose twitched, and he grunted, nodding his head. "Was my daughter's idea. Come on, then, I'll show ya around the house real fast."
He waved his hand, and we did a brief walkthrough of the house. I even managed to take a quick peek into the kitchen where Mrs. Frey, who resembled what I could imagine Mrs. Clause would look like, was cooking breakfast over a massive cast-iron stove built into the kitchen wall. It vented out through the chimney I had seen outside. The source of the sticky, sweet smell I had caught outside was the mountain of pancakes sitting on the counter for the guests.
Outside was another story. Each inch of the farm was groomed to be a safe haven of relaxation while also creating plenty of work for guests during their stay.
Mr. Frey stopped by one of the fences and lifted one foot up on the bottom piece of wood, resting his hands on his knees. "So many people from the city found their passion for gardening here. Some had never seen trees or this much grass in their lives, and all of a sudden, they fell in love with taking care of them. I encouraged them to keep up with their new-found hobby when they returned home, and some call or write us a letter saying how they were able to create a green space for themselves."
I smiled and nodded. It warmed my heart and spoke to me. The city was terrible and desolate compared to there. I could sympathize with the amount of blessing a green space would have given me in my parent’s apartment, but it was nothing compared to the farm.
Walking past one of the many barns, Mr. Frey nodded in its direction. " That houses our twenty prized horses for recreational and working use."
Plenty of people milled about the structure; some of the farmhands were bringing horses into or out of the stable, and others were providing instructions to guests for morning rides. Others were brushing some of the animals to ensure they were at peak condition for work that day. As we passed by the barn, I saw one of the most beautiful mares I had ever seen.
"Wow, she's beautiful."
Mr. Frey smiled, walking over to her and rubbing his hand under her chin. "This here's Blotches. She's one of our most gentle-hearted creatures."
She was large, her back taller than me, though, with my height, that didn’t count for much. Her coat was a beautiful rusty brown with glistening white blotches true to her name. It looked as if someone had splashed a can of paint over her. Her mane was a perfectly white sheet down her neck, and her tail was a fluffy red tendril that threatened to brush the ground but never did. She was a gorgeous animal, and my heart lightened even more than I thought it could.
We spent most of the afternoon touring the property. I saw the dam where water was caught from rain runoff and used to irrigate fields, water flowers, or animals. I saw the 100-acre woods (no, no affiliation) where trails were twisted and turned through the old-growth forest that was an official state nature preserve. Acres of fields grew fresh produce, and I learned that they made most of their own food, except cattle. Chickens scooted out of our way as we neared a row of “tiny homes” lining the back of the property.
A woman approached Mr. Frey and me and raised a hand in a wave with a warm greeting.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Anna,” she said in a tone as smooth as butter.
She was a tall girl with an athletic build, no doubt from working on the farm all day. She had dark-brown hair, probably something that at one time resembled her parent's hair, but her parents were now as white as Blotches’ spots. Anna wore a green T-shirt and some well-worn overalls with ankle-high leather boots that had seen better days—the exact opposite of who I would find wandering the streets back home.
“Good morning, Anna. This is our new hand, Lillian. Why don’t you give her the rest of the tour and show her to her living quarters?” Mr. Frey said pleasantly, motioning to the adorably tiny row homes.
Anna nodded enthusiastically. “Certainly, Daddy. Follow me. I’ll show you the workers’ area.”
Anna held out her hand and helped me carry some of the potted plants that had gotten quite awkward during the tour.
Mr. Frey excused himself to return to the house, his slow pace giving him a leisurely persona as he tottered back in to grab a snack from his wife.
“So, what brings you all the way out here? Where are you from?” Anna's voice was quick and spirited and high pitched. She was bright and full of energy and very refreshing.
“New York City, Manhattan specifically. I wanted to get away,” I stated shyly.
It wasn’t false; I just didn’t say what I was getting away from—my family.
“Shoot, you’re in for a real surprise out here. I’m sure everyone has told you. Farm work isn’t what all the movies make it out to be. There’s dirt. There’s grime. But there are also really good times.” She smiled, her rose petal lips parted widely to expose a crisp white smile. “Don’t worry. It can be intimidating, but I don’t mind helping. It’ll be nice to have you around. Better than the old bitties and farm men anyway.”
“Well, thank you for having me; nonetheless, I really don’t want to be a bother. I just wanted somewhere I could go to get away from it all. Somewhere I could finally take a breath and not have to worry about being judged for how I do it.”
We were walking in front of the line of tiny homes. Each house matched the main farmhouse’s white siding but had a different colored metal roof—red, green, purple, pink, orange, blue, and all different shades in between. The tiny front porch on each fit two chairs, a table, and a little house number from 1 to 20. With perfectly groomed flowerbeds in front, they were framed with a makeshift white gravel sidewalk that connected them. It was like a little neighborhood and was heart-wrenchingly charming.