Peaches in Winter (3 page)

There wasn’t much left that Miss Mable could say. But her face held a tight, worried look when she said good-bye to Betty Ann for the last time. A look like she didn’t know whether she was throwing a lamb to the wolves, or a wolf at the world.

Betty smiled at the thought. It was a good metaphor. Was that the right word? She could ask Mr. Watterson later, when he came up for air from his story.

She smiled again. It had been nice of him to use her idea. He really was a good man.

Not like her first boss. Betty Ann’s eye twitched, and her smile vanished at the memory. Mr. Kidd hadn’t thought much of her typing skills, either. He’d wanted her to do…other things for her salary. Betty walked faster, carrying the cold milk between her chilly hands.

After a moment, she started smiling again and humming. You couldn’t let life get you down. It had looked bad for a while, but she didn’t work for Mr. Kidd anymore, and she wasn’t going to starve, either.

Mr. Watterson will keep me on for a few more days
.
I’m sure of it. If nothing else, I won’t have to write Pa for the money to go home.

A slow sadness crept into her chest, and she hugged the milk bottle close, trying to keep its cold from her hands by shifting it around. She wasn’t ready to go home, not yet. When she was a city girl, when she had enough money that she didn’t need to feel like she was going home in disgrace, then it might be okay.

Maybe.

She thought again of Jimmy, and the last little bit of her smile disappeared. It wasn’t time to go home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

If I can find a good job, a job that pays well and where I can really earn my pay honest, then I want to stay for as long as I can.

It would be hard to miss spring on the farm, but it would still be harder to go back.

Time. I just need some time.

She was almost smiling again by the time she returned to the brownstone.

Like grandpa said, you got to make the most of what you have. That’s what I’ve got to keep on doing.

When she got back to the kitchen, Betty saw a large black woman who was just finishing tying the strings of a work apron.

She crossed her arms and looked at Betty. “Mm-hm. I didn’t figure he got up and made that dessert all by his lonesome. Who are you, and what are you called?”

Betty introduced herself and set the milk down. She explained about the secretary job and how Mr. Watterson hadn’t needed her to do typing or take shorthand but had kept her on anyway, and she felt she had to do something, so she’d made this, and how much better it would taste with fresh peaches.

“You’ve got that right,” said the lady, who introduced herself as Mrs. Estelle Robertson.

While they were finishing their discussion, Mr. Watterson came padding out in his stocking feet. Betty noticed his socks didn’t match.

~*~

“Hi ladies. What’s up?” said Jake, looking at them, from face to face, young to old, pale to dark.

These
are
the
women
in
my
life, he realized, with a strange, odd feeling inside his chest.

Even though she was his employee, Mrs. Robertson took care of Jake like a surrogate mother. Many were the days after his parents died when he wouldn’t have eaten or even gotten out of bed if she hadn’t been there to make him do so.

And Betty. He’d known her—what—two days, and already she meant something peculiarly important to him.

Well, to his writing, at least. When she was around, he could write. He would have to keep her working here, secretarial skills or no.

He was still looking at the women.

Something about the way they had fallen silent when he entered the room made him feel vulnerable. He crossed his arms self-consciously—and realized he’d forgotten to wear shoes again. He couldn’t look a very impressive sight standing here in his stocking feet.

“What are you ladies talking about?” he asked.

Betty Ann finally came to life and smiled one of her big grins. “Oh, I was just telling Mrs. Robertson how I came to work here. She knows about fresh peaches, too. It’s really wonderful how—”

Since he’d entered the room, he’d been vaguely aware, in the part of his mind that wasn’t occupied with his story, with his lack of shoes, with these women, or what they might have been saying about him, of a wonderful aroma. Now he caught sight of its source, and his mouth watered.

A big, delicious-looking cobbler sat on the kitchen table. The crumbles on top were thick, generous, and browned just past golden. Hints of yellowish-orange fruit, peaches naturally, bubbled up tantalizingly here and there.

He started towards it. “Who made this?” he said, realizing suddenly how starved he was for peach cobbler. Peaches! They really were a fruit worthy of the devotion she gave them if they could make dessert as heavenly-smelling as this.

He tore his eyes off the delicacy and looked from Mrs. Robertson to Betty Ann.

Mrs. Robertson nodded slowly towards Betty. “I just got here. I don’t know about her typing, but if that tastes as good as it smells, she’s a keeper.”

“Thank you Mrs. Robertson,” said Betty, beaming at the compliment.

Jake smiled at Betty. “I agree.”

Her grin, already incredulous, widened. “Why, thank you very much, Mr. Watterson!” Her curls bobbed, and for a moment, she almost looked choked up.

In an undertone, Mrs. Robertson said, “’Bout time you found someone to take care of you!”

It might have been his imagination, but Jake thought he saw Betty blush. He was used to Mrs. Robertson’s teasing, but he could understand how Betty might take it wrong. He changed the subject, to save her embarrassment.

“Well?” he said. “What are we waiting for? Let’s eat it!”

Betty grabbed some plates, Mrs. Robertson got the utensils, and Jake divided the milk pint into three small glasses. Then they sat down and ate.

Jake noticed Mrs. Robertson pause to close her eyes briefly and bow her head over her food.

Then he saw Betty also paused and said a brief, silent prayer (her lips moved, same as they did when she read). She looked up, not solemn-eyed, but if possible more cheerful than ever.

“It’s awful nice of you to share, Mr. Watterson,” she said. “I figured you’d want to eat it all yourself, later.”

Jake grinned at her and raised his eyebrows teasingly. “Think you’re that good a cook, do you?”

She reddened. “No…no…that’s not what I meant!”

Jake laughed.

Mrs. Robertson looked between them rather knowingly and said in an approving voice, “Mm-hm.”

Jake suddenly felt like concentrating on the cobbler. The dessert deserved it. It was the best cobbler he’d ever tasted.

Chapter Four

Betty Ann leaned forward and threw the curtains open. Sunlight streamed through the windows.

Jake turned to blink and frown in the direction of the sunshine. Dust motes twinkled and shone, dancing in the air.

“Come on, Mr. Watterson! Look at that beautiful sky! You should go outside. It’s such a pretty day—one of the last of winter!”

Betty stood there, staring and smiling at him in a new green dress, wearing a cheerful expression on her face. It was two weeks since he’d hired her. Jake had been writing consistently ever since and growing more and more used to having her around.

But there were limits.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “I don’t go outside much. Especially in the winter.”

“Why not?” She plopped into a nearby chair, a look of utter fascination on her face as though trying to comprehend how someone would not want to go outside in winter.

Jake had known they’d be having this conversation eventually. Betty Ann walked nearly everywhere and always had anecdotes about the different birds she’d seen in the park, or the lady she’d seen walking a poodle that looked like it wore hairspray, or how beautiful the trees looked with ice on them.

“I just don’t like leaving the house unnecessarily,” said Jake. “Do you mind?” He spoke with deliberate slowness, to remind her who worked for whom.

The effort was wasted on her. She stared at him so long he thought she’d gotten it—that she finally understood he didn’t want to be invited to take walks and “see winter.”

Then she spoke. “But if you never go outside, you’ll miss winter!”

Inwardly, Jake rolled his eyes. “And that would be a bad thing?” he muttered. He sighed, and picked up his pencil to continue making edits on his writing from the day before. This wasn’t an argument he could win, if Betty refused to understand what he was saying.

He glanced over again at her quizzical little face, as she seemed to be digesting this. He noticed her new outfit again. That green dress wasn’t bad-looking, actually. It complemented her light hair and fine cheekbones, making her look like somebody’s idea of spring in human form.

He’d already seen to it that her paid salary was higher than originally planned. Matt paid part of it from the publisher’s budget, claiming it would be well worth it if Jake produced anything worth printing, and Jake supplemented the rest from his own savings. With it, Betty had already been able to afford a new coat and, apparently, a new dress.

She also looked healthier than before. When she’d first come, there had been no limit to her cheerfulness, and she’d never complained of hardship, but she did look a bit hungry. Now that shadow seemed to have left her face. Occasionally, he wondered just how desperate she’d been before she started working for him. But most of the time, he was simply grateful to have her around as his chattering Muse and for the lovely desserts and meals she cooked.

Even Mrs. Robertson remarked he was looking less like a starving artist. He must have put on a pound or so since Betty Ann’s arrival. He certainly felt more like eating when he had her taste-tempting delights in front of him. Whatever this girl couldn’t do well, she certainly made up for by being an outstanding cook.

Mrs. Robertson used to stock his refrigerator with sandwich fixings and some warm-up meals, bringing him something hot to eat a few days a week; but in the winter, Jake didn’t seem to grow very hungry and often forgot to eat them.

“I can’t stay here with you all the time and make you eat,” Mrs. Robertson used to tell him. “You’ve got to remember and do it!” Now she no longer needed to tell him that.

The time Jake spent writing was accompanied by Betty’s bangings in the kitchen and the delicious smells that issued forth from her labors. When he finished his writing for the day, he was eager to eat whatever she’d made.

He turned back to the typewriter and started to tap out a few words.

“I’ve got it!”

He jumped at the sound of Betty Ann’s voice. He’d forgotten she was still sitting there. He turned to her slowly, frowning.

“We can open a window. You can get some fresh air that way!” She beamed at him as though she’d thought of a wonderful solution to some problem.

“I pay to heat the house,” said Jake slowly. “I don’t think letting winter air—”

But she had already bounced out of her seat and started tugging at the windowpane.

“Betty—” Jake slid out of his chair and headed around his desk.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it!” So saying, she stumbled back, just as the window flew open.

She stumbled back against him. Jake caught her with his arms around the waist and stopped them both from falling over. It felt nice to have his hands around her.

Jake released her quickly, not looking at her, and strode to the window. He slammed it shut, saying grouchily, “Think before you do things, Betty! It’s far too cold out.” Finally, he turned to face her. “I’m trying to work. Please don’t interrupt me, Miss Keene.”

She stood with her head down and her hands together in front of her, a faint flush on her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watterson.” Her voice was low.

Jake reached up and scratched his chin. “I’m—I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be harsh,” he said in a quieter tone.

She looked up quickly, putting a sort of smile back on her face. “No, no. That’s all right. I should…think things through better. Lots of things.” She turned and started for the kitchen, head down.

Jake stared after her, perplexed. There had been a sound like a half sob in her voice.

He cast a longing glance back at the typewriter and glowered to himself because he knew what he was going to do. He couldn’t ignore it if something was wrong with Betty. And, as he well knew, he wouldn’t have been getting any work done if it wasn’t for her. He still didn’t know why, but when she was around, he felt the winter less, and he could write. He could certainly spare a bit of time to find out if something was wrong.

“Miss Keene. Wait.” He went after her. “Perhaps I’ll take that walk with you after all.”

~*~

I wonder why he changed his mind?
Whatever the cause, she was grateful. He needed the fresh air. Smiling to herself, Betty Ann walked quickly and cheerfully down the sidewalk beside Mr. Watterson. He was taller than she was, and his long strides meant she had to practically jog to stay even with him.

He glanced over at her, noticed, and then slowed down.

Even though she was glad he’d changed his mind and decided to come, she couldn’t help thinking he looked like he already regretted it. He hunched his shoulders slightly, frowning a little, as if he were suffering, as though he were enduring a great wind. In truth, it was a clear, bright day with not a cloud in the snapping blue sky and barely a breeze. She couldn’t see how anyone would want to miss it, even as confirmed a homebody as Jake—Mr. Watterson—seemed to be.

Although she knew it wasn’t correct, sometimes she thought of him as “Jake” instead of “Mr. Watterson.” He was supposed to be Mr. Watterson, unless he asked her to call him Jake. Perhaps even then. After all, he was her boss, and first names just might not be proper.

But somehow, she couldn’t help herself. When she looked in on him while he wrote and saw his messed up hair, unmatched socks, and far-away, thoughtful face, she felt quite fond of him, and somehow always thought of him as “Jake.”

He was like a little boy at times, she thought. Although of course most of the time he was certainly more grown up than she was, other times he would pace around the room in animation, excited with some idea. Sometimes he had pencils and pens stuck behind his ears while he looked frantically around for them. At these times—while she stayed in the background so she wouldn’t distract him, or hurried forward to help find his writing instruments—he was definitely “Jake” to her.

When she first started work, she’d actually been a bit frightened of him. Oh, he’d been nice enough, but he could be intimidating. When she thought about it afterward, she realized that was probably one of the reasons she’d chattered so to him.

Now she knew him better, she wasn’t nearly as bad. She’d learned to let him alone when he was working, although she still talked to him when he wasn’t, if he didn’t seem to mind.

More and more, he didn’t—or at least, if he did, he hadn’t let on. He hadn’t scowled as much recently, either.

But, if she was completely honest with herself, it wasn’t only his severe expression that intimidated her.

She remembered her first boss.

Jake would never act like he had—never. But at the same time, that nasty man hadn’t looked anywhere near as nice as Jake did. Something about Jake—Mr. Watterson—made him hard to ignore. It made her feel a bit shy somehow. He was handsome, perhaps he was even more handsome than Jimmy...

No, she wouldn’t think about that. She’d decided not to, and she wouldn’t. Jimmy was out of her life, and she’d get over him eventually. She just didn’t want to do it by having a crush on her boss. Although there was no denying he was good-looking, it was nothing she couldn’t learn to ignore. She’d been doing her best so far. Most of the time, his good looks didn’t bother her at all. It was only sometimes she noticed and felt a bit odd inside.

She looked over at him now and smiled at his put-upon expression. He had his hands stuffed in his pockets, although it wasn’t terribly cold, and his face was bunched up like a baby who hated prunes.

She reached over and caught his elbow. “Surely it’s not that bad, Mr. Watterson.”

“Oh.” He blinked down at her, rather startled. “No, of course not.” He frowned slightly and chewed his lower lip.

She released his elbow, smiled slightly, and then switched her gaze away from him. “I’m sorry about the window. You’re right, of course. It was too cold.”

“Mm.” He sounded distracted; she glanced at him again. He was definitely thinking about something.

What
? He was so smart. Maybe it was something deep.

Not for the first time, she wondered why he didn’t like to leave his house. That first evening, when he’d shown her to the taxi, was the only time she’d ever seen—or even heard—of his going outside. But then, writers were allowed, perhaps even supposed, to be eccentric about some things. Maybe this was just his thing.

Still, she didn’t like to think of her boss as being unreasonable. He must have a reason! Even if it was a silly one, she couldn’t help but wonder about it.

No, Betty, it’s none of your business
, she reprimanded herself, giving her head a little shake. She was just supposed to work for him. It was her good fortune that the work was easy, and pleasant—mostly cooking.

She could hardly believe the good luck that had given her this perfect job. Sometimes she thought for sure she’d wake up and find out it had all been only a dream brought on by hunger and the worry about being unemployed. But it wasn’t; it was real, and after the weeks she’d been working for him, it was finally starting to seem real. She’d already saved some money, paid her share of the rent for the month, and managed to start eating more regularly.

The only thing that could be better about it would be if she could still visit the orchard and her family. She missed the country so much sometimes it almost hurt to breathe. City life was bearable because she knew she wouldn’t stay here forever. She could go home whenever she was ready. Whenever that might be.

Would Mr. Watterson miss her when she went home? She snorted silently to herself at the thought. No, she could honestly say he wouldn’t. He already seemed to have had enough of her sometimes, and she’d only been here a short time. After a few months—or however long it was—he would certainly be ready
to see her go. If he hadn’t already fired her by then, he could easily hire another secretary/cook, or forget the whole arrangement. She knew the secretary position hadn’t been his idea, although he’d warmed to her enough to kindly let her stay. Probably when she left, he would just be glad he hadn’t had to fire her.

That was fine with Betty Ann. She wouldn’t want anyone to miss her too much. Her roommates were nice, but she doubted they would miss her, either. Perhaps they’d complain about having to find a new housemate, but they were nice girls, and the room didn’t cost much; it shouldn’t be difficult to find a replacement.

Then she wondered at herself. She realized she would like Mr. Watterson to miss her—at least a little bit.

~*~

It was a nicer day than he’d expected, certainly. There were no ice glaciers, no frigid arctic winds, no howling snowstorms. But it was still uncomfortable and chilly, and he thought it was gloomy, despite the clear sky.

He didn’t enjoy being outdoors in the winter. It was a chore, and he regretted agreeing to it—just to find out how Betty Ann was doing. That now seemed like a stupid idea. They had walked to the park, around it once, and started back—and he still hadn’t said anything to her. He’d been concentrating on making it through the walk. Now it was almost over; he could see the brownstone looming ahead. And, sure enough, the one time he wanted her to chatter and talk about herself a little bit, she’d kept almost completely silent.