Page 6 of The Queen of Roses

“I would normally offer you tea or coffee at this hour, Miss Johnson, but I wasn’t certain which you would prefer and I find lemonade so refreshing on a day like today. It also gives me a reason to use the lemons from the orchard.”

“Thank you.” Theresa accepted the glass before setting it down to reach for her handbag and pull out a notebook and a pencil.

“Do you take shorthand?”

“I do,” Theresa said. “My mother insisted that I attend secretarial school one summer when I was in college.” Still smarting from the disappointment of Theresa having turned down her high school boyfriend’s proposal the day after graduation, her mom’s continued worry about Theresa’s ability to land a job in journalism had not gone unnoticed. That was how, returning to Washington one summer, she had found herself suffering through a shorthand and typing course, “just so you graduate with some skills, Theresa.” As it turned out, both had come in handy in her work as a reporter.

“Would you mind if I take notes?” she asked.

Miss Pearce studied her a moment. “As you wish.”

“I should begin by saying I have already spoken to my editor about issuing a correction—”

“Oh, that.” Miss Pearce sniffed dismissively. “If all I wished for was a correction, I would have dictated that over the telephone. No, the reason I asked you to come here is another matter entirely. Have you ever had the ambition to write a book?”

Theresa laughed. “I don’t suppose there’s any reporter in the world who hasn’t—I’m just not sure what I would write about.”

“What would you say if I told you that I wished to commission you to write my story?” asked Miss Pearce.

“Excuse me?”

“After reading your obituary of Guy, I came to realize that I’ve never told the true story of my life to anyone. Now I find myself in a unique position, Miss Johnson. All the major figures in my life are dead, and I feel that it is time to set some records straight, even if only for my own peace of mind.”

Theresa let out a long breath. “You want to write a book about your life?”

“No, I want you to write it. An account of my life. Everything that is true.”

Theresa looked around. “Are you certain a gardening book wouldn’t be more appropriate? Matt said you own the nursery down the hill.”

Miss Pearce laughed. “Everything I have to say about gardening was written by Gertrude Jekyll decades ago. No, I intend for this to be a biography.”

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, Miss Pearce, but I’m not certain that many publishers would be interested in biographies of private citizens unless they have truly extraordinary stories to share,” Theresa began to say.

Miss Pearce shot her a sly look. “Are you saying that I am not extraordinary, Miss Johnson?”

“No! No, that isn’t what I meant. I just—”

Miss Pearce waved her objections away. “Don’t worry yourself. I am not interested in peddling my life to a publisher like a silent movie starlet trying to cash in on her glory days to help pay the electricity bill.”

“Then who would the book be for?” she asked.

Miss Pearce reached for her lemonade. “Matthew, for one. He is my most trusted employee, and there are things he should know. Things about how Rosewood Nursery came to be.”

“You could simply sit him down and tell him. That’s essentially what we would be doing if you were to commission me.” Theresa wanted the job—any extra money would help, considering her Herald Times salary was only just enough to allow her to live alone—but she couldn’t in entirely good conscience take the older woman’s money without at least trying to push back.

Miss Pearce lifted her chin, her dark brown eyes flashing. “How much do they pay you at that newspaper of yours?”

“Forty dollars a week.”

“I will pay you one hundred dollars a day to work on this biography.”

Theresa stared at her. “A hundred dollars a day? To write a book that you don’t want to be published?”

“There are more important things than notoriety, Miss Johnson. We will start with the interviews, and you may keep a record of the days you work on the manuscript.”

“Like an honor system?” Theresa asked.

Mrs. Pearce arched a brow. “Is there any reason I should not trust you?”