Page 99 of The Queen of Roses

June 1960

Macalister sent you gardening gloves?” asked Theresa. She was sitting with Miss Pearce under a patio umbrella in deference to the beating sun. Miss Pearce had said Matt had put it up before he went down the hill to open the nursery that morning. Unfortunately, he’d already been gone when Theresa arrived.

“He did,” said Miss Pearce.

“And what did you do?” she asked, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck.

“Nothing, of course,” said Miss Pearce with a sniff. “I was a married woman, and he was my gardener. It would have been entirely inappropriate to see anything in such a gift.”

“But he sent you gloves,” Theresa pushed. “He did something thoughtful for you when he did not need to, and the way you speak of him…”

Miss Pearce’s gaze flicked to hers. “You must remember, Miss Johnson, Macalister was devoted to his invalid wife.”

Theresa raised a brow. “Are you suggesting no ladies in Pasadena had affairs five decades ago?”

Miss Pearce huffed out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they did. I am saying that I would not have risked such a thing. I understood the terms of our marriage contract. Guy was always insistent that I be perfect. Perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, perfectly spoken. In exchange, he was publicly the doting husband, lavishing upon me everything I should ever want.”

“When you spell it out like that, it sounds rather lonely,” Theresa said.

“I suppose in some ways it was.”

“Is that why you were drawn to Rosewood House? I can’t imagine it was very common for a woman in 1907 to go about digging holes and planting roses,” said Theresa.

“That is precisely what was so appealing about it. Imagine spending your entire life behaving exactly as everyone expects. Would you not wish to do something completely unexpected just to prove that you can?

“You must understand, I did not object to the idea of marriage and children and keeping a beautiful home, just as I do not object to it now. What I resent is the idea that those pursuits are all a woman is good for,” said Miss Pearce.

Theresa smiled. “Me, too.”

Miss Pearce glanced at the silver watch poking out from underneath the cuff of her crisp white linen shirt. “I expect it is time for you to go.”

“It is,” Theresa said, not without real regret at the thought of cutting their conversation short.

“Have you begun to write?” asked Miss Pearce.

“No, but I think I have enough to begin outlining the early chapters.”

Miss Pearce nodded. “Good. I will see you next week, unless you have plans for Independence Day.”

“I’m working. It’s one of the busiest days in the newsroom.”

“Really?” asked Miss Pearce.

“Fireworks and beer don’t mix,” said Theresa.

“How delightfully morbid,” said Miss Pearce with a laugh. “Well, in that case, I look forward to you telling me all about it when you come on the second.”

Theresa could hear the phone ringing as she inserted the key into the lock of her studio after work that evening. As soon as she opened the door, she dropped her bag and dove to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Theresa? It’s Matt.”

She stilled. “Matt. Hi. Is everything all right with Miss Pearce?”

“Miss Pearce is fine. Sorry, I should have realized hearing from me might worry you.”

“No, no,” she rushed to reassure him. “I’m glad you called.”

“You are?”