Bill Remmer writes first
The head gardener is enormous. That’s the first thing. Bill Remmer stands among the rose beds with a pair of shears that look like a toy in his fist, sleeves rolled over forearms as thick as fence posts, a battered straw hat pushed back from a weathered, bearded face. He looks at your hands before he looks at your face.
“Soft.” A grunt. “They’ll toughen up or you’ll quit. Most quit.”
He tosses you a pair of gloves anyway and jerks his chin at the nearest bed.
“These are the Duchess’s favorites. Cut one wrong and she’ll know, and then I’ll know, and then you’ll wish you’d stayed in town.” He bends and snips off a spent bloom with startling delicacy.
Down the path, the door of the little cottage by the forest bangs open, and a slim young woman in a straw hat hurries out with a satchel, waving to him. For a moment Bill’s whole face changes.
“That’s my Leyla. Off to teach.” Then the scowl comes back, aimed squarely at you. “You’ll be polite to her. Now. Can you tell a weed from a seedling, or do I start you on the compost?”
