“Rowen Sterling, it is so good to finally meet you,” she said, and just as I extended my hand to her, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a solid hug. “I’m Mrs. Walker, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me Rose.” Giving me a final squeeze, she lowered her arms. “My mother-in-law is Mrs. Walker.”
“Okay, Rose,” I said. “I think I can manage that.” Especially since the only time I called people Mr. or Mrs. was when it involved a hefty dose of sarcasm.
She tucked a few curls of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “We’re all so glad you’re here. When your mom called and asked if you could spend the summer with us, I don’t think I gave her a chance to finish her sentence before I said yes.”
Rose and my mom had grown up together back in Portland. Mom went off to college, and Rose went off to Willow Springs after marrying Mr. Walker, whose first name I’d also forgotten. Examining the warmth and simplicity that was Rose Walker made me wonder how, in our universe or the next, my mom and her were childhood best friends.
If two people could get more opposite, I hadn’t seen it. Mom was tall, platinum blond (thanks to her stylist), believed makeup wasn’t only a tool but essential to everyday life, and didn’t wear an article of clothing that wasn’t expensive and in season. Rose was shorter, had dark brown hair, didn’t wear a smudge of makeup from what I could tell, and her flower-print dress looked like it could have been homemade.
From what I knew, mom and Rose didn’t keep in touch all that often, but every year, we got a Christmas card from Willow Springs Ranch. They had to be good enough friends that mom would entrust her only child to a family a couple of states away.
When I thought of my mom and Rose, the phrase “oil and vinegar” came to mind.
“Thanks for having me,” I said, reminding myself to be gracious. Rose didn’t have anything to do with Mom’s nutso idea to send me off to Ranch Responsibility School for the summer.
“Are you kidding me? A chance to have another woman on a ranch overrun with men who think a decent conversation consists of a half a dozen words?” Rose patted my arm. “Thank you for having us.”
Either she was high on the latest and greatest mood-enhancing pharmaceutical, or she was just plain high on life. There was no arguing she was high on something.
Behind us, Jesse cleared his throat. I hadn’t forgotten he was there. It seemed, I couldn’t.
“I’m going to run Rowen’s bag up to her room. Then I’ve got to get back to work on that fence.” He pulled the giant-sized bag out of the truck bed in one seamless move, and he flashed that dimpled smile at me as he passed by.
“Have fun with those fence posts,” I said, meeting his smile with an overdone one of my own.
“Oh, I will,” he said, continuing up toward the front door. “I’ll think of you and your excellent taste in music the whole time.”
Rose watched Jesse disappear through the screen door. When her gaze shifted back to me, noticing that my eyes had also watched Jesse’s entire journey, she gave me a knowing kind of smile. “He’s a good looking kid, isn’t he?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to give myself a moment to recover. “I suppose,” I started, giving a small shrug. “If you’re into that whole Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall thing. Which I’m not.” That was true. I never went for the blond-haired, blue-eyed, sexy-shmexy, boy-next-door-to-the-tenth-power guy. I went for the dark-haired, pale, lanky, brooding type. “I was more team bear-that-tried-to-kill-Brad-Pitt-in-the-end.”
Rose didn’t bat an eye. Instead, she laughed an honest to goodness one as she weaved her elbow through mine. “My,” she said, leading me up the front steps, “the ride from the bus station must have been interesting.”
“Interesting is a good word for it,” I said, taking a closer look at the farm house. Even for all my doom and gloom preferences, I kind of dug the place.
It was old, from the intricate, beveled windows to the way the wrap-around porch creaked when we walked over it, but it had been well preserved. The front door was cobalt blue to match the shutters, and there was a porch swing on either side of the door because one just wasn’t enough, I guess.
It was a house that was “lived in.” It had history, and I could only imagine the number of stories and moments that had been shared inside its walls.
“I imagine after your day, you’ll have just enough energy left to take a bath and crawl into bed.” Rose swung the screen door open and waved me inside. “So I’ll send a dinner plate up to your room later if you like. Tomorrow, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep, we can settle you into the routine here at Willow Springs.”
After she’d said the word, my muscles almost ached for a bath. “That sounds great.”
“But I’m afraid three young ladies are very eager to meet you before you escape,” Rose said as she led me into a living room with robin egg blue walls and white crown molding. A few antique looking pieces of furniture were mixed in with a few more contemporary pieces. It was a mish-mash of decor, a designer’s worst nightmare, but somehow, it worked. I’d barely taken five steps inside the room, and I already felt comfortable enough to plop down on the floral couch and kick my feet up on the distressed coffee table.
“This is really nice,” I said truthfully. Everything about the room, from the bold use of color to the window of walls, was a stark contrast to my room back in Portland. My walls were a deep aubergine purple, the ceiling, too, and I kept the lone window covered with a black-out curtain. I liked to keep the light out—except for when I was drawing or painting—while Rose preferred to let the light in.