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Jemima spent the next morning doing chores in the garden. Her mother had a vegetable patch that was an acre across, filled with the tomatoes and green peppers and onions and squash that their father loved, plus cucumbers for pickling, and pole beans.
She had a big basket, and was moving from row to row, harvesting vegetables for their meal.
A cool dawn had ripened into a perfect morning, not too hot, and slightly breezy. The air felt refreshingly cool for July, and the sky was filled with the billowy clouds of summer. Jemima shaded her eyes, thinking that they looked ripe, too – they were full and tall and blue-tinged, towering all the way to the edge of sight.
A voice from the house interrupted her reverie.
“Jemima!”
She put her basket down and smoothed her hair and skirt. It was Mark’s voice.
“Here.”
She could just see the top of his dark head on the other side of the garden. He waved, and came weaving through the rows of plants to reach her.
“How are you this morning?” he asked, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in the last few days.”
She looked down, and smiled. It felt nice to be missed.
“I was in town for the festival.”
“You are coming to the sing this Sunday evening?”
She nodded, not looking up.
“Good. I was hoping we could talk.”
She felt her cheeks going warm, but nodded again, and looked up. The shifting sunlight was moving over Mark’s inky black hair, making it glisten blue.
His bright eyes were on her face. He stared at her for a long instant and then, to her surprise, he leaned over and kissed her. His lips were smooth and pleasantly warm, like the sun beaming through the dappled leaves. They moved over hers strongly, and with a steady pulse – like the thrumming of her own heart.
He took her chin in his hand. “I want to ask your Daed to court with you,” he whispered. “Would you let me, Jemima?”
She looked up into his eyes. “I – I would, Mark. But –”
The sound of another voice calling made Mark straighten up suddenly.
“Mark Christner!”
It was her father’s voice, calling urgently – and, it seemed to his daughter, a little suspiciously.
“Yes sir!”
Mark turned to her, and took her hand in his. “Remember, Jemima. This Sunday.”
“I won’t forget, Mark.”
“Mark!”
“I have to go.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek then turned quickly and walked back to the house.
Jemima watched him go with a little smile playing on her lips. Mark was so sweet.
She put her fingers to her lips. She liked the way he kissed, too.
She shook her head, and smiled. She had meant to tell Mark that Samuel had asked to court with her, as well – but she hadn’t had much of a chance.
She expected that Samuel would soon be coming by to ask her for himself.
She smiled again, and returned to her task.
She plucked handfuls of shiny, sugar-sweet tomatoes off of the vine and dropped them into her basket. She picked basil and rosemary from the little herb patch, and lifted a sprig to her nose.
She had almost filled up her basket when a strange sound startled her.
It was a hissing sound.
She looked around, but no one was there.
“Psst!”
She turned to look behind her, and almost screamed. The English reporter was back—crouching in the bushes behind her!
“What are you doing here?” she cried, flushing in embarrassment. “And how long have you been hiding there!”
He stood up quickly, smiling. “I’m sorry, I’m not a stalker, I swear. It’s just that this is the only way I could think of to talk to you again.”
Jemima dropped the basket and began walking back toward the house. The man ran behind her.
“Please, don’t run away – I’m not crazy, I’m a reporter. Look – here’s my card!”
He hurried in front of her, and blocked her way.
She stopped dead, and her voice rose in panic. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll call my father!”
He was smiling, brows raised, his hands stretched out in a calming gesture. “There’s no need for that! I’m going now. I just wanted to tell you that you need to get that letter appraised. It could be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m telling you, you might be rich! And I know where you can get it appraised. If you want to do it, I’ll drive you there.”
Jemima’s eyes widened in terror. “I won’t go anywhere with you!”
“My paper will pay to have the letter appraised. You don’t even have to spend money, if you’ll let me write a story about the letter. Just meet me back here on Monday, same time. I’ll drive you to the appraiser’s, and bring you back.”
Jemima looked up into his face. His blue eyes were on fire with—something.
His eyes flitted over her terrified expression, and he suddenly blurted: “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and – and I don’t even care about the letter, really. Just let me see you again!”
She screamed, picked up her skirts, and went flying towards the house.
He raised his eyes to the sky in despair, cursed himself, skipped backwards a few paces and then began to run.
