As we begin to take our leave of the group, Mama takes my arm once again. "Maria, look –" she points, but discreetly – "that's him." He's leaving, led out of the door by Mayor Thomas. "I've set aside a plate of cake in the cooler for you. Make sure to take it to him this afternoon."

"Dear," Papa said, loudly enough to get his point across, "come with me. Let's walk home together. It's such a beautiful evening tonight." Thus successfully disengaging her, he makes for the door.

"Awww!" a feminine voice coos in my ear. "They're just so sweet together. It's always wonderful to see two people who've loved each other since they were teenagers still wanting to be romantic in middle age." Manna plops down next to me, smiling fondly as she begins reminiscing. "I do wish that Duke was the same as your father, Maria. I know that Anna thinks that Basil is obsessed with plants, but believe you me it's nothing to how much Duke is in love with drinking. I tell you, if the man could physically marry liquor he would." She sighs, pouting. "I can't remember the last time he wanted to hold my hand and walk anywhere. I think sometimes that I could just walk out of the house for a few days and as long as I left enough wine and cheese to last while I was gone he'd never notice. I wonder if Aja felt the same way." Suddenly her expression turns sad and troubled. "Maria, what if that's it? What if my daughter left because she felt neglected by her parents? Oh, how vexing! To think…" and she goes off into a muse.

Quietly, I leave her to herself, and exit quickly. The library stands tall in the distance, beckoning. I slip in without turning on the lights; I know exactly where to go to get my fix. First floor, section one, towards the bottom. No one wants to kneel in the dust and peer at the lowest shelves, and precisely for that reason, I store my guilty pleasures here. Book in hand, I lock up and make the short trip home.

The front room is quiet, but not empty. Papa is waiting for me at the table as I slip in the door. "Oh, honey, there you are. Sit down for a moment."

I sit. He fixes me with his frank gaze. "Maria, do you want to go over to the farmer's house?"

I shake my head mutely. He nods, a grimace pulling at one side of his mouth. "I thought as much. Well, sweetie, I'm behind you, no matter what." He takes my small hand in his rough one and looks at me, eyes full of emotion. "No matter what, Maria."

I manage a smile. Despite Mama's opinion of him and his work, he has always known me much better. "Thank you, Papa."

He smiles as well, releasing me. "I'm glad you said 'no'."

"Why's that?" I'm heading upstairs as we speak, but I stop to look at him from over the old wooden banister.

His face grows mischievous. "Because I ate that cake right before you came in."

When I slip into my room and turn on the lamp, the first thing I do, apart from locking the door to avoid unwanted company, is slip out of this miserable dress. The material is sticking to my humid skin, making me increasingly ill at ease. That done, I pull my hair up into a messy bun. It isn't my usual style, but it doesn't matter, considering that I'll just pull it out of the bun as I read and braid it. It's a nervous habit, and one that I rather like; since I braid and re-braid my hair so much, I never worry that it appears unkempt.

I forgo the jumper and collared shirt for today. I don't intend to leave the house again, and it's so warm that something lighter would be a welcome change. I rummage through the bureau, finding some old exploring clothes of Papa's in the form of a soft, worn shirt and some cotton shorts. They feel cool on my skin as I slip into them. I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror, just in time to see the fading scar on my lower abdomen.

It's been nearly three years…

I push the thought down, hastily, and throw myself onto the bed. The springs make a mild protest under the sudden impact. I hear stirring in the room across the hall; my mother's probably sitting at her vanity. "Maria? You're home?"

"Yes, Mama."

"Please don't make so much noise, dear…I've got a bad headache."

"Yes, Mama." I flip towards the middle of this book; I want to pick up where the bandit drags the unsuspecting servant girl out into the desert. The pages skim by my fingers as I hunt down a dog-ear. I stop, but five words into the paragraph I realize that I'm in the wrong spot. I'm about to try again when blue ink catches my eye. The bandit's name is underlined, there are hand-written notes in the margin. I frown, looking closer.

Sherman is like Eduardo.

I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding. 'Eduardo' was the aforementioned bandit: darkly handsome, mocking at established precedent, but with a strong sense of morality, dashing, arrogant. Everything that was out of reach for me as a poor girl in a small town. And Sherman? Sherman was…oh Goddess.

I didn't want to think about Sherman. I didn't want to remember. I roll over and my shirt hitches up, exposing one side of my waist. The very ends of the scar on my stomach confront me.

For several minutes I look at it, the only external proof of how different my life had been. Because I have changed.

Eventually, I wander over to the desk, drag out several pieces of paper and a steel-point pen, and begin to write. If I'm doomed to reminisce constantly, I might as well write some of it down. It might help me in the long run. And if it doesn't…that's what the fireplace in my parents' room is for.

Sherman Jerkins is like Eduardo. He is everything that is out of reach for me now. I say 'now' because once I loved Sherman Jerkins more than life itself – I stop and scratch out everything after 'once I'. Unconsciously, my right hand has buried itself in my bun, pulling out the hair clips – was different. I was altogether different than what I have become through living life.

Sherman was a man who came through town like a whirlwind. He was experienced in the ways of the world, intelligent, crafty, and strikingly handsome to my callow eyes. And I – I was young, foolish, and – I stop again. It takes so much effort to write this, because I must remember what I was and I did, and it brings tears to my eyes even now, three years down the road. Swallowing thickly, I began once more – in the eyes of many, beautiful. I was not fully matured, but I was beginning to blossom, to grow ripe.

Despite the seriousness of the topic, I have to stifle a chuckle. The plant references, so carefully implanted by my father, are catching up to me again. I can't even write about a topic so serious as my first love without referencing plants.

First love? I shake my head, spilling hair everywhere. It couldn't have been love. I think of an ancient, withered grizzly bear so desperate for food that it eats even the immature fruit, and grow somber. I was too beautiful for my own good. I allowed myself to be duped and defiled by a man who praised me for my beauty, and took advantage of my gullibility.

When we first met, as I offered him a cake fresh from Mama's oven, he reminded me very much of Eduardo, the rogue hero of my favorite tawdry novel, and I was fool enough to tell him so. So inexperienced was I not to realize that he was fully aware of the character, and cunning enough to use my infatuation to his own advantage. I found myself courted with alacrity, not wise enough to see that the very words he used to sway my heart came straight from other novels by the same author.

So flattered was I, so duped, that I believed myself in love with a man that I had known hardly two weeks. Certainly, he was at least twice my age, and what of it? We were in love! The words swim out of focus and before I can remove my glasses, a tear falls onto the page and muddies the ink. I agreed to begin meeting him in secret.

To cover his trail, Sherman began to spend an inordinate amount of time with Kano, the local photographer. The town gossips assumed that the interest was – less delicate than a mere friendship. The two of them were watched and spied upon everywhere they went together. So when Sherman told me to meet him on Mother's Hill, and made love to me after taking care to cover our bodies with a quilt, the rumor was out the next day that he and Kano were lovers. Our secret was safe.

Secrets never stay hidden for long, though, and several months after his initial arrival, I found myself pregnant. I told Sherman at our next meeting, as soon as I was positive. He seemed glad, and wanted to talk with my parents.

The resulting 'talk' was a complete fiasco. Mama absolutely refused to let 'some dried-up prune of a whorish wolf' marry her little girl. Papa, while less vehement, explained to Sherman that he was taking unfair advantage of someone too young to know her own mind, and that it would be in everyone's best interests if Sherman were to leave town altogether. And so, dejected by the resistance of resolute parents, Sherman left that night, leaving me only a note and a business card with an address somewhere in --------shire, England

I have never opened the note. It was enough to know that Sherman would not return, and that I was carrying his baby. Sunshine was gray; light was fog. I became wan and thin, unable to eat. My mother scolded me thoroughly and often, although I'm sure that it was milder than it would have been without Papa's intervention. I could not find any pleasure in books, and spent my days indoors, staring at my growing belly with dismay.

One evening, after a horrible scene at dinner, I retreated to my room to sleep – and woke up in the clinic. The Doctor told me that I had miscarried, and worse yet, breached.

Horror overtook me. I had read enough to know what that meant. I struggled to sit up, but the boiling, gnawing pain that filled my belly forced me down quickly enough. The Doctor gave me a look full of pity before pulling back the bloodstained blankets.

Ever since that time, I could not believe in the Harvest Goddess.

I throw the pen down and snatch the papers up, intending to rip them to shreds. But the moment of fury passes, and instead I place them in the desk next to the business card that I have never used, and the note that remains sealed yet. Slowly dragging myself back into bed, I open the book again, making very sure to ignore anything written in blue ink.

Life in a small town definitely has a way of centering a person. It's just good enough to keep you pleased with your lot in life, and just bad enough to keep you from becoming bored to the point of madness. It's a quiet Monday morning as the three of us leave town by the path that branches off Rose Square through Chicken Lil's. Gotz waves us a friendly hello and I automatically wave back, making a note to offer him a bamboo shoot if I see him later, assuming that I'm fortunate enough to get one of my own. Despite a heavy growth of forest, they're becoming scarcer.

We trek onwards and upwards, stopping in the huge buffalo wallow that has since become a haven for flowers. It's a wonderful area to be in for its natural beauty alone. The ground is hollowed out and flat at the bottom, and if you lie in it at 9 a.m. or 3 p.m., the sunlight filters through the grass with such enveloping warmth that you may feel as though you're lying in a green cup, which isn't too far from the truth. If Papa's work goes slowly today, I may do just that.

A bug goes flying past. Then another. Then another. I reach out with deft fingers and snag a beetle on the wing. It's quite the aggressive little bugger, snapping at me with small mandibles and struggling against my grip. I could harm its exoskeleton in my eagerness, so I let it go and watch as the gauzy caterpillars hunch themselves along the ground. The larvae from the last season have emerged in spectacular fashion as a cloud of brightly colored butterflies that roam about the fields and cluster thickly on the Moon Drops. I watch them, feeling happy.

Mama is nearby, watching me. When I finally take notice of her, her first question is, "Did you take the cake to the young man, Maria?" There is an edge to her voice.

For once, I know exactly what to say. I answer, "No Mama, I didn't. As a matter of fact, I spent some time yesterday thinking about the last time I took cake to a newcomer, and how well it turned out."

Her face darkens, and she looks away from me. Her temper is struggling to erupt from her mouth, but she does not take the same pleasure in berating me as she does with Papa. It is, however, some time before she speaks again. "I don't know why you had to bring that up, Maria. Any fool could see that there's no relativity between the two events. Jack is a nice boy who's been college educated, the grandson of a reputable farmer who spent his life establishing himself as the pillar of a community. That man," she spits the word as distastefully as a piece of gristle, "was nothing more than a predator. Why were we just meeting him in time for him to announce that you were pregnant and he wanted to take you to….wherever it was he was from and marry you!" She looks at me sharply. "You weren't seriously entertaining the idea of marrying that lunatic, were you?"

"I didn't get the chance to decide," I say simply, and we lapse into a leaden silence. The sun moves slowly across the sky and the winds blow. My father toils on alone as I sit and Mama stands, unresponsive.

"Hullo, Jack!"

"Hello, sir! Erm…Basil, correct?"

My mother turns before hauling me up by the arm and hissing, "Dust your skirt off! You look like a field laborer."

I pull away from her, my cheerful mood evaporating like mist off a lake. Jack is coming our way. He looks different without the hair gel. My mother gives him a polite nod, a suitable greeting to convey her friendliness, yet maintain the superiority of an elder. "Jack, how good to see you again! I see the Mayor's given you the grand tour of town."

He nods. "Yes, ma'am. It's very pretty."

"Quite so. It's very picturesque. My daughter, Maria, has often said that the town looks like the lands from fairy tales. On a day like today, it's quite grand, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes ma'am. I'm planning on going up Mother's Hill right now to take in the view."

"Oh!" She injects just enough surprise to come out sounding coy. "Well, take it from me, Jack, Mother's Hill is never quite so pleasant as when you take someone with you. The views are wonderful, but they're not much fun alone."

At this point, I just want to sink into the ground. My ears sting; they're burning red.

"Really, dear," Papa puts in, "we'd better be going now. It's the hottest part of the day, and I'm so looking forward to lunch – and one of your cakes."

Mama sighs and gives Jack a rueful grin. "Of course. Everyone's hungry, all of a sudden…well, take care, Jack."

"Yes, ma'am." He touches his cap respectfully and turns his head, eyes finally falling on me. He grins. "Hello, Miss Mime."

The very tips of my ears are ablaze. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, bad joke. Pantomimes usually wear black, and they don't talk much, so…like I said, bad joke."

Ah, yesterday. I began to smile, but it starts off so uncertainly that it turns into a frown. "Oh, I see."

"Do you come up here often?"

"Often enough." I've dug a small hole in the dirt with the tip of my toe, another nervous habit. "I'm sorry, I have to catch up with my parents. See you later." I go.

"Goodbye, Maria." He stays, watching me leave. I can still see his smile.