Repaired irrigation lines.
Learned grafting.
Drove tractors.
Worked in rain, cold, and summer heat.
Whenever I remembered that black granite plaque, I worked harder.
One year passed.
Then another.
Then another.
My body changed.
My mind changed more.
The frightened girl who had spent years trying not to upset anyone slowly disappeared.
I became stronger.
More confident.
Less afraid of being seen.
By my fourth year in Vermont, Martha’s health had begun to decline.
One afternoon, she called me into her office.
“I don’t have children,” she said. “And you’ve worked this land harder than anyone I’ve ever hired.”
Then she pushed a legal folder toward me.
“I’m making you general manager and minority partner.”
I stared at her.
“Martha…”
“I’m not finished.”
She leaned back.
“In time, this farm will become yours. But we need to expand. Weddings. Corporate events. Luxury floral work. You understand plants better than most designers understand color.”
I hesitated.
“I don’t like being in front of people.”
Martha smiled.
“You can’t hide among apple trees forever.”
So I accepted.
I created a new botanical-design division.
And for the first time in years, I used my real surname publicly.
Dunaway & Green Botanical Designs.
I knew it was a risk.
But Vermont felt impossibly far from the wealthy New Jersey social circles my family lived inside.
I believed I was safe.
I underestimated rich people.
Our company eventually won the contract to design the Northeastern Horticultural Gala.
It was enormous.
We transformed the ballroom of a luxury Burlington hotel into an indoor woodland.
