Widow Willow Minor and James

Widow Willow Minor and James

She Turned an Orphan into a Man in Blake's Orchard

by

Donald Mallord

Copyright February 15, 2025

11,700 Words

Author's Notes

My thanks to Kenjisato for spotting the errors so this piece could be read without those jarring head-twisters.

____________________

After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost

My long, two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

...

____________________

Sweating Bullets

James hunched over his business-math exam, gripping his pencil as if he could force the numbers to make sense. He was sweating bullets—not over the exam. The classroom was silent, except for the scratch of lead on paper and the steady ticking of the clock. Too steady. Too fast. His mind wasn't on compound interest or balance sheets. It was on the ghost of a touch—light as a whisper—on his shoulder. He glanced up into those buttercup eyes. She blinked with a wry smile.

"James, you got this. Clock is ticking though. If you need more time..."

He nodded in acknowledgment, wondering how she maintained that classroom decorum so well. He couldn't focus on the test with her at his side, or even in the same room. Surely, she felt the same way.

Willow Minor's voice was gentle, soft enough not to disrupt the silence in the room. Then, just as quickly, her hand lifted, and she moved on to check the progress of the others. But James was no longer focused on the exam.

His thoughts drifted back to last Saturday at Blake's Orchard. Willow Minor had guided him through the rows of late-ripening apples. She insisted it was time to pick the late bloomers, but James sensed something was off. Then, beneath a sprawling old Macintosh tree, he spotted a blanket spread out— a quiet picnic for them.

"Happy birthday, James," Willow's gentle voice said. "You're eighteen now. That's something to celebrate."

He hadn't expected it. No one had ever given James anything like this before. In that moment, with the warm sun filtering through the leaves, an errant ladder caught between branches pointing toward heaven, and Willow watching him with an understanding smile, James felt a shift inside him. A quiet, powerful longing unsettled him more than he could admit.

More time for the exam. If only he had more time at Blake's Orchard!

His gaze drifted toward the window, where the gray October sky stretched cloudless all the way to the orchards. A gust of memory swept in—back to Blake's Orchard, to a weathered wooden sign leaning by the roadside.

Blake's Orchard -- Pickers Wanted

He had stopped the rickety-old bike right there, sweat still clinging to his back from the morning's dairy chores. The farm where he lived took everything from him—his labor, his time; there was no pay, just room and board. As a state ward, he resided in a foster farm home. If he wanted something for himself, he needed to find another way to earn it. He had become captivated by the photo display in the school's main hallway. Photos arranged by kids formed a collage of images from around the village. He could envision himself pinning up photos there. Joining required a 35-millimeter camera, which wasn't a luxury. Taking on an extra job was his shot at the after-school photo club and his chance at something beyond cattle stalls and morning milking.

As he rode his bike up the gravel driveway, weaving between rows of apple trees, he searched for a guy named Blake. However, when he rounded the corner of the barn, he unexpectedly came face-to-face with the last person he expected—the woman who managed the orchard.

Willow Minor.

The captivating business teacher was known for enchanting her students with her lessons and was the inspiring sponsor of the after-school camera club.

"Mrs. Minor..." he said, staring at the woman in a man's long-sleeved shirt tied in a knot at the waist, poured into a pair of worn blue jeans and tennis shoes. Her long hair pulled back in a ponytail gave her the image of a working girl... on the farm, rather than the role of a teacher. At first, he barely recognized her.

"James..." she asked, her voice rising in wonder.

"I was looking for a Mr. Blake. Saw the sign out front."

She smiled at the uncertainty in his gaze, "Mr. Blake was my grandfather. His farm is now mine, to have and to hold until death do us part."

Her gaze swept over the strong young man as he asked about work, leading her to hire him immediately without any questions.

The work was tough but fair. As they sorted and hauled, he shared pieces of his story with her—the foster homes, farm chores, and the constant feeling of being someone's responsibility, yet never truly belonging to a family. She listened, truly listened, and in return, shared her own story. A widow for three years, her husband, a test driver for Ford, had died in a crash at the Proving Grounds, leaving her to manage the orchard—an inheritance from her grandparents. Her modest teaching salary covered her bills, while the farmstead kept her grounded and thriving. She valued both, and wouldn't give up either.

In a way, both were isolated at this point in their lives. James Milford was an anomaly, causing people to overlook him for adoption at a young age. Widow Willow Minor was another anomaly in a small village rife with whispers about how it was wrong for a beautiful woman to reject suitors and choose to live her life through her students and business ventures, instead of becoming a replacement wife for some local.

After Apple-Picking

The extra hours at Blake's Orchard had filled him with hope and dreams, as he worked toward buying a camera for the after-school program. The orchard smelled of ripe apples and damp earth, with the crisp scent of autumn riding the breeze, reminiscent of Robert Frost's poem 'After Apple-Picking.' James wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, shifting the heavy canvas sack of apples higher on his shoulder. The job was more demanding than he had anticipated—stooping, picking, hauling—but it was his own. His time. His money. Not the foster farm's.

Willow worked alongside him, guiding him on what to cull, what to save for second pickings, and which specials for the local store would earn more money than what the bulk buyer paid. Her movements were efficient yet unhurried. She was different from other adults he had known—she never talked down to him or barked orders. She worked alongside the other pickers, but concentrated on training the newcomer. She asked questions during the quiet moments between filling crates—nothing pushy; just enough to encourage him to speak.

"You saving up for something?" she asked, dusting dirt off her hands.

"A camera," James said, tossing another apple into his sack. "A 35-millimeter for the after-school photo club."

Willow's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You're into photography?"

"Trying to be," he admitted. "Club requires a real camera. Not something cheap."

She nodded, as if weighing something. Then, just like that, the conversation moved on.

The next day, she surprised him.

When he arrived on that old rusty bike, she stood near the barn with a camera slung over her shoulder—a Kodak Retina I, well-worn but clean. "Figured you'd want a head start," she said, handing it to him. "It's a spare. You can use it while you save up."

James hesitated. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she said, with a small smile. "If you're going to be picking apples, you might as well learn to frame a good shot."

During breaks, she coached him on composition and playing with depth by blurring backgrounds while keeping the subject sharp. "Photography is about what you see," she said. "But equally important, is what you don't."

The following afternoon, as he gathered his canvas bag, she handed him an envelope of glossy prints.

His stomach flipped as he thumbed through them. His first shots—closeups of apple stems, the rolling orchard landscape, and even a candid of Willow adjusting a crate—looked real. Not just snapshots, but something more.

"You developed these?" he asked.

Willow nodded, leaning against a wooden crate. "Got a full darkroom in my basement. Comes in handy. I do some portraits on the side—weddings, graduations."

James examined the prints once more, a subtle thrill curling in his chest. For the first time, photography seemed attainable—not merely some distant endeavor, but something he could actually pursue.

Milford flipped through the glossy prints, their weight unfamiliar in his hands. He traced his thumb over a shot of an apple hanging low on a branch, the background blurred into golden hues. It looked like something out of a magazine, as if created by real photographers.

Hesitant, he inquired, "What is the cost of development?"

Her head tilted slightly. "Depends. Black-and-whites are cheaper if you do it yourself. Colors are a lot pricier."

He exhaled sharply, handing the photos back. "I can't afford that while saving for a camera."

Willow pushed the pictures back toward him. "I didn't say you had to pay."

His shoulders stiffened. "I don't take handouts."

Her lips quirked, like she'd expected that answer. "Good. Because I wasn't offering one."

"Then what are you offering?"

She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to her breasts—an action that James quickly noticed. Feeling uneasy, he tried to look away. A young man's behavior often would reveal his thoughts, and Willow understood this. He was just like any other teenager in school. Inwardly, she smiled, and uncrossed her arms, recognizing his discomfort.

"Help me out as a second shooter for a wedding next Saturday. I'll handle the ceremony shots, but receptions need more coverage—table photos, dancing, all that. I could use an extra set of hands."

His brows knit together as he glanced up again. "I've never even been to a wedding."

Willow's expression softened, but she didn't pity him. "Then it's about time you did."

James hesitated. He wanted to say yes—he needed the experience and access to film and development—but something nagged at him.

"I don't have anything to wear."

She glanced over his burly physique and nodded like she'd anticipated that, too. "I still have some of my husband's suits. Been meaning to let them go." She paused, in thought over how James Milford would fill them out. "I think he'd like the idea of someone getting good use out of them."

James swallowed hard, uncertain of how to respond. Part of him wanted to refuse—wanted to cling to the stubborn independence he had always maintained. But another, quieter, deeper part recognized the significance of her offer.

Finally, he gave a slight nod. "Alright. Deal."

Willow extended her hand. "Done deal."

He shook her hand, the roughness of her palm pressing firmly against his own. It sent a jolt through him. Despite her strong grip, her hands felt delicate. The touch of a woman, even if only for a moment, was cherished. James's peculiar grin and uneven ears hadn't won him much hand-holding during his school years.

A trade. A fair one.

And maybe the start of something more.

The Wedding Gig

With farm chores hurriedly finished, James arrived at Widow Willow's house Saturday afternoon, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trying not to appear as out of place as he felt. Her house was small but tidy, tucked at the edge of the orchard. A blue Ford pickup was parked in the gravel driveway, its tailgate lowered. Several black camera bags sat in the bed, neatly organized.

Willow met him at the door, wiping her hands on a towel. "Right on time. Help me load the rest?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, following her inside.

The house smelled of coffee and wood polish. He spotted framed photos on a shelf—portraits, landscapes, and a few black-and-white shots that looked like they came straight out of an old photography book—a life captured in stills. He paused to study a ruddy man standing in front of a race car with a proud grin. Without the straight grin and ear issue, he could have stood there with his crooked smile; everything else about him closely resembled the image in the photo.

They loaded tripods, light stands, and additional film cases into the truck. After the last bag was secured, she turned to him.

"Alright, let's get you dressed."

James stiffened slightly. "I can just wear—"

"Something that doesn't look like you came straight from the barn?" she finished, smirking. "Come on, I won't put you in anything ridiculous."

She led him to a small guest room where a few suits hung on the door. "Pick one."

He hesitated before running his fingers over the fabric. "These were his?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah, but clothes are meant to be worn, not left in a closet for moths to feast on." She took a navy suit off the hanger. "Give this a try."

It fit better than expected, though the sleeves were a bit long. When he emerged, tugging at the cuffs, Willow nodded approvingly.

"Sharp," she said, then picked up a tie. "You know how to—?"

He shook his head.

"Alright, come here."

She stepped in front of him, looping the fabric around his collar with practiced ease. "Little trick," she said, adjusting the knot. "Tie it loose at first, then tighten it at the end."

James stood still as she worked, unsure of what to do with his hands. Her movements were patient and methodical. He desperately tried to look elsewhere, but found his gaze drawn to the neckline of her dress, never having been this close to a girl or woman before. School dances and intimate encounters with girls weren't experiences for orphans in foster care. A hint of perfume lingered in the small space between them. He breathed it in, noticing the distinct femininity that set them apart.

"There." She stepped back and smiled. "Look at you. Practically respectable."

He rolled his eyes, but a corner of his mouth twitched upward as he caught a glimpse in the full-length mirror. An orphan with a crooked smile and an ear lower than the other didn't look so bad in a suit.

"Come on," she said laughingly, grabbing her keys. "Let's make some magic happen."

The venue was a rustic barn lit with string lights, the kind of place people pick for weddings to make it look like something out of a movie. Guests in pastel dresses and sharp suits milled about, laughing to the soft hum of a live band setting up.

James had never seen anything like it.

Willow handed him a newer camera—still a Kodak Retina I—but its sturdy metal body felt cool in his hands. "This was mine when I first started," she said. "Remember, you won't get a second chance at a shot, so trust your instincts. Focus on sound composition and lighting, just like we practiced."

"Got it," he muttered, adjusting the focus ring and peering through the viewfinder.

She led him through the day, guiding him on angles, lighting, and the importance of natural moments. "Capture them as they are, not as you think they should be," she instructed.

As the ceremony started, James positioned himself at the back of the room, his camera clicking in rhythm with the vows. He focused on framing the couple from a lower angle, capturing how the light illuminated their faces in that perfect moment of love and commitment.

For group shots afterward, Willow stood beside him, pointing to various family members. "Stagger people," she suggested. "Tall in the back. Relax their hands, though. No stiff poses. And keep an eye on where the light's falling—don't let it cast shadows across their faces."

His hands were steady as he worked, adjusting settings he had practiced with Willow in the orchard. He captured wide shots and candid moments. For the first time, he felt the camera's weight not merely as a tool, but as a means to create something significant.

Willow glanced at him once, nodding approvingly. "Not bad, James. You've got the eye."

He didn't need to hear any more. The thrill of the work itself was enough.

Sunday: The Darkroom

Morning farm chores were done, and that afternoon, Willow waved him inside and led him down a narrow staircase to the basement. The darkroom was a world of its own—red light bathing the space, the scent of chemicals thick in the air.

Willow handed him a small, black changing bag and motioned toward the film canister on the table. "Alright, you'll open the canister and load the film onto this spool. But it has to be done in complete darkness, so we will use the bag."

James eyed the bag warily. "I'm supposed to do this without seeing anything?"

She nodded. "You'll feel your way through it. It's not as bad as it sounds. It's what we will use in school."

James grabbed the bag, tugging the zipper tightly around his shoulders. His body stayed outside, but his hands were trapped inside the dark, lightproof fabric. He instantly experienced a wave of disorientation as the world around him turned pitch black. He swayed, trying to regain his balance.

"I got you," Willow giggled, as her hands clamped around his waist steadying his rocking until he found his balance. She held him a bit longer, just to be sure.

His heart pounded at her grasp. Then refocused as he reached for the film canister with his hands, the cold metal sending a shock through his fingertips. He twisted the top, hearing the click, but couldn't see a thing. The film felt fragile between his fingers—if he slipped, it would be ruined.

He cursed under his breath as his hands fumbled for the film itself, feeling around and trying to grasp it without exposing it. Each moment stretched out, and the lack of sight made him feel more vulnerable.

Finally, he found the film reel and carefully fed it onto the spool. His hands shook with the effort, but he focused, his fingers making the delicate motions to determine whether the film survived this first step.

After what felt like hours, he finished. His skin was clammy, as he pulled his hands from the bag, and let out a long breath of relief.

Willow raised an eyebrow. "How'd it go?"

"I thought I was gonna screw it up," James admitted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It was like trying to do something without knowing if I had the right tools."

Willow smiled. "You did great. It's all part of the process. Like many things done in the dark—it will become second nature."

James overlooked the innuendo in her smirk.

"Alright, we'll start developing now that the film's loaded. But before we do that, let me show you what to look for."

James stood by, his hands still a bit shaky from the bag. Willow pulled a few prints from the drying rack and held them up.

"These are the kinds of shots to keep," she said, pointing to one of the candid moments during the wedding ceremony—a groom wiping a tear from his bride's cheek. "Natural, unposed. These are the ones that tell the story."

She flipped through a few more, showing him others of the couple laughing, exchanging vows, and even a quick shot of the flower girl. "These are fine, but we don't need too many like this. Focus on the details that make the day unique."

James nodded, making mental notes. "And what about the ones we don't keep?"

"Anything blurry, out of focus, or poorly lit," Willow said. "You're not just shooting for the sake of shooting. You need to cull the ones that don't fit the vibe you're going for."

James observed closely, as she set aside a few of the better images. "When we preview, these are the ones we'll showcase. You want the best, the ones that will make the client say, 'That's exactly what I wanted.'"

"Got it," James said, feeling the weight of it. These were more than just pictures—they were memories frozen in time, each carrying a piece of the story from that day. They were memories they would treasure. Milford longed for something to hold onto beyond the life of an orphan living in foster care.

Willow paused and looked up. "You have a good eye for this, James. Keep that focus, and you'll do great."

Memories

The memories of apple picking and Saturday's surprise left James staring at the unfinished equations on his exam, his heart sinking. His mind drifted to last Saturday—outside, under the autumn sun, where the Blakes' apple trees stretched their branches toward the light. The vivid images consumed the time he needed for the exam as he recalled how that afternoon began; it was not unlike the first time they met as he looked for Mr. Blake.

"Hey, James. It's time to pick those late bloomers," Willow Minor smiled, as he rode up.

Today, she drove the pickup instead of the regular two-lounger John Deere and flatbed trailer. Deep in the orchard, she navigated the hills amid a scattering of late-ripening apples. James couldn't help but notice that her outfit wasn't the typical apple-picking wear.

'You don't climb ladders in a dress. I guess she's not pulling her weight today.'

"By the way," she remarked, noticing his glances toward her, "the migrants have moved on, so it'll be just the two of us today."

"Double the work then," he grinned, unaware of the real reason for the outing until she rounded the last sharp turn and reached the swimming hole formed long ago by a glacial mound that carved through Michigan. This spot was shaped by the retreating ice masses that melted into the silt, creating bowl-shaped pockets, or moguls, which often turned into small lakes. Beneath a sprawling old Macintosh tree, he spotted a blanket—a peaceful picnic just for the two of them.

"Happy birthday, James," Willow's soft voice greeted him, catching him off guard. "You're eighteen now. That's certainly worth celebrating."

He hadn't expected it. No one had ever given James something like this before. In that moment, as the warm sun filtered through the leaves and Willow watched him with a knowing smile, James felt something shift within him. A quiet, powerful longing unsettled him much more than he could admit.

"Cat got your tongue?" she chuckled, as he was too flabbergasted to speak.

"Thank you," he finally managed a simple reply, his eyes darting between the spread and the Vanity Fair woman standing before him, reminiscent of an image from the magazine— her long brown hair cascaded like willow branches down her back, accentuated by the dimples in her smile as she gazed at him with curiosity.

"You deserve it, and more," she responded, motioning for him to sit down.

"It's more than anything I could ever wish for," he gushed, knowing that wasn't entirely true. What he truly wished for was too embarrassing to ask.

"Nonsense, James," she smiled. "All birthday wishes should come true. Do you have one? Is there something you've always wished for?"

Willow considered the gift box nestled inside the basket with the 35-millimeter camera he had spent time drooling over while apple picking. It was what she thought he would say.

His mind spun at the question. Memories of wanting to be adopted as a child surged forward, quickly pushed aside by thoughts of someone to love, hold, and share the same desires he felt while standing before Willow Minor, his teacher and mentor. Should he dare to voice what troubled him in that moment instead? She had asked what he wished for; should he really answer her? He looked toward the water, trying to hide his thoughts from her, standing in that picture-perfect dress.

Willow's teaching instincts and experience with students' raging hormones mixed with sexual infatuation quickly detected the tension and his furtive glance at her question.

'Wow, did I really step in it just now?' Willow thought, pursing her lips as she considered his reaction to all the birthday wishes that should come true.

Innocently, she had set the stage for a surprise birthday without thinking about the seclusion of the spot she chose, and the bulge evident in his jeans. Certainly, it was not what she expected to deal with.

Willow reflected on an awkward moment.

'How can you let down an orphan who has never had a special birthday celebration like this? Do you ignore the feelings clearly shown by the bulge in those farmhand jeans? Or... should you, just this once, bend the rules between teacher and student?'

She was unsure of her role and tried her best to ease the situation. This wasn't a classroom event, and certainly not school-related.

"James, after my husband passed away, the village expressed an overwhelming outpouring of sympathy. A year later, whispers began questioning why I hadn't started dating again."

James bowed his head, recognizing where this was heading— rejection.

"People speculated about why I wasn't seen in public and why I devoted my time to my students. Rumors spread like typical gossip from narrow-minded people in a small town. I turned down suitors, most of whom were more interested in my grandfather's land than in marrying me. This led them to question the time I spent with students. Baseless gossip claimed I was involved with some of them. That's not a good position to be in. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

James nodded, in recognition.

He reflected on her words, while staring across the lake, trying to grasp her viewpoint and the clash with his infatuation. Perhaps, he had entirely misinterpreted this. Yet, it was what he wanted. She had asked, hadn't she? Would it still be inappropriate to share his thoughts?

The teacher instinct in Willow observed his expression as he stared out with a look of rejection. His lips quivered, signaling his emotions were mixed and perhaps on the verge of profound disappointment. She had grown fond of this reserved, shy orphan trying to find his place in the world. True, he wasn't the village's handsome prince, but he was a kind soul, and for once in his life, he deserved something better than being overlooked.

"You know what, James?" she bristled over her thoughts, as she tried to defend her reputation against the gossip in the village. "Screw the villagers!"

His head swiveled in shock at her words. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Mrs. Minor..."

She laughed at his shock as he broke into a grin. James had never heard a teacher use those words. It astounded him to discover she was more than just a refined teacher; the shock transformed into a grin and eventually into laughter.

She had broken the tension between them. 'Now, I need to find a way to build a bridge over it,' she thought.

"You know, when I was your age, I would come here with my friends on weekends. We'd build a bonfire, throw a little party, and sometimes sneak in a beer. Occasionally, a couple of more adventurous people would go skinny-dipping under the moonlight. I'm not saying, you see, that I was one of them."

James grinned as she told her tale. "Sometimes, when I'm in the barn alone, I slip up to the straw loft and... stroll around, too, just not with any water around," he said, letting the idea of just how that picture might click in her mind.

"Vegetable garden for me," she smirked right back.

That brought a roar of laughter from James, picturing her waltzing naked down rows of corn.

As the laughter died down, she read the look on his face. It wasn't a complete eraser of the disappointment he had felt. 'A birthday wish shouldn't end that way,' she mused.

"You know, the water isn't that cold yet." Willow nodded toward the crystal clear lake. "Not saying we do anything more."

James's breath caught, as he digested her message. "Could I... undress you at least?"

"I'll hold your hand as we run and jump in, but then it's time to get back out and get dressed, okay?"

It was a 'yes.' He understood the limits she set. But, at least, he got to see a naked woman after he removed her dress. He stood up and offered his hands. She gave him both hers and he lifted Willow effortlessly to her feet. She was as close then as she had been when she slipped the loose knot of the tie against his collar. Their eyes met and locked for a moment.

"The zipper is in back," she whispered, not wanting to leave time for an impromptu kiss. It had been a long time since she had kissed anyone with a sense of desire, and staring into a pool of blue eyes that said they wanted to, made that a renewed temptation.

James's fingers trembled, fumbled with the zipper and finally eased it down just below her hips. Lingering there, the touch of calloused farmer's fingers enjoyed the soft buttery skin of Widow Willow Minor's hips.

"Not so hard, right? Just like opening a canister in a darkroom bag," she sighed, adding an "Ah!" and a tilt of her head upward, as she savored the sensation of those strong hands' trickling electric touch.

She looked up into his eyes, at his grin, and tried to contain a wry smile as the dress slipped from her shoulders. The raised brow indicated that he appreciated the orchard's magic just as much as the wedding they had filmed.

"Yeah, but the reveal is a lot better than a roll of film," he whispered.

"Thank you, James, for the compliment. Remember to do that when you meet the girl of your dreams."

James smiled as he reached around her back again, 'I'm doing that now.'

The bra dropped next and Willow was topless before James. He stood in awe, drinking in her pendulous breasts and the quickening nipples. It was a mixture of open-air response and emotions waffling through Willow at being exposed before a man again. The sense of lust rose and she felt the results stiffen her nipples. The role of the student-teacher was diminishing.

James's reaction was nearly as intense. He could barely resist the urge to hold her in his arms and explore. Yet he did, honoring his promise.

Kneeling, he let those trembling fingers draw down her panties to her ankles. She stepped out and back, allowing him to drink in the up-close view of her slit as the background blurred from view. His eyes roamed every crease and crevice, every freckle and curly hair. As divine as the Lady of the Lake, she stood still and let his eyes feast, knowing that an eighteen-year-old had lots to observe and decipher about naked bodies.

As his eyes roamed in wonder, he managed to say, "You're... beautiful."

A slight smile graced Willow's lips, as she mused, 'Everything about a naked woman is beautiful to an eighteen-year-old. Just don't take this too far, James.'

Willow's id battled against her. She was well aware of the undercurrent of thoughts wrestling within its consciousness. But she expected James to keep his promise; inwardly, she hoped he might push further. The widow was nearly on the verge of giving in to the temptation, herself.

Three years was a long time... a long time since a man had taken control of her body and made her shed those teacherly inhibitions. It wouldn't take much effort to provoke her, given the right man with gentle hands. She felt a hand glide up her inner thigh. As exciting as it felt to feel that hand rise between her thighs, she barely managed to end it there.

"Turnabout is fair play," she whispered, stepping away to catch her breath as an involuntary shiver coursed through her thighs.

"Up," she ordered.

James's expression shifted from fervor to hesitation, as she unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it from his pants. She draped it over his shoulders and slid it down his arms with the practiced ease of a woman who had undressed her man many times before he was taken from her too soon.

"Wait!" he called out, as she knelt and reached for his belt.

"Wait? James, there's no reason to wait. I know what's underneath just as well as you do. It's an erection, a natural reaction for every man in this situation."

When she finished her soliloquy, his pants and Fruit of the Looms were down to his ankles. His cock was free, up, thick, and proud. Still, James was a bit embarrassed with a full hard-on in the presence of a fully nude woman undressing him.

On her knees, Willow worked on those confounded high-top tennis shoe laces, but paused to admire the uncut cock and an ample scrotum. It was like her race-car driver's appendage—bushy, thick, and a double handful in length, twitching with desire. Still not something huge; more than adequate and easy to ride. The temptation to touch it lingered at her fingertips. Willow's id cautioned her about that. Damn him, he was always in the back of her mind, so controlling.

A clear bead of pre-cum hung from its tip. She pursed her lips battling for self-control.

"Fuck the villagers!" she muttered.

And grasping his girth, she opened her mouth and took him in. First, the purple plum, just a gentle suck to seal her lips around its ring, then the gentle wave of her tongue's languid moves against its pee slit to remind herself of the huffs she'd once dredged up from the depths of her departed husband. He liked that almost as much as...

"Ahhh!"

"Sorry, James, I couldn't..." she attempted to apologize for her mistake. His gasp of pleasure shattered her thoughts.

But, before she could finish, James's hips jerked, and with two handfuls of long brown hair, he pulled her back into position. It wasn't to be mean; it was ancient instincts and reflexive response over the power of the pleasure it provided.

"Please, again," he gasped. It was part plea and part demand. Manners still hung in there, fighting those primal urges to take without caring. His hips rocked forward, feeding her more, taking control as he thrust and held her head in place.

'Look what you got yourself into, teacher,' Willow's id chastised her. 'Too late to stop now, id, get the fuck behind the villagers, if you want your turn.'

She wanted to argue the point aloud with her chastiser, but the thick cock poking her throat wouldn't allow that. She tilted her head at the proper angle to accommodate James, relaxing her throat to control her gag reflex.

'It's funny how mastery comes back so easily after three years of solitude,' she mused, but pushed that thought aside as James's urgency took priority over intellectual banter.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah," his deep pants stirred up in an ancient and universal chant, picking up the rhythm of surges with each movement down her larynx.

The primal urges closed in on James. His eyes slammed shut under sensory overload. That teenager's light downy-haired chest began to huff, matching his thrusts under the thrill of a first experience. It's that deepthroat fuck you remember forever, no matter how old you become.

It was familiar, though different, for Willow. She recognized the signs— the tightening abs, the tension of his ass, and increasing urgency as she held him with both hands.

"Fffahk. Oh, oh shit!" he huffed, the words garbled in lust.

James's exuberance and lack of experience cut off her airway in his deepthroat moves. To breathe, Willow backed off the deep penetration and seized his cock. She wrapped a hand around its girth to limit the depth of his thrusts. With a slight twisting motion, she took control and jerked him off while applying deep suction.

James reacted to her expert care by widening his stance, gripping clumps of hair with both hands, and groaning, "Fuck. Don't stop, please, don't stop!"

She didn't. She picked up the tempo, built up his urge to cum, and at the very last second as his body seized and jerked frenetically, she pulled off and pumped vigorously.

"Fuck!" he groaned, as his body tremored and tensed with the pending need to cum. It was loud enough to scare away the blue jay that had chirped overhead as the scene unfolded. James stiffened, held his breath, and flexed his hips.

Willow sensed the familiar tension and looming outcome; she pumped faster.

The first gush struck her forehead and trickled into her eye; her mouth opened in surprise. A natural reaction to the forceful splatter of jizz surging out at twenty-eight miles per hour, no matter how often she had experienced it. The second burst shot through her open lips like a bullseye on a target; it was perfectly centered against her throat; she swallowed in response. The third and fourth ropes of cum copiously painted her neck and breasts as she squirmed in response to a lovely pearl necklace.

"That's it, James, mark me, paint me!" she blurted out, wiping a dollop from her eye. She grinned as she watched him groan with his head lifted. Those closed eyes and bulging neck muscles, taut as piano wire, filled Willow with a sense of satisfaction as his orgasm racked his body. That proud throbbing cock bounced up and down with each spurt, marking her like an ancient mating ritual.

A wave of dizziness from the effort and excitement washed over James. It dimmed his sight, briefly, as she gave him his first oral pleasure. He felt off-balance, but Willow caught him... a fist full of cock to steady his balance.

He gazed down at her, grinning and catching his breath. She looked up with a playful smile, then gently kissed that purple head once more, as the blood-filled cock began to wilt in satisfaction of a well-done performance.

"Was that good for you, James?"

Willow smirked as she leaned back on her butt with her hands wrapped around her knees, observing his beaming face. She knew damned well it did. The tension in his jaw eased as a crooked little grin spread across that rugged face, transforming into a full smile as he took in the image he had painted, like an artist on his canvas—a curvaceous and buxom widow, a teacher and a mentor.

"You're a mess!" he replied, smirking, as he felt euphoric at her grin.

Willow shot back, "Well, what do you think those skinny-dippers went into the water for, James?"

It didn't just bend their promise; it shattered it and set it ablaze like a bonfire at night in Blakes' Orchard. Only this was in broad daylight.

She raised her hands. Laughing, he grasped them and effortlessly lifted her to her feet. Together, they dashed into the water, hand in hand.

Knee-deep, the water slowed them. Waist-deep, the chill forced them to adjust their pace to accommodate the drop in temperature. For James, chest-deep meant that Willow was treading water off the sandy bottom.

She submerged and re-emerged with water cascading down her face, fresh, clean, and unspoiled once again. She blinked, as the water flowed down her face and turned to check on James. Their eyes locked. She recognized the new expression etched on that eighteen-year-old's face. It was yet another experience, a new notch in his belt.

But the cool water had not calmed his passion. Perhaps, she had been right the first time, 'Fuck the villagers.'

The orphan deserved a better birthday wish than a rushed blowjob and holding hands in deep water. So did the lonely widow; she had been the source of his joy, not the one receiving what he could give.

He watched the water droplets flow from her eyes—were they water, or did they appear to be tears? In that fleeting moment, as she treaded water, he shattered the silence with a sincere apology.

"I made you break your promise about not touching. I'm sort of... sorry about that, Mrs. Minor."

"James, do you really think I couldn't have stopped it? I know I made the rule to keep that teacher-student ethical code on track. I could have... maybe should have just said that when I saw it unfolding, it wouldn't happen."

"I'm glad you didn't, Mrs. Minor."

"James, let's set a new rule first off—I just sucked and jerked you off, so that's tacit permission to stop calling me Mrs. Minor. Willow, when we are here, Mrs. Minor is at school. Got it?"

"When we are here... means we will do this again, right?"

Willow's id scolded her, 'Did it again, girl, put your foot in your mouth once more.'

"I can keep a promise! I vow not to tell anyone!" James exclaimed, noticing the serious look in her eyes as he watched Willow tread water, naked, just inches away from him in the clear lake. At that moment, his shadowy night dreams felt real. He didn't want them to fade away.

"James, those promises are always broken, even with the best intentions. It doesn't take much— an overly bright smile in the hallway, a glance that lingers a bit too long in the cafeteria, or even a neighborhood gossip claiming she saw you riding your bike up here on a weekend can get exaggerated. Scandalous stories arise from that, just like we did now. Promises of that kind never hold true. But..."

She let the words fall and settle into the clear, cool waters of Blake's Pond, where no one could hear them again. After speaking in adult mode, she had painted a stark picture, perhaps more complicated for a teenager to reconcile. She shifted subjects to ease the wound.

"I'm cold, James. Please hold me."

The thoughts of a twenty-seven-year-old widow, caught in the turbulence she had stirred with an impressionable youth, felt troubling and somewhat overwhelming, even with her teaching experience. She needed time to reflect.

Buoyed by the crystal-clear waters, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled her legs up around his waist, and kissed him on the lips, long and lingering. It was the least she could do to savor a little pleasure. Her breasts pressed against his chest, nipples turgid like a seamstress' thimbles, yet the rest of those orbs were pliant and warm against his skin as she absorbed his body heat. The warmth of his toned abs radiated into her thighs, sparking different thoughts.

Pulling back, she spoke firmly, "At least we have today; let's make it a feast. By the way, I have one more birthday gift. As for what comes next, we'll have to... test the waters."

Willow's mind wandered, as she rested her damp head on his shoulder, absorbing thoughts of possible consequences. It felt good to be held, to be in the arms of a strong, sensitive man once again. Yet, it conflicted with some fading principles. Was that truly so wrong?

"You're cold, too," she whispered, detecting a shiver from James.

"Maybe," he whispered, "but holding you is worth it."

"Silly, get us out of the lake before we freeze to death." Her trademark wit eclipsed his desire to hold onto her, even as she wished for them to stay there a bit longer.

Reluctantly, James waded to shore, feeling a little like King Arthur. He wasn't retrieving a sword from Blake's Pond; instead, he was carrying the Lady of the Lake, herself, as he lifted her from the water, exposed for all of nature to see; or perhaps, like Adam carrying Eve out of God's Garden after biting the apple.

The chill in the air struck their damp skin. He quickly placed her on the spread blanket and lay beside her, pulling the other half over them to fend off the cold. Willow didn't mind being chin to chin, as the sun's warmth seeped through the blanket, helping warm and dry them. James wrapped an arm around her for extra warmth, pressing his chest against her breasts once more. It was welcomed as she closed her eyes and shook her head at id, who had begun to mouth a warning,'... you know they all want to fuck...'

"... Fuck me," she whispered to id in frustration, her eyes closed, grappling with her inner conflict about the villagers' opinions, some of whom were lechers wanting to screw her, and the picnic that had gone awry.

James heard her whispered sigh and smiled, thinking she wanted to elevate their budding relationship as she wiggled closer to him.

"You... changed your mind and want me to... um, do you?" he whispered into her damp hair, as she nestled closer. His voice was so quiet that Willow's racing mind didn't take notice.

"Or were you thinking about the villagers again?" he asked, enjoying the warmth of their skin as his arm brushed against the gentle curves of her back and bottom. His question interrupted her difficult conversation with id, while she was pressed against James.

Id had heard all of James's questions and shouted to Willow,'You can't... keep it together, girl! You know what's coming!'

"Fuck..." she whispered, in answer.

Her renewed determination to defend her reputation before the villagers reignited her frustration with them. She would definitely piss them off and show them!

She draped an arm over James's shoulder and cocked her knee, resting her thigh over his muscular legs. She kissed him more passionately than she had when she wrapped her legs around his waist in the lake.

"James," she murmured, "this isn't how I wanted the day to go. You're barely eighteen, and your whole life is ahead of you. Your reputation could be at stake. I shouldn't have..."

He touched a strong farmer's finger to her lips, to shush her. "Fuck the villagers, Willow."

"You're picking up my poor vocabulary."

"I'll try and do better," he whispered, as he kissed her back.

It became a back-and-forth kiss, ardently deepening. James was surprised to feel her tongue probing against his lips. As she opened his mouth, she pushed her tongue in, exploring, wrestling, and teasing until he took the hint to push back. She sucked in his tongue and played with it. The playful suggestion ignited those desires again. His thick cock twitched, swelled, and pressed against her; nestled at the apex of her thighs. It probed exploring unknown territory.

After three challenging years, Willow freed herself from the stifling constraints of her teacher's role model during an unexpected event— a student's birthday celebration. In that transformative moment, she surrendered to a boy she had helped become a man and celebrated the end of countless sleepless nights spent alone with a drawer full of toys.

"James..." she closed her eyes and moaned feeling the bulbous purple head enter her, slowly sinking its thickness into the depths of her warm and liquid center. A delirious feeling of joy swept over her as his thick cock slid along her moist clit. The back-and-forth gliding sparked the excitement and shimmer of lights behind closed eyelids. She had missed those for far too long and felt faint and exhilarated. Such delirium had only existed in her dreams, shared with someone sadly gone—someone who had once matched the sensations coursing through her body in small tremors and quakes.

The muscular farmhand froze at the sound of her gasping his name. He noticed her chin lifted and her mouth falling open as she cried out. A pained expression with tightly shut eyes formed a furrow between her eyebrows when he plunged in, up to the hilt.

Had he caused her pain? Was it too late to seek approval for something he had already done? "Too late," registered in his blue eyes, yet he still thought he should ask.

"Willow..." he groaned, struggling against the urge to pull back and thrust again.

Reading his mind was as easy as witnessing a child wrestling with the choice between being good and sneaking cookies while trying to avoid a mother's gaze. At eighteen, Willow had experienced the same feelings; at twenty-seven she'd experienced nearly every other emotion dealing with school-age kids, except for this.

"It's okay, James. Women aren't porcelain dolls. We don't break easily. Take me..."

Her plea, her permission, released his restraints. The pent-up hormones in a shy orphan washed away those gentle inhibitions. He rolled her onto her back, rising on his elbows and cupping his hands beneath her shoulder blades, feeling her legs drawn up outside his broad thighs like butterfly wings. No longer the innocent boy on his way to pick apples, he paused to suckle both those turgid buds atop those soft, supple mounds.

"Yes... like that. Nibbles, James. Soft ones, between your teeth, bite gently..." she whispered urgently. "Oh! God, just like that!"

James had a lot to learn about nibbles, but that's what Willow Minor was very good at—teaching.

It didn't come as much of a surprise for James to learn that Willow was a vocalist. The soft grunts swelled and turned into urgent moans. As he penetrated her and pulled back to start over, again and again her body responded with new sounds. He realized her frown was not from pain, but rather ecstasy mixed with responsive ardor. He found that Willow gave as much as she took. The heat was building in his chest, and gasping for air accompanied it. Willow's enticing words urged James to pick up the pace.

"You can't break me, plowboy... Put more effort into it.

"Aah. Ooh. Yes. That's better.

"Harder, please! It's been a long fuckin' time, babe. Go all in! Hammer time!

"Nail... Nail me... Fuck me like a slut."

Willow's mind had gone back in time to when she could scream, and cry outrageous things as her lover ate it up—ate her, too, in those passionate throws. Her id rested on his butt, aware it was pointless to tell her this was just a kid. He knew he'd be told to...

"Fuck, me... to the fuckin' cows come home!"

James had never fucked a slut, let alone anyone else, but he got the idea from Willow that she wanted it hard and fast. So, he pushed up on his hands, locked his forearms, and hammered her like a bull in heat. It had the effect she wanted. He had his moment of vocalizing his sexual urge, bellowing, as he came inside her. It seemed to push her urges higher. Even though empty, he stayed rigid and kept nailing her. Perhaps, unlike the previous canvas he had painted, this time it wasn't influenced by the cool air, but pushed on by the dirty talk of someone he had viewed as angelic, like a teacher.

Her mouth gaped open, wider he thought than when she sucked his dick. The screwed-up look of agony on her face wasn't pain after all. She was almost there. The point that he had felt a few moments ago.

"Fuuuck, David! I'm cumming... so damned hard, babe!"

James watched as beads of sweat formed on her forehead and her chest flushed bright pink. Suddenly, she stiffened, going quiet for a moment, frozen like a snapshot of a woman at the peak of ecstasy. Her thighs attempted to crush his ribs in a series of frantic jerks. He slowed his pace, but didn't stop. Fascinated, he observed her stomach muscles ripple and contract. It was nothing like what the guys talked about in gym class; perhaps that was the village gossip version Willow had mentioned. In any case, James was blown away, leaving him unable to think about anyone else.

Anyone, except David.

That race-car driver must have been an amazing lover,' James thought, as they collapsed in a tangled mess of sweaty hair, arms, and legs like jello.

Those afternoon hours ticked on, like clock hands creeping toward milking time. This was the moment James needed to head back to the farm. Needless to say, his thoughts wouldn't be on cow teats.

In the end, both lay side by side, gasping and enjoying the afterglow of satisfaction. For the shy orphan, some aspects of sexual awakening were no longer mysteries. Sex was pleasurable, even if it came in brief, frenzied bursts of energy. Under Willow's tutelage, he found there were way more positions than his mind had ever imagined, lying awake at night thinking of her... doing her in missionary position. Boy, was he wrong.

For Widow Willow Minor, the long-simmering struggles against the village's social norms had been burned to the ground, smoldering like embers from a lakeside bonfire. What impact today would have on her student remained uncertain. Inevitably, the expectation that the villagers would eventually discover the truth was met with, "Fuck 'em." At least for the villagers—James was a different story; she wasn't confident about that future 'sexploration.'

As the last huff for breath returned her to sanity, Willow eased up onto an elbow and scooted down. Tenderly, she kissed his limp dick. It twitched a little.

"Again..." she grinned.

Eventually, they opened the present on Willow's mind— the 35-millimeter, when she innocently asked him, "All birthday wishes should come true. Do you have one? Is there something you've always wished for?"

Besides the desire for a camera, certainly another one of those wishes was granted that afternoon.

Naturally, this resulted in shooting two rolls of film, primarily featuring Willow in a provocative mood. The last two photos were of James. One profile was, of course, naked, taken by Willow as he posed with a solitary gaze out over the waters of Blake's Pond, as if searching for the Lady of the Lake. The second shot, the final moment at the lake, captured James urinating on the bonfire they had finally lit to fend off the chill between lovemaking sessions. Both laughed over the last one as they redressed.

James rode his bike back to Wilson's farm for the afternoon milking. Willow, her mind in turmoil and grappling with her inner thoughts, headed for the darkroom to occupy herself, soothe her nerves, and contemplate the approaching storm.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock

The classroom clock's hands raced to strike the hour in Mrs. Minor's room.

James Milford, the only orphan in foster care at school, swallowed hard and blinked. Where had the time gone? It had been just a brief mental trip to the picnic at Blake's Orchard last Saturday. Here, he was staring at the unfinished exam. He needed to concentrate to push through the emotions clouding his thoughts. Yet, the memory of that birthday awakening lingered, smearing the words on the page and making it difficult for him to finish the test. With his head down, he worked steadily.

The sharp ring of the classroom clock startled him. "Time's up," Mrs. Minor announced. "Make sure your name is on the exam. Grades will be available by Friday."

Students stood in line and passed by her desk. As she sat, she gathered their papers one by one. The orphan was last in line, realizing he had only completed two-thirds of the questions.

"I didn't finish... Mrs. Minor," he stammered.

"Take a seat, James. I'll give you twenty minutes," she said, as the class stragglers walked out.

"But, the bus..."

"I'll take you home," she said, waving her hand to overrule the lack of transportation. No one noticed the corners of her lips curve.

As the last person stepped through the door, she added, "We can swing by my place to check out the photos you took on Saturday... I printed them in full color."

That's how it all started.

Mrs. Minor sat at her desk, grading papers when the librarian popped her head in to remind her about the Wednesday PTA meeting. She noticed that the man-sized orphan was alone in the room with her, his eyes shifting furtively toward Willow instead of the test. That afternoon, once again, the town's self-appointed gossip—the same librarian—spotted them alone in Willow Minor's car as they left school. Being with a student after hours was quite unusual for a single woman.

As Widow Willow Minor had prophetically foretold, no matter how hard one tried to keep a promise of discretion, it always leaked out. It didn't matter that someone had started rumors about weekend events at Blake's Orchard, true or not. It gradually turned into a tempest at school, with accusations landing before the Board of Education about her conduct. By December, the whole village knew that Widow Minor was PG, pregnant, with child or believed it happened, so it must have— the Widow Willow Minor had turned an orphan into a man in Blake's Orchard!

The reply from Willow Minor and James Milford was the same— "Fuck 'em!"

But it wouldn't go away. Clearly, by June, the Widow wasn't nine months pregnant. The village was conscious that she had violated the rules of student-teacher relationships. Proof of that didn't matter. Her renewal contract was on the line in June, right after graduation.

What was a stubborn, independent, and highly assertive role model to do? Fight fire with fire?

Willow had some experience with the law. David's death at the Proving Grounds left her locked in a struggle against an empire over owed benefits and a claim that his job and contract absolved them of responsibility for design flaws. She found the best lawyers, had the funds to follow through, and ultimately won. She reached out to those lawyers again, and the firefight began.

"James," she said, as they discussed the plan of action, "I need a steady hand and a cameraman. Are you up to some role-playing?"

"Count me in, babe," he grinned.

"Thanks, Rabbit," she shot back.

She had given him the nickname 'Rabbit' early on. He could recharge faster than the bunny in the battery commercials.

The habits of villagers were well known. Everyone understood that the Board of Education gathered at the Bar and Grill Restaurant before each meeting to 'informally' discuss the agenda. Naturally, this violated board policy and the State Board of Education regulations. But, wink, wink, that's just how the village had always functioned under the good ol' boys' system.

"Wear the navy, Rabbit," she said, as he came out of the shower after a heated afternoon workout. Willow waited her turn in the shower, sitting cross-legged and naked, still matted from a rumble in the bed with her bunny.

James leaned down, as he passed by the bed, for Willow's ritual kisses—one for him and one for freshly washed Rabbit.

"Ahh," he groaned, "don't have to go yet, we could... mess around one more time."

"If this goes as planned, I'll mess around with you all night," Willow giggled.

James tossed his reply over his shoulder, as he removed the navy suit from the closet. "Oh, it's going to go as planned!"

"You need this, handsome man," she said, handing him an oversized badge that read 'Free Press' on the front. It was a solid mockup of the real McCoy. "And remember, a lot of flashes to confuse them, so they don't catch a glimpse of your smile!"

"On it, Lake Lady."

With James gone, Willow indulged in a long, hot shower while rehearsing her lines. It would be a performance they would never forget at the village school board meeting as they renewed and denied contracts.

Toweling herself dry, she stared into the closet and mused, "Now what to wear? It's been so long. Gotta be something... that's... red... and shouts fuck 'em!"

James arrived at the Bar and Grill in time to see the board members seated at their usual table. It was all smiles and grins as he watched them as they ordered, consumed a burger each, and proceeded to discuss the evening's agenda. Unnoticed by all was the fellow in the corner with coffee and a Danish sweet roll casually leafing through the newspaper.

Well settled and diving in, the president remarked, "Most contracts are for good folks, right? So, no marginals this year?"

Heads nodded in agreement, as bites of those half-pound flame-broiled burgers topped with bacon and cheese dripped with satisfaction.

"Well then, that just leaves the one in question..." he remarked.

Everyone shook their heads when they heard that one. The same name and common rumored notions popped into everyone's heads.

"How are you all gonna vote on the Widow Willow Minor, then? You know the talk. Some say... she's PG, prego, knocked up by that foster kid living on the Wilson farm. Must be as big as a barn by now. Shame, she was a damn good teacher I hear tell. My granddaughter likes her, too. But that's beside the point."

"Can't have that kind around our kids," another, who had courted her, chimed in.

"Nope," two others agreed.

"I didn't hear the other three of you share your thoughts on how we're going to vote. Are you going to make it unanimous?"

The board president didn't receive a response, as he glanced down the table. Sudden flashes of light startled him as a series of photos were taken in the corner of the restaurant.

"What the hell!"

"Who the hell was that?"

"Some ass with a Free Press badge! What the fuck was that about?"

In and out like a flash, James left no doubt in the board's minds that something was amiss. It left them sputtering and spewing more blue words that seared the air in that family restaurant. Heads turned in response.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," the customer, who ordered coffee and a Danish, said, as he handed each of them an envelope. "Members of the Board, you have been served!"

He walked to the register, paid his bill, and left.

Seven astonished board members were left tearing open official summons that revealed they were being sued for defamation, slander, and libel by Mrs. Willow Minor. They also faced lawsuits for violating state statutes regarding quorum meetings held outside official board meetings, which put them at risk of such violations and potential removal from the Board as ruled.

The restaurant was a beehive of discussion as the hour drew closer to the meeting. Heads watched the group from a distance, turning to whisper some gossipy words that would be around tomorrow all over the village.

The board members arrived at the meeting with flushed faces. They couldn't avoid it. Every teacher and administrator sat there, anxiously, waiting to see who stayed and who was let go due to budget cuts or fired for cause. Some already knew one—she wasn't there. However, right before the official votes, her name was on the agenda for speaking during the open session.

A stir in the back and a wave of whispers raised heads, as Widow Willow Minor came down the center aisle. Conversations hushed, and heads turned. She knew why—rumors had been circling for weeks, whispers of scandal growing louder, culminating in this very room.

She walked confidently, her stiletto heels tapping steadily against the gymnasium's hardwood floor, her posture straight, she made straight for the front. There was no hesitation in her stride and no indication of unease. If they had expected her to shrink under their scrutiny, they were mistaken.

Her rich, deep red dress with clean lines was chosen intentionally. It hugged her figure in a way that left no room for speculation. If anyone had convinced themselves she was hiding a pregnancy, they could see for themselves—there was nothing to conceal. A slit at the hem, reaching her thigh, was high enough to remind them she faced accusations of being a slut.

Willow sat in the front row, next to three distinguished-looking gentlemen, who nodded as she sat down. It was clear that she knew them.

The board president called the meeting to order with a stammer and a stutter. All the board members focused on the front row, especially the woman in red. Some hadn't had the pleasure of meeting her, but they could then sense something about the rumors. She was attractive, and not what some rumors had suggested.

When recognized at the open meeting, Willow walked to the podium and let the silence linger before she spoke. She began calmly and measured, with just a hint of amusement.

"I assume we're here to discuss facts, not fiction—about what's on everyone's minds... contract renewals. First, I'd like to introduce these three distinguished gentlemen," she said, speaking into the microphone.

"Mr. Robert Dewey, Mr. Samuel Cheatum, and the distinguished gentleman with the handlebar mustache is, of course, the notable senior member William Howe, counselors in the law firm Dewey, Cheatum, and Howe. Experts in contracts..."

She met the board members' gazes one by one, allowing the weight of the renowned law firm to sink in for anyone who might doubt where this was headed, shifting like a photo splashed across the evening news.

"Gentlemen, I've been a teacher with six years of highly evaluated service and enjoy teaching as much as I enjoy the orchard business my granddad founded when this village was young. I've learned much more about the village since I was a kid growing up here. I know some of you personally..."

"Mr. Taylor, my vehicles spend nearly as much time in your repair shop as they do on the farm. I value your mechanical skills, and among several shops, I prefer your service the most.

"And, Mr. Waters, I remember your kindness in stopping by to console me so soon after my David's death—and asking for a date the following week. It's been a while..." She smiled as that sank in, and a soft murmur rippled through the audience, accompanied by whispers.

"Mr. Jones, I enjoyed teaching your granddaughter, Kelly. She's smart, and I'm really glad she came to work for me at the orchard stand. She's using those skills I taught her and doing a great job ensuring our bookkeeping is on track.

"Gentlemen, some kids we teach bring special joy to our experiences—especially those who come into our community with nothing. I'd like to propose that we share more with them. I'd like the board to consider increasing funding for the after-school programs, and perhaps, look into providing equipment for those who want to join clubs, but lack the resources. Can I get your commitment to consider this at the next board meeting?

"In closing, since my time is limited, I want to announce that I've taken out a full-page ad in the Village Gazette for this Saturday. It's a special Blake Orchard announcement, and I'm sure some pictures will be included. If you'd like to ask any of these fine lawyers here about contract technicalities, they are available tonight... but I hope you won't need them... they're quite expensive!"

You could have heard a pin drop as that dimpled, innocent-looking widow in a sultry, lust-red dress sat down next to Dewey, handsome Mr. Cheatum, and Mr. Howe. [The trio is often referred to in the business world as 'Do We Cheat 'em... and How!']

It was a circus of heads looking from one to another among the board members, back and forth, as they pursed their lips and finally nodded. It was an eyeblink series of ballots being cast among them; so long had they worked with one another, you would think they could mind-meld.

"Thank you, Mrs. Minor. The board will consider your terms— I mean, your suggestions and comments— and will respond by Friday without a doubt. As for speaking with your lawyers, that's a generous offer, but may not be necessary," Mr. Jones replied between coughs, trying to clear something stuck in his throat as he glanced at the row of lawyers, who nodded with knowing satisfaction, sensing that the smell of money was in the air, ripe for the picking.

Willow had spent several evenings assembling her Blake's full-page ad. She had prepared two versions— one filled with space for some recently documented photos about collusion and a second, featuring a more personal announcement.

As the clock ticked toward Friday, Willow faced a dilemma— post the first option if she lost her job, or the second option if she triumphed over the narrow-minded villagers. In the turmoil of her decision, a letter arrived from the board secretary containing an official notice of continued employment for the coming year, along with a note confirming that the funding she requested would, indeed, be included in the July budget meeting.

She shared the letter with James as they lay across her big brass bed. He smiled. With his face well slathered, he chuckled, "You fucked ''em."

"I sure did, Rabbit," she answered, smiling back.

Saturday's Village Gazette featured a full-page ad filled with ample white space. Centered on the page was an eight-by-ten photo of Willow Minor in a bright red dress, holding hands with James Milford in a navy suit as they smiled. An elegant script appeared below the beaming photo. It read:

You're Invited!

Join us as we celebrate the union of

Ms. Willow Minor & James Milford

in an open-air wedding beneath the summer sky.

???? June 30th

⏰ One o'clock in the afternoon

???? Blake's Orchard

A day of love, laughter, and new beginnings awaits.

Clothing Optional

We hope to see you there!

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Thanks for reading this story, which is loosely based on events that helped shape my life. I would love to hear your thoughts on whether you enjoyed it (or not). If you have a moment, please leave a star rating and a comment. Your valuable feedback motivates me to keep this old guy writing.

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