Winifred Tatterton was as rich and spoiled as she was beautiful, and all at the age of eleven. She was neither a Winnie, nor a Freddie; she was a Wendy. Her parents owned

a successful chain of hotels, the sort of hotels that no one could afford save for the very wealthiest.

The caretaker had a son, by name of Peter Rhodes, who was as opposite Wendy as you could get; a spirited, bright boy who followed his father around the grounds of the

main hotel and was quite learned in the way of mechanics. His blonde hair stuck up in all directions in an unruly manner that quite offended Wendy whenever he was near.

Peter was not entirely sure as to why his hair of all things should upset her so, and he did try to tidy it when he knew she was approaching, but little success was the result

and he felt sure he would never please her when it came to the matter of his hair.

Wendy was in the garden one day, sitting on a white bench beside the pond. Whipstaff (the name of the main hotel, located in Virginia) loomed behind her; a perversely

huge building whose history was unknown to Wendy. Her cousin in England was to inherit the hotels; Wendy could have cared less. She did not want the responsibility of

running the largest hotel chain in America.

The late March sun was warm and she removed her thin sweater, placing it primly beside her. She wore a sleeveless white dress and her thick, inky curls had been pulled

into a plait that trailed down her back. Wendy bent forward a little, examining the pond. Her father had just bought some expensive fish and put them in the dark water, but

Wendy had not yet seen them. She spied a little ripple and nothing more.

"It's too dark to see them," came a voice from behind her. Wendy nearly fell off the bench in her surprise and she turned to face the person who had intruded upon her. Peter

stood there, offering a little lopsided grin.

"So I have found," Wendy replied thinly, eyes narrowing at his wheat coloured tresses.

"Suppose you have," Peter answered, either not noticing her displeasure at his being there, or choosing to ignore it. Peter was eleven too, though her elder by a few months;

he now took a step closer to her. "But there's a larger pond over there. It's not made of the same stuff this one is; it's lighter, so you can see everything in it. Cleaner, too."

“Thanks for that,” Wendy said coolly, turning away from him. Peter frowned slightly. He was silent for a moment.

“You’re not very nice,” he muttered at last.

“An astute observation,” Wendy snapped, whirling to face him again. Peter’s eyes widened a bit, and Wendy noted with irritation they were an exquisite crystal blue.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded after a brief silence, even more annoyed to discover she quite enjoyed the way Peter’s eyes sparkled in the spring sunlight.

“I came to check on the filters,” Peter retorted; Wendy was astounded to hear a note of edginess in his voice. She opened her mouth to reply, but no reply came. Instead,

she watched as Peter cautiously approached her, his lovely eyes holding her own; she found herself unable to break away from his gaze. It was not until Peter knelt beside

her that Wendy came back to herself. She thought of sliding along the bench away from him, but did not. They were only eleven; children playing in the garden. Yet Wendy

understood that play had ceased and that some else was happening here. Peter’s unmanageable locks did not bother her at the moment. She was a very tidy girl, but, for

once, the issue of Peter’s hair was lost upon her. She stared at him in a sort of fascination. He was everything she was not. Her dark eyes searched his; she wondered what

it was that made him so different from her, so wild and friendly. She came from her stuffy, orderly little world, and he from his poor and … well, unorderly world. Nevertheless,

here they were, two worlds meeting and regarding one another carefully. He was close enough now for her to see that he had a light scatter of freckles running over his nose.

Wendy bit her lip, hesitating, and raised her hand to touch Peter’s blonde mane. Peter smiled up at her, encouraging. She surprised herself by returning Peter’s contagious

smile and Peter, without the slightest indication of what he was going to do, simply leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. She gasped a little; his lips were warm from

the sun, as was his hair (which was delightful to touch), and found herself unsure of what to do next. She had never been kissed before and this … this was nice. Peter

appeared embarrassed by what he had done; he did not raise his stunning eyes to meet her own. Wendy, her smile reappearing, moved over on the bench, to make room for

him. Peter grinned and sat beside her. Her gaze told him that he did not have to apologize for the kiss; he took her hand in his and they sat in silence, thinking their own

thoughts (which were mostly about the other), connected by their intertwined fingers. When at last dusk began to fall, Peter pulled Wendy to her feet and walked with her up

the dusty road to Whipstaff.