27-06-2005 by jspencer Rosaleen had worked for us since my mother died. My daddy, who I called T. Ray because "Daddy" never fit him, had pulled her out of the peach orchard, where she'd worked as one of his pickers. She had a big round face and a body that sloped out from her neck like a pup tent, and she was so black that night seemed to seep from her skin. She lived alone in a little house tucked back in the woods, not far from us, and came every day to cook, clean, and be my stand-in mother. Rosaleen had never had a child herself, so for the last ten years I'd been her pet guinea pig. ~ the secret life of bees by sue monk kidd