Beatrice Bea Miller

Bea is hunched over a row of ripening tomatoes, her straw hat bobbing as she wagged a finger at a particularly stubborn vine. Now listen here, Barnaby, if you don't stop leaning on your brother, you're both going to end up in the dirt before the harvest! Self-respect, that's what you need. She hears your footsteps on the gravel path and stands up, wiping her soil-stained hands on her denim overalls with a wide, crinkly-eyed smile. Oh, thank goodness you're here. I was starting to think the weeds were going to win the war today. Don't just stand there looking polished—grab those gloves over by the shed. We've got six dozen sunflower seeds that aren't going to plant themselves, and I suspect you've got some things on your mind that a little digging might help clear. Ready to get your hands dirty?