The Caretaker's Son

by Yvonne Lehman

  He opened the living room windows, bypassed his dad’s office and bedroom, and went into the room that had been his. It felt warm, looked rather bare but clean. He opened the windows, wanting the cool spring breeze, the scent of the creek and the foliage. His dad always said he could smell the plants growing.

  Mudd sniffed around, as if smelling something. Symon did not detect the odor of soap. His dad always washed up at the sink in the storage room before coming up to the living quarters and had taught Symon to do that, too. He remembered his dad touched him, rumpled his hair, clasped his shoulder, even bent to tuck in him in at night when he very young. But that had changed. The bottle had replaced Symon. Miss B tried explaining it to Symon years ago.

  “The hardest thing in the world to do after you lose someone so close is to go on,” she said. “A person has to work at looking to what he still has, instead of what he has lost. Sometimes it takes years, or even a lifetime, to let it go. And sometimes you can’t let it go at all.”

  Symon hadn’t understood that. However, now he knew he’d lived it.

  He felt a little of it now. His dad seemed closer now that he was gone than when they’d been together all the time.

  His dad had said one time, “Put your stories down if you want to, boy, but you’re going to learn how to make a living. I’m teaching you to work with your hands, how to fix things. You think this isn’t much. Well, it’s a living. And a pretty good one.”

  “The house is not ours,” Symon had said.

  His dad had scoffed, “Most people’s houses belong to the bank, they just call it theirs because they signed a paper to pay the bank. You already know more than a lot of landscapers. You can get a job as a landscaper, or a caretaker, or even start your own business. You’ve had years of experience. And you can’t depend on those stories to bring in a dime.”

  Practical, that’s what he was.

  And now, Symon realized he was right.

  He’d helped his dad when needed, mainly at the beginning of spring and in the fall while in high school. In the summer, Symon worked as a swimming coach for children and a lifeguard on Tybee Island. But while in college he didn’t work at landscaping jobs.

  He’d thought of the work on Miss B’s property as just that—work.

  Now, the thought of it brought a sense of pleasure, like getting back to his roots.

  Even though Miss B had written “the cottage is still your home” two years ago when she sent a sympathy card, it really wasn’t.

  It was Miss B’s cottage.

  Four years ago, he’d brought his dad and Miss B his first book, widely acclaimed at the time.

  His dad had said it had a nice cover and asked if he was making any money off it.

  “Not yet,” Symon had said.

  Miss B had grasped it as if it was precious and said she wasn’t at all surprised his first book was published and doing well. She shouldn’t have been. She was the one who had taught him.

  After that, he sent her his books when they came out. She’d always sent a note of thanks. Polite. Saying the cottage was there. He was always welcome. She was proud of him. She’d never written that she appreciated his dedicating his books to her. Maybe she didn’t appreciate books about killers.

  Even if she didn’t, surely she would welcome his taking care of some of the dire needs of the property. It was definitely in need of more than surface work. He’d get the supplies needed for the riding mower and the work on the grounds, stock the refrigerator, put a few things in the cabinets, and ask at the fitness center about opening and closing times and the pool schedule for adult laps.

  Having plans under way, he took in his laptop and set it on the desk in his dad’s office.

  Already his mind was working overtime with story possibilities. He wouldn’t mind doing a little research on Miss Annabelle. What was an attractive young woman her age doing living with Miss B? Why was there no engagement or wedding ring on her finger? What lay behind that pretty face? That was fodder for some kind of story.

  But for now, for some strange reason, he felt more like a landscaper looking forward to breathing the aroma of freshly mowed grass and getting his hands in the dirt than he did typing on a blank screen.

  He’d begin his new project after he got the picture, not that he needed it, of the cherry tree.

  And as much as he knew he’d enjoy it, landscaping was temporary. But he’d begun to long for more than temporary things, especially relationships. He needed to know if Miss B could feel about him now like she did when he was a boy and a young man. She’d said he was her pleasure, her joy. And he’d looked upon her as a perfect kind of mom.

  Chapter 5

  Annabelle called and told Aunt B she’d drive out and visit with her and Clovis for a little while. It was only a twenty-minute drive, but Tybee was like a world away from the trees, spacious lawns and rocking chairs on Aunt B’s front porch. Annabelle liked evening walks along the beach.

  When she drove up, she saw the two women sitting at a table on the balcony. Annabelle drove underneath it and parked. She walked up the steps and through the house then opened the glass doors.

  “Hey,” Clovis said as soon as Annabelle opened the glass doors and her heels clicked across the wooden deck to enjoy Clovis’s hug and Aunt B’s welcome.

  “Oh, you’re so cute,” Clovis said.

  Annabelle glanced down at her silk blouse and conservative skirt just above her knees, typical of what she wore to her job at the modeling studio. “Smell good, too,” Clovis said. “Like fresh shampoo. But you’re still skinny. I have just the thing.”

  She lifted a finger and went inside.

  Annabelle felt her large gold loop earrings brush against her face as she bent her head and reached into her tote for a book. “Here’s the third one. Came in today.”

  “Oh, another in the series by DiAnn Mills.” She stroked the cover. “One of my favorites,” she said.

  Annabelle smiled, knowing her aunt didn’t claim to have a favorite author but tried to teach her students to appreciate a beginning writer with story as well as a seasoned writer with technique, and those who exhibited both. “Clovis and I like to read in the heat of the day and at night.”

  Annabelle pulled out a chair and sat. “I have good news. Somebody’s going to do your yard work.” She spoke with confidence. “And it’s not going to cost a cent.”

  Aunt B’s eyebrows rose. “No cost?”

  Annabelle held up a hand. “I know, Aunt B. Nothing is free. The worker does get to stay in the caretaker’s cottage.”

  Her aunt’s breath was audible.

  “Is that all right? He just wants to stay in the cottage for...I think he said a short while.” Now she wondered if she’d done the wrong thing.

  “Well.” Aunt B didn’t seem pleased. “As long as he takes care of it.”

  Annabelle nodded. “I told him that.” She grimaced. “He does have a dog,” she said and quickly added, “But it seems well-mannered.”

  “What about SweetiePie?”

  She fluffed that off with a toss of her hand. “The dog’s name is Mudd and it gets around about as fast as one plowing through a mud puddle. No problem about SweetiePie.”

  They shared a laugh. Then Aunt B turned thoughtful. “How is he going to fare without wages?”

  Annabelle shrugged. “I didn’t ask. I mean, he seems self-sufficient. Drives a sports car. Said he’d like to rent the cottage. He’s your former caretaker’s son.”

  “What?” Aunt B raised her hand to her chest as if she had a thundering heart. She breathed, “He’s back. He came back. Oh.” Her breath was labored. “How is he? What’s he like? How does he look?” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Annabelle thought she was going to come out of her chair, or her skin. “I mean, I haven’t seen him in years.”r />
  Was Aunt B glad, or not? She muttered, “Grown-up...nice I guess.... Why? I mean...” She leaned over the table. “Did I do wrong?”

  Her aunt was grasping the book as if it would fly away. She loosened her grip and laid the book on the table. “I—I... Just tell me what he said.”

  Her aunt was never this discombobulated. “He said he came to see the cherry tree.”

  “Oh, my.” Aunt B pressed her hand against her ribs. “Oh, don’t make me laugh.”

  Annabelle was glad to hear the sliding of the glass door. She rose to help Clovis but kept a watchful eye on Aunt B. This was a side of her aunt she was not accustomed to.

  As if nothing were amiss, the three of them settled at the table with tea and cookies. Annabelle filled Clovis in on the conversation about the caretaker. After a sip of tea, Annabelle’s face turned thoughtful. “Come to think of it, he seemed upset about the tree being cut down.”

  Aunt B chuckled. “So he came to see the cherry tree.”

  Annabelle nodded, her eyes questioning. “He wanted to know if I had a picture of the tree.” She spread her hands. “I said I’d ask you.”

  Aunt B took a long drink of the tea and set the glass down. “You could probably find many pictures of the tree in my albums.”

  “Is it all right to let him— Come to think of it, isn’t that a strange request?”

  Aunt B said, “Rather mild, considering...”

  Annabelle speculated. “Maybe it has some kind of sentimental value. I mean, maybe his dad planted it or something.” She shrugged.

  Aunt B smiled and looked at her tea but didn’t respond to that. Then she looked across again. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He did ask about you. But didn’t talk about himself. I didn’t think I should pry.”

  Aunt B smiled. “Tell him I’m delighted he’s here and he’s welcome to stay in the cottage as long as he likes. And he doesn’t have to do the yard work to stay there.” She looked happy about the whole thing. “If he wants to see me right away he’s welcome to come out here. But I’ll be back in a few days.”

  Annabelle nodded. “What if he doesn’t plan to stay that long?”

  “He will. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come and asked to rent the cottage.”

  Clovis smiled faintly, then looked at her tea. Annabelle was trying to absorb the situation when Aunt B changed the subject. “No dinner with Wesley tonight?”

  Annabelle sighed heavily. “He’s working late again on that big murder trial. They’re not even breaking for dinner tonight. Having something brought in. But—” Her hands lifted as if in praise. “I’ll see him Friday night. Then over the weekend.” She sneered playfully. “Looks like I don’t need an excuse not to work on that book project for Celeste.”

  “Oh, and another thing, Annabelle, about Symon,” Aunt B said, returning to that subject again. “Don’t make him feel like a worker. He’s my...guest.”

  Chapter 6

  The sound jerked her upright in bed as if someone had tied a string around her and pulled her to a sitting position. SweetiePie yowled and jumped out from under the covers. The saliva caught in Annabelle’s throat and gave her a coughing fit. That was not the bird calls, chirping and singing she usually awakened to at dawn. A whirring roar stabbed her consciousness like a helicopter landing on the grounds.

  She had no morning prayer of thanks for the birds or cool morning air stirring the lace curtains. Tossing back the comforter and sheet, she swung her legs around to the side of the bed and stepped onto the carpeted floor. Wide awake from the sudden shock, she scooped up SweetiePie, went to the window and peered out at the riding lawn mower rolling along the edge of the brick patio.

  Awake then, she realized the sound wasn’t so loud after all, just different and unexpected to her sleep-induced state of mind.

  Atop the mower sat that raven-haired man in a T-shirt and jeans, now headed for the edge of the lawn. Steering the mower didn’t take a lot of effort, but she was aware of his wide shoulders and muscular physique. But she’d known that yesterday. He’d started working early, she’d give him that. He made his turn and began the second row across the yard.

  When he reached the spot below her window, one hand lifted in a wave. But he didn’t look up. Maybe he’d glimpsed her as he’d proceeded her way. She stepped back as if he was looking at her in the cami and short pajamas. She chuckled at that. She was as covered now as she had been when they’d talked yesterday, especially since she was now holding long-white-furred SweetiePie close.

  Miss Independence jumped to the floor. She’d be ready for her breakfast since she couldn’t jump to the windowsill and fantasize about the birds in the trees.

  While dressing for the morning, Annabelle reprimanded herself for thinking he didn’t look like a caretaker’s son. What did she think he should look like? Ugly? Scrawny? She needed to work on her perceptions. In fact, she was beginning to remember having glimpsed him in her younger years. Seems he’d been on a high school swimming team—before she started high school, so it hadn’t mattered. Not that it would have, anyway.

  She remembered seeing him sitting by the creek when she’d wandered down that far. She’d watched for a while, wondering why he sat so still and what he had to think about.

  During breakfast of cereal with banana slices, she thought about Aunt B’s future, and her own for that matter. Each of them had changes taking place. Aunt B was retiring from teaching and Annabelle was considering going into teaching. Aunt B’s lifestyle would change now that she had retired. Annabelle had options to consider about her own future. And a lot depended on when Wesley might make junior partner.

  Right now, however, she needed to find a picture. After rinsing out her bowl and putting it into the dishwasher, she got the photo albums from the bookshelf in Aunt B’s bedroom and took them to the kitchen table. Over a second cup of coffee, she looked through them.

  There was one of a cute little boy with dark unruly hair stretching out his arm to hold on to the trunk of the small tree and looking like he owned the world with that little chin raised and eyes staring. Maybe five or six years old? Was that Symon? She remembered him as a young boy, but not that young.

  There were a few of the tree at different sizes in the background of photos of family members and Aunt B’s friends. In one, the tree was bare. Why had Aunt B, or someone, taken a picture of the bare tree? “Oh.” She stopped turning pages. There was one of the full-grown tree, with its deep pink blossoms. Perhaps Aunt B had taken them because of the contrast.

  Annabelle slipped the blossoming tree from its plastic pocket, put it in a freezer bag and laid it on the table. She could hear the mower in the front yard. That eventually stopped.

  A short while later, she opened the wooden door and saw Symon pulling up weeds in the grossly neglected flower bed in front of the banister.

  Making sure SweetiePie wasn’t with her, she opened the screen and walked out onto the porch. “SweetiePie’s inside,” she said.

  Mudd was already on his way toward the cottage.

  Symon said, “Come,” and the dog stopped, obviously uncertain whether to come or go.

  “He’s not sure he can trust you,” she said.

  “It’s the cat he doesn’t trust. Or...you.”

  “Me? I wouldn’t a hurt a flea.”

  “Maybe that’s his reasoning. He’d prefer you hurt those fleas.”

  She scrunched her nose. “He has fleas?”

  “No New York fleas. I’ll need to find a vet to see if he has any Savannah ones.”

  She started to laugh but thought he was probably serious. “I can recommend SweetiePie’s vet.”

  He glanced up. She wasn’t sure if that look meant he wasn’t about to take Mudd to SweetiePie’s vet, or if he already knew about vets. “Unless you know where to take h
im.”

  “I’m sure the feline’s vet will do.” He kept working.

  “You don’t have to work yourself to death, you know.”

  His hand lifted. “Not at all. There’s something soothing about the smell of freshly mown grass, and dirt, don’t you think?”

  She considered that. “I haven’t had much experience with dirt. But compared to exhaust fumes, not to mention river smells, tour buses, guests who are warm from what they call our humid weather, yes, I reckon there is. There’s something peaceful about being out here at Aunt B’s.”

  “You don’t live here?”

  “I live in the center of a square, you might say. With a couple friends. I’m using the excuse of house-sitting while Aunt B is away. I could just come and go. I do that often anyway since she had a room in the basement transformed into an exercise room.”

  “The one that used to have mirror and bar where you practiced your ballet?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Caretaking isn’t just landscaping. Part of my dad’s job was to arrange for repairs to be done, install things and be around in case of any infringement on security measures. My dad insisted I learn every aspect of the business.”

  “I see,” she said, although she hadn’t thought of their work as being a business. But of course it was. She and her friends had a list of who to call for what. And there was always something.

  Should she say he was welcome to use the exercise room?

  No, better not. After all, she was staying there alone. “I have a few things to think about and this is a good place for it.”

  “I agree,” he said. “That’s one reason I’ve come back.”

  He glanced up, reached over for a bottle of water, downed it, then stood. His hand moved to the neck of his sweat-soaked T-shirt and he made a fanning motion. “I’d forgotten how humid it gets here.” A golden gleam appeared in his dark eyes and she knew it wasn’t because of her. She was in as bad shape as he, wearing what she wore yesterday and probably smelling of sweat, too. He glanced at the photo. “Is that what I think it is?”