Chapter 6: What A Farmer Believes

Mark tries to form some common ground between the older generation by attempting to get along with Paul.

It's no secret that Paul was anything but thrilled to be thrust into his current situation. All those decades of working hard and taking extra steps to avoid having to rub elbows with the wealthy, more corporate side of America had effectively gone down the drain. And he was now forced to live amongst the type of people he hated the most for who knows how long. Prior to its destruction, his farm would sell produce, dairy, bread, eggs and meat, and would even produce its own beer. Over the course of said decades, he had made sure to only keep his family-owned farming business local, rejecting every single offer he received to expand it further, not caring if it meant more notoriety, income, or overblown hoopla. Their local business turned enough profits to pay the bills for the farm, afford education for their four children, and put food on the table, as well as a fair amount of spending money left over. Anything was better than mass-producing his crops, using pesticides to rid them of their organicity, and making deals with the filthy-rich city folks that plagued the country.

And that's what bothered Paul the most about these circumstances, as opposed to his daughter's actions. He knew she could take care of herself just fine, given how he and his wife had raised her, but he was far more concerned about the family she'd married into. Were they really as pure and morally rich as they let on, or did they have ulterior motives that had yet to be revealed?

At the moment, he busied himself relaxing in the living room at Simmons Manor Sr., which was an empty void compared to the other mansion, where all the commotion was currently taking place. He sat there with a perpetual frown on his face, adjusting his hexagonal glasses and gazing intently at the wide assortment of pictures on the wall, all involving Mark and Katrina; it was a combination of wedding, honeymoon, and anniversary photos, the latter of which were taken every five years. The next milestone was still over two years away, and there seemed to be enough room left for even more of these photos.

Speaking of whom, they could soon be heard ascending the stairs from the basement and entering the room. Much to Paul's displeasure, his dogs Cletus and Clovis had also accompanied them downstairs, having warmed up to the entirety of the Simmons family mere minutes after arrival. Had they been taken in and trained by himself and not by his twin daughters, they probably would not have behaved that way. Those two were friendly and trusting to a fault, in Paul's eyes.

A shirtless Mark was the first to arrive, his hands adorned with boxing gloves and a tank top slung over his shoulder. Practically built like an Olympian statue as his skin gleamed with sweat. So what if he was approaching sixty, finding a new wrinkle each month and with gray hairs popping up all over? Nothing could stop him from feeling as comfortable as possible in his own skin while he worked the treadmill and/or speed-bag. Katrina was quick to follow, not nearly as toned, but still in good shape nonetheless. She had her deceptively long hair wavy and worn down, and wore vibrant, skintight workout clothing from the 1970s, an era that somewhat predated her. It was possibly the most modest outfit she even owned. She proceeded to stretch as she made a beeline for the kitchen to grab a wintry glass of water.

"Afternoon, old sport." Mark flashed a grin at his fellow patriarch, who merely returned it with a deeper scowl. "I trust you've grown accustomed to living here?"

A flustered scream traveled up Paul's throat in an escape attempt, but he didn't let it slip out.

"Just cut the damn sweet-talk and just tell me what your endgame is!" he growled.

"Endgame?" Mark continued, plopping onto an adjacent chair, a strawberry-banana protein shake in hand.

"Uh, yeah. Everyone knows all rich people have a motivation behind everything they do, specifically a fiscal one," Paul elaborated. "And whatever your motivation is, it'd better not involve my daughter."

"Nonsense, Paul. The only reason why Rosemary ever entered my son's life is because of a witness protection. Surely she told you about that," Mark explained.

"Oh yeah, she did." Paul tapped his chin in thought.

"Yes, well they fell in love during that time and because Katrina and I loved your daughter's company so much, we gave them our blessing," Mark finished.

"So you're sure you didn't let her into the fold just to bolster your reputation?" Paul asked further. "After all, there ain't nothin' like havin' a hard-worker or two to make a family look better."

"Where on earth are you getting these silly ideas from? We're all hard workers, here." Mark took one last gulp of his shake. "We cook our own meals, we tend our own yards, and we clean up after ourselves. My parents weren't the biggest practitioners of self-reliance, but I was the opposite, and I made damn sure to ingrain that mentality into my own children. Aside from that limo driver, we have no personal staff, and hell, my son and I both served the country during last year's World War."

Paul followed his pointed finger to two sleek, shiny picture frames hanging above the fireplace, each one adorned with a golden nameplate and containing a set of multicolored military ribbons and well-polished medals. It did help ease his worries a bit, knowing that the family his daughter had married into wasn't as duplicitous as he'd suspected, and weren't anywhere near as conceited or lazy as he assumed. But it would still take a lot more effort on the Simmons' part to completely win over Paul's trust, especially considering the vast amount of things they didn't have in common. At least it was a decent start, though, he had to admit.

For the next hour or so, the two engaged in a slightly less standoffish discussion. Paul gave Mark a good lecture about his normal life, specifically regarding the way his farm operated and the way he and Lorraine chose to raise their children, which was shockingly similar to how Mark and Katrina had raised theirs. Conversely, Mark droned on about how his wealth sometimes made him feel like an outcast, in spite of the many benefits it came with, and expressed his support for a wealth tax. Apparently, he'd found out that only one percent of his income was enough to aid all homeless veterans in America, and that fact had scared him. He explained how growing up, his late parents would try to persuade him to relax and let the house staff pamper him instead of being self-reliant. Before he even reached adulthood, he already had plans to just donate all his excess money and live a normal, middle-class existence; the only reason why he didn't go through with this was because of his parents' abrupt passing, and he figured that continuing their legacy was what they would have wanted.

Having caught her breath and cooled off a fair amount, Katrina stepped out of the kitchen as she overheard the ongoing discussion involving her husband. She couldn't help but feel a gentle smile forming on her aging features, pleased to see the conversation neither going sour nor becoming heated for once. Too pleased to resist, she took out her phone and started texting her children, discretely snapping a photo of the exchange to use as evidence of the somewhat pleasant interaction. In the midst of this, she even decided to shoot Rosemary a text as well, hoping it would lift her spirits at least a little bit.