Truth

This chapter starts with Scarlett's column about her passionate encounter with the gardener she interviewed for the paper. What kind of retributions will her actions cause? Find out!

The Gardener

By Scarlett Wise

28th April 2020

Nerves kept her eyes looking straight ahead. She carefully watched the winding dirt path as her unsteady hands steered up an unfamiliar drive. For only a moment, she glanced down at the ripped piece of notebook paper with an address quickly scribbled upon it. The folded note also read, "meet me in the garden on Monday at day break." Though the letters were written with haste, it wasn't carelessly done. If anything, each curve had a longing behind it that had yet to be spoken. Scarlett hadn't noticed the hidden passion written in the short sentence, but she had admired the man's cursive penmanship. She finally made it up the hill that was surrounded by luscious greenery and stopped at an arch made of trees, vines, and other precious shrubbery. Her foot moved off the gas and gently pressed the brake for fear that her vehicle was too wide to make it through. In truth, she could have easily made it, but she always let her anxieties get the best of her. Scarlett turned and pulled the key from the ignition. Her light eyes looked into the rear-view mirror as she fixed her long wavy brown locks.

"You can do this," those soft lips muttered as she applied a clear coat of chapstick.

She wasn't one to wear a lot of makeup. Instead, she preferred a clean face with a touch of mascara to heighten her natural beauty. With a deep breath, she attempted to place the lid back onto her chapstick, but dropped the tiny white cap between the console and seat. Scarlett cursed and gathered her camera bag as she exited the car, for there was no time to hunt for it. The sun was already upon the horizon with its welcoming rose gold shine. This time of day was her favorite. Dawn was like the quiet stillness before the stormy chaos of the workday. Though it was nearly summer, the crisp morning breeze had forced her to wear a cardigan over her floral sundress.

Slowly, she made her way under the archway. Its beauty was surely shaped by both time and careful hands. Her feet carried her to the other side, and she felt herself in a different world. If she looked back, she could still see the distant lights of the city, but her eyes would rather admire the artistic imprint of man's hand on mother nature. Reluctantly, she grasped a hold of the cotton mask in her bag. It seemed such a strange thing to wear out here, but the unusual times called for it. While studying the path ahead, her long fingers pulled the elastic bands to fit tightly behind her ears. The land was a labyrinth of blossoms. She had never seen such a variety of flowers all in one place. This place was wild and free. Scarlett could happily get lost here in this vibrant maze. The gentle tune of a nearby brook called to her. Its song led her to a man hunched over working in the dirt. She watched him work as if she were in a colorful trance.

His hands were rough and dirty. Yet, he attended to his task with a delicacy she couldn't help but adore. His focus was so diligent, he hadn't heard her footsteps...or so it seemed. An eternity could have passed as her eyes freely marveled at his gentle ways. His curly hair spilled from under his straw hat in flowing waves. She imagined how it'd feel to dip her hands in it and to touch his sun-kissed arms. He wasn't a bulky man, but was nicely toned from the hard labor of manual work.

The longer she stood there, the more fear crept inside of her. An uneasy feeling that she was somehow trespassing filled her belly. If she spoke up now, she could startle him or disturb his work.

"Scarlett, my dear...the wind, the brook, and the wrens all sing for me. Yet, you stay silent. Won't you sing for me too?"

The sudden sound of his voice made her tremble lightly. "Forgive me, I was just admiring your creation," her voice was muffled through the fabric that shielded her nose and lips, "I suppose I could sing for you if you were to reveal a secret to me."

"But does not a secret lose its mystery once it's told?" He asked calmly.

"Perhaps, when it's shared with many, but when it's shared with just a single person…it can be quite special."

"Then what secret shall I entrust to you?" He hadn't yet stopped his work.

"What do you find most beautiful in your garden? I thought we could take the photograph there."

Such a question seemed to spark his interest, for he stood and dusted off his pants. His eyes the color of a crystal sea met her darker pools of blue. Scarlett instantly felt lifted by his kind smile. She offered one in return, but it was hidden behind her mask. The gardener didn't need to see the curving of her sweet lips to know. He saw it in the glistening sparkles within her eyes.

"Is that your camera?" He questioned as he walked closer and nudged her bag.

"Y-yes," she stammered as her hands fumbled through the bag, "It's ready to go...if you are."

"And it's my hands you wish to capture, correct?"

"Yes, I believe there to be a certain artistry to gardening and creating life from a tiny seed."

His gaze never broke from hers. She saw fire in his eyes, and it burned with an intensity that made her heart race, as if she had run to the flame.

"So, where would you like to be photographed?" Scarlett would say anything to break the silence in fear he would hear the rapid beats.

"Do you need both hands to take the photo?"

"N-no, but why do you ask?"

"May I?" His strong hand motioned for the camera.

Scarlett did not hesitate to let him take it, but was surprised by his next movement. Like a sudden change in the tune of a classical piece of music, the mood seemed to shift into a slow tempo. He slowly placed the camera strap around her neck to help hold some of its weight. Those callused fingertips then carefully adjusted her long locks to sit comfortably atop the strap. Her eyes fell closed at the feeling of his fingers combing through her hair. His dominant hand then took her softer left hand into his. An electricity bolted through her arm at the feeling of his touch. Such a sudden jolt forced her eyes to open and look down at their locking hands with a heavy breath.

"But, why?" Those were the only two words she could muster.

"You asked me to pose with the most beautiful thing in the garden…" His voice spoke with the same yearning that was in his eyes.

Scarlett felt the warmth of her cheeks growing at the feeling of his course digits caressing her own. In an instant, she snapped the photograph of their hands entwined. When his hold on her broke, she instantly missed the warmth of his skin. The desire to further explore this man turned into a necessity. Something about him brought her to life. She searched herself for a reason to stay near him, but the words were lost. "Thank you." Her words didn't only disappoint herself.

"Then you are satisfied?"

"Satisfied?"

"With the photograph, I mean."

"Oh…" she paused to consider his question. What more could she ask for? She wondered. At least, she'd forever have an image of this unseen energy that was between them. However, even with this precious memory being trapped on film, she knew the image would not look as bright in black and white. On paper, the pink of his skin would be lost, and the details of dirt embedded in his fingertips would fade.

The moment was ever so fleeting. Her time was like sand in an hourglass. Soon, she would be left empty. If only she had the courage of a butterfly; she could gracefully show the intricate details of her invisible wings and soar to him. The golden hue of the sky began to fade into a deep blue, and she could feel the solemn tune in her bones. If she were in fact a butterfly than he was a wildflower. The gardener could be the beginning of her metamorphous. She would have to spread those unseen wings to drink his sweet nectar, and so she did. Scarlett stepped forward and planted the softest kiss upon the man's unexpecting lips. Even though the thin piece of fiber kept flesh from meeting flesh, she felt something else...a string in her heart being pulled by the weight of passion.

Had he been shaken by the thunderous vibration as she had? All Scarlett could do was search for clues within his alluring blue eyes. If only she could sink into the depth of his mind. It wasn't long until her question was answered.

Those powerful hands cupped her cheeks and pulled away the mask that shielded her rosy lips from him. He carelessly shoved the fabric into his own pocket to remove the burden of having something in his hand that wasn't her. Gravity no longer seemed a concept as she was lifted into his tight embrace. One hand eased down to the small of her back, while the other traced its rough fingertips against her jaw. The unsteady waves of his blue eyes spilt into her own watery pools. The man could easily drown in them. If he needed air to breathe, he knew where to find it. His lips hovered against hers and took in her short quick breaths.

She longed for the gap to close. When their lips finally did collide, it felt like a dream that was finally realized. Her body felt a fever like chill at the sensation of his gentle caress. Their lips did a sort of dance, for they were perfectly in tune with each other's movements. Scarlett's arms held him tightly knowing the departure of his lips would be the greatest loss she had ever felt. She need not fear. He was not yet ready to release her from his spell. When she sang to him in the form of a soft moan, his tongue broke in through her parted lips, deepening their kiss.

The warmth of the sun met his back and forced him to break their kiss. This was the first time he wished to curse the daylight. The distant roar of the city was an alarm one could not power off. He knew she must go.

"Do come back," he whispered with his forehead pressed against hers, "I'd like to see the photograph."

She nodded and took a step back. Before he let her get away, the gardener placed a red bloom behind her ear and bid her farewell with an unspoken promise written within his eyes.

To be continued?

---

Chapter one: Truth

Being an artist is perhaps the hardest profession. You pour your time, experiences, feelings, and deepest thoughts into your work, only to have someone s**t all over it.

"Ms. Wise! Is this truly your submission for today's paper?" The sound of Richard's voice was as unnerving as the screeching sound of aluminum foil. The only positive thing about wearing a mask in the office was that it muffled the sound of his voice.

"Is there something wrong with it?" I questioned as I turned from my computer screen.

"You were asked to do an column on gardening. Not write a romance novel!" My boss came at me like a wild dog. It seemed apparent he thought his job was to bark orders rather than offer any real feedback.

When someone criticizes your performance, you can't help but feel attacked. Sure, they are only simply finding faults in your work, but really it feels like they are finding faults in you. It would be a grand lie to say you don't care what they think. I know this because I lie to myself all the time. The truth is I did care, as much as I didn't want to. Working as a columnist for a local paper in a small city was the only way I could make a living as a writer. At fourteen dollars an hour the living wasn't great, but at least I got to do what I was passionate about. My income felt like a goldmine when compared to all the work I had done without ever receiving any means of support. This included the very expensive college education I saw myself through.

"Is this how you spend your time in the field? As an unprofessional flirt?" His condescending tone didn't instantly hit me; my attention could only focus on the wet stain penetrating through the fabric of his cotton mask. Again, I was thankful for the mask and being shielded from the flying bits of his saliva.

"No," I muttered softly.

I had taken a risk. I can recall sitting down under the moonlight typing away at my desk all that had happened the morning before. I think I felt that writing it down and giving it away would somehow lessen the sting I felt in my heart. Like, my readers could somehow help carry the burden or tame the passion I felt. I remember how invigorating it was to submit my piece seconds before the deadline. Yet, I almost instantly regretted it. My piece was real and kind, but it was possible it didn't belong to the public. Kindness didn't sell in the media. I worried I had somehow transformed a dream into a nightmare. What judgement and justice was I now to face from speaking my heart? My truth was out in the world, known, and no longer mine...but what is worth defending more than truth?

"Sir, I understand this assignment didn't meet your expectations. However, I feel the column could draw people in and maybe even get new readers to the section. The gardening column was getting a bit...repetitive?"

"I don't care how you feel, Ms. Wise. Do your job! I better see an excerpt on new innovative gardening ideas for the whole damn family by tomorrow morning or we will be having another conversation. Understand?"

"Fine…" As he disappeared back into his office, I turned to my computer screen and began to type: "New Innovative Gardening Ideas...for the WHOLE Damn Family." A smile pulled across my lips as I quickly hit the backspace tab. My long fingers then began to type: "How to Hide Your Boss' Body in Your Garden."

My eyes quickly darted to the time and it was already two-thirty. "Crap…" I closed my laptop and started gathering my things. Clearly, it was going to be a long night. 

I hadn't ran in the past few weeks. So, I felt a burning in my legs from my quick jog over to Aster Elementary School. It was easier to walk to the school rather than getting caught in the carpool line. The dismissal bell rang just as I got there, which gave me time to catch my breath and remove my sweater.

When my daughter came out, I saw a smaller version of myself. My heart ached at the thought that she might someday experience the same hardships that I had endured. If I couldn't save the little girl inside me than I would save the better version of her. Rain was the kindest person I had ever met. I saw it in her eyes the day she was born. Strength was her virtue but without flexing a muscle. Rain handled difficulties with a delicacy and gentleness while still remaining fierce. I didn't know where she had mastered such a skill, but I admired it.

The way she ran and hugged me made me feel like I had never faced any trials. She didn't see me for my many flaws. Instead, she only saw her mommy...the woman who sang her to sleep every night, who made up stories to pass the time, who played and laughed with her, who cuddled her, who cooked with her, and who loved her unconditionally. If only I could see myself through her eyes. Instead, I was filled with doubt and fear that I was doing it all wrong. There were days where I wished I had been more patient. Days where I wished I had more time to slow down and take in every moment, but they slipped by and Rain was already in third grade.

"Want to go to the library?" She asked while holding my hand.

"Sure. There's actually a book I might need for tonight."

"What are we doing tonight?"

"Unfortunately, I have work to do. Call it, mommy homework..."

"Aw…I was hoping we could watch a movie." She pouted.

"Maybe tomorrow night, sugar magnolia." Often, I would blurt out pet names for her from random thoughts or songs.

"What kind of work do you have to do? Are you working on your story?"

Unfortunately, I usually kept so busy I didn't have time to work on my original stories. "I wish… It's just leftover work from today. You see, mommy's boss is an a*s..."

"Mom...that's a bad word."

"Oh, yeah… Well, it's just a word."

"Didn't you say that words were powerful?"

"I suppose that does sound like something I would say..." I rolled my eyes and smiled as she rightfully corrected me.

When we arrived at the old library, I watched Rain pick the thickest book she could find and sit at a small round kid's table. Her expression looked so studious for a child pretending to read a book well beyond their comprehension. Meanwhile, I searched for my new area of study...gardening. I had always had an interest and love for plants. However, living in a small apartment in the city didn't really allow me to explore my interest.

"Gardening for Dimwits," I read one title out loud. I weighed my opinion of the title. On one hand, it would be easy to follow in the short amount of time I had, but on the other I could hear Rain coming at me with a sarcasm she had picked up from yours truly. I tucked the book back into its proper place and pulled another. "Gardening for Beginners. That sounds...better." I grasped the book and headed over to one of the tiny chairs. When I sat, I was sure my long folded legs looked ridiculous but I didn't care. "Pathophysiology of Disease…that sounds…"

"Fascinating?" Her earth-toned eyes lit up.

"I was going to say boring, but good word." I chuckled and began to flip through my book.

"I'm hungry...what's for dinner?"

"Want to pick up something from the store?"

"Chips?"

"No, like real food."

"But can we still get chips?"

"Maybe…"

…

When we arrived home, we both struggled to carry in all the grocery bags to avoid making a second trip to the car. I flexed my sore digits after I carelessly slung the bags onto the countertop.

"We're home!" I called out but didn't hear a response. I looked down at my phone and saw it was past six PM. As I unloaded the groceries, I pulled up my social media account and noticed my article was getting a lot of attention. The muscles in my face fought back a smile while I read through the comments. People actually wanted to read more. They wanted me to write in a love scene. My cheeks flushed at the thought of it (and I had thought of it a lot). I had shamefully touched my repressed body to the very idea of it. The memory of his warm gentle caress had clouded my mind. I was caught up in a storm and couldn't find my way back home. A part of me was still trapped there in his secret garden. Too bad my story was dead on arrival...in more than one way. There was no place for me there; even if the man, who I called the gardener, was as tempting as a bright red apple. The story was just a fairytale without the happily ever after.

"Can you make spaghetti for dinner?" Rain's sweet voice broke me from my thoughts.

"Sure," I agreed despite my weird disdain for spaghetti. My distaste for it was because it was a regular meal when money was tight, but at least it was an easy meal for a weekday night. After placing the cool pot of water on the hot stove, I popped my head out of the kitchen door and looked down the hallway. Our office door was closed, but I saw a blue light shining under the door. He was home.

Rain eagerly set the table while I finished up dinner.

"Bring me your plate," I requested as I stirred the sauce and noodles together.

She brought me two.

"Take this one to your dad," my voice either had a subtle hint of sadness or bitterness to it. I wasn't sure which.

The evening always seemed to fly by. There never seemed to be enough time. I couldn't force myself to eat dinner that night. I just wasn't hungry. Instead, I prepared for the long night with a hot cup of coffee. It would keep me awake if my thoughts didn't. Before I could start my work, I put Rain to bed (in my bed). I then cracked the door to the office and slowly slipped inside. After years of dealing with another's addiction, I had learned to step over the twin sized foam mattress as I collected empty cans and brown paper sacks to throw away. His dinner plate was still full, but my husband was snoring loudly on the floor. When I left the room, I gently closed the door behind me. I had considered closing this door forever.

Now, I finally was able to sit at the kitchen table and think in the silence of my own mind. Work was waiting on me, but first I had to take advantage of having a moment to myself. I decided I'd check my social media account once more, and I found myself frozen with wet eyes. Rowan Everly had sent me a friend request to my private personal account. I had never seen his name typed out; for I had left his true name from my article and only referred to him as the gardener. My fingertip slowly traced over the letters as I contemplated adding him. If I did, he would know the truth. I was married with a small child. My unrealized fantasy would truly be over then. It couldn't even live in my mind. As I thought about it, I looked through his page. Who was Rowan Everly? Clearly, he lived an exciting life. He traveled, had an outgoing personality, and was a jack-of-all-trades. I wondered if there was a skill he had mastered or if he had a favorite. I would never know.

With a sigh, I hit accept. He needed to know the truth, and I could never hide the existence of my beloved daughter. I'm not sure how long I stared at the blank word document. How could I even think of monotonous work now? My tired hand reached up and closed my laptop and I forced myself to bed.

"I'll wake up early," my lips spoke the only lie I could manage that night. As I drifted to sleep, I wondered how Rowan Everly had created a space inside me. Even more, I wondered why the thought of the space being left vacant hurt so much.

Fear kept me from checking my phone. So, I didn't notice the message waiting for me come morning.

New message from Rowan Everly: You told my secret, Mrs. Wise.