Wyatt wasn't sure if it was considered waking up early if he'd never fallen asleep in the first place. Regardless, it was six-thirty in the morning when he rolled off of his pallet mattress and sat with his legs hanging over the edge
Everything echoed in the greenhouse. From lizards scurrying through the tomato leaves to the dragonflies bumping into the glass outside, it all seemed to make some sort of noise that was louder than usual.
As Wyatt changed out of his dusty clothes, he had to stand on his mattress so that he'd be hidden by the utility closet. He smoothed down his sweater vest and made sure the collar from the shirt beneath was tucked just right before stepping into the greenhouse.
It was different, more inviting, in the daylight. It was the most beautiful tomato garden that Wyatt had ever seen.
Bright ripe tomatoes hung from every vine, neat and tidy as if they each had an assigned spot that they were allowed to grow.
Wyatt wandered from row to row, having gotten used to the tangy scent of the air.
Blue morning light filtered through the glass, already warming up the greenhouse.
Once he got to the end of the last row, there was a tangle of weeds in the corner, which was strikingly out of place in the otherwise pristine greenhouse.
Wyatt drew closer and squatted down, sorting through the mass of vines and half-decomposed leaves to uncover a bed of thorny bushes.
Roses.
He used his fingernail to scratch off the surface of one of the rose stalks and saw that it was still green.
He could work with that.
In a time that seemed decades ago instead of just a few years past, Wyatt's mother had spent two thousand dollars to start up a rose garden. She had plans to cultivate new and rare breeds of roses and enter them into the local flower competitions, where she'd donate the proceeds to the various charities she supported. Within two weeks, however, the garden had gone right to seed without a second glance it's way. Wyatt, who'd take frequent walks through the hedges, topiaries, and flowers, eventually got sick of the eyesore that was the neglected rose bush. So he went to Brambleby's library, studied books on roses, and fixed it up himself. It was one of the few hobbies he adopted outside of tennis and his usual school work, and the only one he truly found peace in doing.
He nodded to himself, thinking, I'll need supplies first.
A vehicle rattled outside and Wyatt looked up to see someone pulling into the driveway.
A man hopped out of a beat-up truck. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a strong but aging build, and a red flannel shirt.
Hal was also in the front yard, scattering chicken feed across the grass.
Curious, Wyatt moved towards the door of the greenhouse to watch them.
"Morning, Hal," the stranger greeted.
Hal looked up and Wyatt couldn't tell if he was happy to see the newcomer or not with the way his young-but-old face sagged. "What brings you here, Oscar?"
"I heard you've got a new charge under your wing," the man replied good-naturedly.
They were, of course, talking about Wyatt. Wyatt did not know if he appreciated this.
He opened the door of the greenhouse and both men looked his way.
Hal was oddly expressionless, but the other man lifted a hand. "Good morning!"
"Good morning, sir. Wyatt Best," Wyatt replied, closing the gap between them and shaking the man's hand.
He'd been raised to be polite and confident during a first meeting, which had not come easily to a rambunctious toddler. But by the time he was eight, Wyatt had mastered the craft of business meetings, which did nothing other than making him attend more business meetings.
Oscar sized him up for a moment, though Wyatt felt no challenge in his gaze. In fact, there was a somber air to his search, as if Oscar was checking on him out of concern rather than competition.
"I believe you met my daughter Marigold," the man said. "I'm Oscar Penny."
"Nice to meet you. I was grateful for her help last night. I might've been wandering until morning if she hadn't come to the rescue."
Oscar laughed, and it sounded free and open, even though Hal was looking more and more perplexed by his visit, staying unusually quiet.
"So what can we do for you, Oscar?" Hal asked again.
Oscar replied, "I was just wondering if Wyatt would be interested in a little work this summer."
Wyatt's ears perked up at this. He didn't know much about work, but he did know that money was the result of it. And money was something he didn't have.
Hal opened his mouth to reply for him, but Wyatt asked quickly, "What kind of work?"
"Summertime is when I harvest my cotton," Oscar explained. "In the meantime, I have some projects around the house that need to be tended to. I'll give you ten dollars a week, what do you say?"
Wyatt had to recalibrate his brain for a second. He was used to discussing monetary figures in the hundreds and thousands. He had to remind himself that he was just a seventeen-year-old boy without a penny to his name and was no longer a Californian Best.
"Sounds swell," Wyatt said, shaking Oscar's hand again.
"Er, might I interject there?" Hal offered. "I had some tasks for the boy to do as well."
Wyatt didn't like how Hal referred to him as "the boy" when he was standing right there.
"I'll make sure to help with whatever you need whenever I have time," Wyatt said, giving a convincing smile.
He couldn't lose this opportunity and he had a feeling that Hal had no intention of paying him for his work as Oscar did.
A frown only flickered at the edges of Hal's mouth for half a second before he shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, I reckon that's alright."
Wyatt grinned and returned his attention to Oscar. "Thank you, Mr. Penny."
Oscar nodded. "You're a smart young man, I can tell. I'll see you tomorrow at five-thirty."
Wyatt's smile froze on his face. "Er..in the morning., sir?"
Oscar gave another carefree laugh that seemed to ring across the yard. "Morning is for the roosters and the farmers, son. You just have to decide which one you'll become."
Oscar turned to Hal and shook his hand, but Wyatt detected a reserve about his smile now.
When Oscar turned to leave, Hal regarded Wyatt with squinted eyes.
"I want you home at a reasonable hour every day," Hal said, still keeping his friendly but strained tone.
There was something about the way Hal said "home" that gave Wyatt a tiny prick. Last night, he'd thought of Hal's house as just that--a house. A sleeping establishment. Four walls and a roof, built to keep out mosquitos and coyotes and, apparently, ghosts.
This was not Wyatt's home. He wasn't sure if he'd ever had a home at all, but this was definitely not it.
Pushing all of this aside, Wyatt nodded. "Of course, sir."
"Right then. Now help me till this ground out here. The chickens have been digging it all up to nothing, the sorry rascals..."
Hal Best had secrets. In fact, his secrets had secrets that didn't let the other secrets know about themselves. In another fact, Hal had forgotten some of his most important secrets in all the traffic.
But even as all the years passed by, he never forgot his deepest ones.
Hal watched as Wyatt struggled to use the hoe, plunging it too far ahead or not far enough to rake the ground properly. The interesting thing, however, was how Wyatt never made the same mistake twice. He was smart.
He reminded Hal so much of his own boy in more ways than one. The quiet confidence. The watchful eye.
It made him hate Wyatt even more than he already did.
~~~~~~~~
Hal Best did not hate as other people hated. Hal Best was made of the stuff like clay is made of earth. The two materials were so similar that they were essentially the same thing.
Hate had simmered in his veins since he was born, it seemed, and he did not express it by punching walls or shouting at people. He did not express it at all. He only watched. He was quiet.
Much like Wyatt.
Hal wondered how much secret hate simmered inside the boy, just waiting to be released.
The start of Hal's hate began at his father and ended, in one way or another, at himself. Whenever he looked at Wyatt, Hal was reminded of his father, time and again. And whenever Hal was reminded of his father's eyes, he was also reminded of his son's. And Hal tried not to think of either of them.
It had been almost four hours now and the sun was hotter than the backside of the devil. Wyatt had taken his shirt off, sweater vest included, long ago.
He was strong. That was good.
Wyatt was getting sunburnt, even though his skin was already tan from the California sun. Hal could only assume that the sun was different in Georgia. California warmed her people to make them look nice. Georgia scorched hers because she needed to remind them who was in charge.
But the boy would do, Hal thought, pleased.
He'd do just fine.
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Heyyyy guys! My brain is pretty much broken after editing another story all week, so I hope this chapter was neat and tidy! =P
~ Will Wyatt survive working at the Penny's?
~General thoughts?
Thank you so much for reading! {Don't forget to comment, vote, and share!}