5. Wyatt
5
Wyatt
T he metal gate to the Fruit Street Community Garden closes behind me with a creak, and I exhale a sigh of relief. Work has kept me from visiting for a few days, and I hate leaving my garden unattended for so long. Instead, I’ve spent my time running from one job site to the next, trying to make sure everything is going smoothly, meaning I haven’t had my hands in the dirt for days. I miss it.
My cart bumps along behind me as I walk the gravel path that separates the individual garden patches. It’s a little red wagon you’d picture a kid with in the 50s, carrying my seedlings, gardening tools, and the most essential thing of all—my cooler. After another long day in the relentless New York heat, the only way I can stand to be out here this evening is the promise of a cold drink.
It’s not like I want to be at home, anyway. Poppy will no doubt be there, and that is proving to be a problem. She’s as gorgeous as I remember, despite my efforts not to notice, but you’d have to be dead not to notice those scarlet lips, the way her fiery red hair frames her heart-shaped face. And don’t get me started on the loose, flowy, sage-green dress she wore when she moved in yesterday. It was perfectly modest, covering her arms to the elbows and stopping just above her knees, but that didn’t stop my eyes from straying to her shapely calves, following the delicate line of her wrist. She has a small tattoo of a lotus flower in black outline there that caught my eye, even though I know I shouldn’t look. Believe me, it won’t happen again.
Since last night, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid her. Bailey came over for the evening, and after an awkward hour of trying to juggle being both polite to Poppy and not making eye contact, I excused myself upstairs and left the girls to it. Besides, Bailey and I had already done our movie night a couple days ago, so I figured she could use the time with her friend. I promised her I’d fly out to San Francisco to spend more time with her as soon as she gets settled.
I might need to, if Poppy is still around.
A slight breeze stirs me from my thoughts. My garden plot is to the right, and I’m pleased to see the plants looking healthy and happy as I kneel to inspect them. There’s an assortment of vegetables because I like to grow as much of my food as possible, supplementing my diet with fresh produce from one of the local farmer’s markets. Though I don’t cook nearly as much as I’d like in the summer, given how busy I am with work.
I pick a couple of bell peppers, placing them in the empty basket waiting in my wagon. My rhubarb is finally ready, so I harvest that too. There’s a lot more than I realized, and I’ll have to figure out how to use it.
Grabbing a tray of seedlings from my wagon, I set about planting them into the garden bed. A sigh of satisfaction escapes me as my fingers dig into the soil, and I’m transported back to my childhood on Long Island. My mom got me gardening at a young age, probably to distract me from the absence of my father. We spent many summer afternoons transforming our bland backyard into a suburban jungle, complete with towering sunflowers and rows of fresh vegetables, and in the process, it transformed me.
I’ve run my own landscaping company for over a decade. We’re highly sought after, and several of my designs have won awards. Each summer we take on more projects and I hire more people. I never expected we’d reach the heights of success that we have, and it’s a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it means I have the money to do whatever I want, like paying for Bailey’s college tuition when her mom couldn’t, but on the other, the more success we garner, the more time I spend managing people and projects, and the more it feels as though I’m straying from what I originally set out to do: spend my days with my hands in the soil.
I dig a few shallow holes, then carefully lower my seedlings into place, patting the soil gently around them before watering each one. The weather has been incredibly hot lately, and I hope they can withstand the heat out here.
The gate to the garden creaks open behind me, and I turn to see Marty shuffle along the path, his wicker basket on one arm. At ninety-two, he’s surprisingly spry, popping in to tend to his own veggie patch most days. Marty has lived in the neighborhood since the 60s, and was instrumental in getting the Fruit Street Community Garden started. He’s somewhat of a legend among the plot-holders here, and the person I enjoy chatting to the most.
“Hey, Marty,” I call, rising to my feet and brushing the dirt off my hands. Every time I say his name, I’m reminded of Marty McFly from Back to the Future , and while this Marty may not be as young or mischievous as Marty McFly, he has the same energy. Today, though, he’s not walking with the usual spring in his step.
“Evening, Wyatt.” His wispy white hair lifts in the breeze, and he pauses in front of my vegetable patch. “Those leeks are looking good.” He produces a paper bag from his basket. “More lemons?”
“Thanks.” Marty has a huge lemon tree in his yard and frequently brings me some. “These make great lemonade.” I go to pull a glass bottle of the homemade drink from my cooler to hand him one, but pause at the way he hobbles past me. “Is everything okay?”
“Ah, it’s my hip. Been giving me trouble lately.” His brows tug together as he surveys his patch. “I was hoping to check on my radishes,” he murmurs, lifting a shaky, gnarled hand to gesture to the plants.
“Why don’t I do it?” I motion to a wooden bench behind him. “Take a seat.”
He nods gratefully. “Thank you. Things aren’t as easy as they used to be.”
I uncork the lemonade, passing it to him. He thanks me with a nod, then takes a sip, releasing a long “ahhh” as I kneel in the dirt to check his radishes. The leaves are over four inches tall, which means it’s time to harvest.
“These are ready,” I say. He nods his agreement, and I tug a few from the soil. They’re the perfect shade of magenta, promising the ideal peppery, spicy taste. I hold them up to show Marty, but he’s gazing wistfully at the lemonade in his hand.
“I wish Joyce could taste this,” he murmurs, deep creases beside his sad eyes. “She always loved your lemonade.”
“She did.” I busy myself dusting the dirt from the radishes, allowing him a moment to reminisce. His wife of seventy years died last fall, and for a while he didn’t show his face much in the garden. He hasn’t been the same since returning, and my heart aches for him. What must it be like to lose the person you spent your entire life with?
Hell, what must it be like to spend your life with one woman?
Given I rarely date, I can’t begin to imagine. Bailey was the product of a three-night-stand with her mom one summer when I was nineteen, and I spent most of my twenties doing what twenty-something guys do; juggling work and casual relationships. Of course, had I known I had a daughter, my life would have looked very different, but her mother didn’t give me that opportunity. It wasn’t until I met my sweet Bailey when I was thirty-two that my life changed. She became my world, and between work and spending my time catching up on fatherhood, dating took a backseat. I became acutely aware that whoever I brought into my life, I was also bringing into Bailey’s, and given I’d missed so much, I wasn’t prepared to do anything that might fuck up what time we had left.
It was only last night, as I hugged my daughter goodbye, that I realized Bailey doesn’t need me as much anymore. She hasn’t needed me for a while now, and her moving away has forced me to face that.
I glance at Marty again, thinking about what he’s lost. What must it be like to have someone to come home to, share a meal with, talk with about your day? It’s something I rarely let myself think about, but sometimes after a long, exhausting day at work, it’s hard to deny the loneliness I feel at returning home to an empty bed. It’s probably why, if I’m honest with myself, I spend so much time here in the garden.
Well, that and my love for growing my own food. I guess I could grow it in my own yard, but I set that up to showcase my landscape design skills. Still, that was years ago now, and most of my work—and awards—speaks for itself. I hardly ever go in my yard simply because it doesn’t feel like my own; it’s too curated, too focused on aesthetics, like my day job. Now, it’s mostly overgrown and unloved, an afterthought at the back of my property that represents everything that’s wrong with my work, but here at the community garden, I get to focus on what I really love—plants that nourish and sustain me, in more ways than one.
I place the radishes into Marty’s basket, and he smiles. “Perfect, Wyatt, thank you. Please take a few for yourself,” he adds, and I wave him away. He’s been more than generous to me. “How’s your girl?”
Pulling a lemonade from the cooler, I pop the top with a sigh. “She’s moved to San Francisco. Flew out this morning.” I’d wanted to take her to the airport myself, but her mother had already arranged everything without me.
Marty turns to me, curiosity on his weathered face. “Is that for work?”
I nod, sipping the sweet, tangy liquid. Bailey loves this stuff too.
“How exciting,” Marty says.
“It is,” I murmur, though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss her. Still, I’m incredibly proud of all she’s achieved, of the woman she’s become.
Even if it sometimes feels like I had so little to do with it.
A buzzing in my pocket stirs me from my thoughts, and I pull my phone out to see Bailey’s name on the screen, as if she somehow knew I was talking about her. I slide my phone away, not wanting to be rude, but Marty insists I take the call.
“Hey, kiddo. How’s the West Coast?”
“It’s great!” She sounds happy, and my heart swells. It was only last night we said goodbye, but it feels like a week ago. “How was your day? Are you in the garden?”
I glance at Marty and smile. “Sure am. The rhubarb is finally ready.” I know Bailey isn’t that invested in my plants, but she always humors me.
“That’s great. Listen, Dad, have you seen Poppy today?”
I scrub a hand over my beard. “No, why?” I deliberately got up and left before sunrise this morning to avoid her.
“Shit,” Bailey mutters under her breath. “I’ve tried to get hold of her all day and she hasn’t answered her phone. That’s really unlike her.”
I chuff a laugh. “I’m sure she’s just busy, honey. Probably at work or something.”
“Maybe,” Bailey replies, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I can usually reach her on her phone, even at work. If she can’t talk she’ll text to let me know, but to not hear from her at all…”
“I’ll let you know when I get home,” I reassure her. I love how much my daughter cares for her friend, but I’m starting to believe she’s a little overprotective. Poppy is twenty-five and old enough to handle herself. She doesn’t need me or anyone else looking out for her.
“When will that be?” Bailey presses. “I need to know she’s okay.”
I can’t help but laugh. “She’ll be fine!”
“You don’t know her ex.” Bailey’s tone is ominous. “Has she been baking a lot?”
“What?”
“She stress-bakes huge batches of cookies when something is wrong.”
I stifle another laugh. “No, she hasn’t been stress-baking. I’ll message as soon as I’m home, okay?” I don’t fancy heading back to the house if Poppy is there, but I can’t stand the note of panic in Bailey’s voice.
“Okay.” She exhales. “Please text me.”
I end the call with a promise to let Bailey know Poppy is safe, despite my reservations about my daughter’s overprotective nature. The main thing is ensuring Bailey can relax and enjoy her time settling into her new place.
Even if it means having to see Poppy.