Tollie's Garden

I was seventeen, almost eighteen when Tollie moved into our small apartment above the carriage house. I didn't pay much attention when mom rented it to him. I was too busy trying to fit in with the other girls and adjusting to my new school after moving into the huge house we inherited from mom's grandfather, my great grandfather, who I only met a few times before he died.

It felt weird living in a mansion, white pillars at the entrance, Wisteria growing up to the third floor, a big Dutch door, you know the kind where the top opens and the bottom stays shut--it was pretty cool. We had a big stone wall in front of the property with ivy growing up the sides. The long driveway curved in the front of the house and you could drive in one way and out the other way. The house had fifteen rooms, four fireplaces--I had one in my bedroom and so did mom. I also had my own bathroom and the kitchen was huge with a pantry next to it that had shelves and cabinets all the way to the ceiling.

It was a shock inheriting that big house after living in a small row house in Hoboken, New Jersey then moving to Chestnut Hill, a ritzy part of Philadelphia. Mom's brother Steve inherited a lot of money because we got the house--don't know how much--but her grandfather's Will had one strange stipulation for both of them. They would get the same amount of money from the trust that showed on their income tax. The Will said he wanted them to know what it is to work for a living rather than just have money they didn't earn. So mom had to earn money in order to get any money from the inheritance and that made it a challenge. The problem was that mom had always been a waitress, never went to college, got married to my dad because she had me then he took off with some woman when I was three and for awhile I got birthday cards from him but that was it. Oh well.

So the mansion was a mixed blessing and we felt a little out of place. We had a beautiful, luxurious house but barely enough money to make ends meet. That's why we rented the carriage house to Tollie for five hundred dollars a month and that helped a lot. My mom got a job in a pretty swanky restaurant not far from where we lived and made good money--the problem was it was mostly tips and some weeks were better than others. The other stipulation was we couldn't sell the mansion because he loved the house and wanted to keep it in the family. So we were stuck--not a bad thing to be stuck with--a beautiful home, but there we were with a large property that needed maintenance--just keeping the grass cut, paying the utilities and taxes and making sure we didn't let it fall apart was a big job.

It was also weird living in that house and not being friends with any of the neighbors. They said a polite hello if they saw us but we were not in their class, never got invited to any dinners and I didn't really care. I thought they were snotty and phony with their big houses, big cars and fancy clothes.

Still, we weren't broke by any means. Mom made pretty good money and it got matched from the trust so we did okay. We weren't starving and mom was able to get rid of the old Subaru we had and got a newer model Volvo and we were both able to buy decent clothes. I have to admit, I loved clothes and wanted guys to like me and if you didn't dress a certain way at school you were an outcast. Also, kids knew where I lived and I wanted to give the appearance that we were better off than we really were--not sure why.

So Tollie's moving into the carriage house was a necessity and the income really helped get more money from the trust each year. Mom interviewed him and told me he seemed like a nice man and that he loved to garden. He asked if he could put in a garden in our big back yard and alongside of the carriage house and he would take care of cutting the grass. He'd share the vegetables with us.

He was quiet, kind of shy, but friendly and I didn't pay much attention to him. He'd wave hello when I came home from school and he was either cutting the grass or working in his garden. He also trimmed the big hedge on both sides of our house and there were lots of bushes.

I found out from mom that he was twenty-eight when he moved in--ten years older than me--and mom said he was a writer, had taught for awhile at a community college while working on his PhD in English. He had finished all his course work and was working on his dissertation but then decided he wanted to write poetry and a novel he was working on and dropped out of the program. Mom told me he grew up on a farm, homeschooled but got into Brown anyway and did well in college and had a fellowship. He talked a lot to my mom. She invited him for coffee and she was always making cookies for him and meals. She was twenty or so years older than he was but I think she had a crush on him--which seemed weird but I didn't really think about it that much. Still, I could see why--he was actually good looking though somewhat nerdy, a little strange, but nice. He had longish brown hair, a beard and wore wire rimmed glasses but like I said, I didn't pay much attention to him. I had more important things to think about like applying to college and this guy Tristan who I was crazy about and just keeping up with my classes. I was determined to get into a good college and not end up being a waitress like mom. I wasn't sure what I was going to do or what I was interested in but I was in AP English and Biology and got good grades.

Getting into college was everyone's obsession and there weren't many options after high school--so researching colleges, taking a prep class to prepare for the SATs and filling out the applications was a full time job. I was also a cheerleader, believe it or not. I liked the exercise and wearing the short skirts--it was kind of sexy--and it was fun getting everyone to cheer for our football and basketball team. It was also a good thing to have on my college applications.

Other than school and baby sitting for this woman up the street, I liked to work on my tan in the big back yard and would lay out there on a blanket, sometimes with another girl in my class, Janine--both of us in skimpy bikinis--and see Tollie working in the big garden he made. He'd glance over at us but mostly concentrated on digging and planting and whatever else he did. He worked hard, had a lean, tan body and looked good in his cut-off jean shorts and a t-shirt. He was in pretty good shape--probably from the gardening and he biked everywhere. He didn't own a car.

When he wasn't working in the garden, he would sit on a canvas folding chair in front of the carriage house and write in a thick tablet or his laptop. Every once in awhile he would look up at us but mostly, he didn't pay much attention and either did I. To me he was just an older guy, renting the carriage house and we hardly spoke. I would see him from my bedroom window writing late at night while I was studying then when I'd leave for school in the morning, he was out in the garden, usually barefooted. He'd smile and wave to me when I left for school in either Janine's car or Tristan's.

Sometimes, my mom made extra food for dinner and asked me to take some to him in his apartment over the carriage house. I think it was her way of getting him to like her, you know, the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She had to be at the restaurant by four and always made food up ahead of time for me. She was a good cook and made great soups, stews or lasagna so I would get to drop off the food and chat with him for a few minutes then leave and that was that.

I liked how he fixed up his place. It was small but he had floor to ceiling book cases on two of the walls, lots of hanging plants. He had a beat up couch with an Indian style blanket over the back, a big old soft chair with a lamp on a table next to it, a pile of books and magazines on the floor and a round oak table by the window--that's where he wrote and ate. I could see my window from his window and noticed the bird feeders he had hanging outside. His bed was in the corner and always made. It was one room with a faded oriental rug in the center, a small kitchen area with a little refrigerator, a sink, a four burner stove and he told me he liked to cook. I noticed a wine rack with bottles of wine.

When I'd bring up a covered dish, he always poured a glass of wine and asked if I'd like a glass. I always said no and he never made a big deal about but I liked how he looked at me, not flirting just warm and friendly. He always had music playing—sometimes classical music, sometimes jazz.

Then one night near the end of my senior year, he asked me to join him for dinner, he wanted to talk to me so I said yes. That was the first time in the two years he lived there that we actually had a conversation and I'm glad I did.

He served me the soup and actually made a small salad from vegetables from the garden and a wonderful dressing he made--just oil and vinegar with a variety of herbs--I'm not sure what, but it was delicious. He poured me a glass of wine and we clicked glasses and he said, "To life." I noticed how his eyes twinkled behind his glasses then disappeared into little slits when he smiled.

"So what did you want to talk about?" I asked after sipping the wine.

He put his glass down after sipping, stirred his soup then looked at me, that smile on his lips, "Sarah, I've lived here for almost two years and we have never really had a conversation and I know you are busy with school and your friends and I see you are a cheerleader and getting ready to go off to college in the fall. I've gotten to know your mother quite well--we've had lots of conversations, but I want to know you."

"You do? I asked, surprised. "Why?"

He chuckled at my questions and my surprise.

"I want to know what you're passionate about."

His question stunned me. "Passionate about?" I repeated. "That's a strange question."

"What do you love?" he asked, looking into my eyes, lifting his wine to his lips, taking a sip, "If you could do anything you want with your life--what would that be?"

I have to admit, his question scared me. I took a sip of wine and just looked at him, noticing how he was looking into my eyes. "I don't know what to say," I answered, my mind racing to think of something, "Why do you want to know?" I asked.

He smiled, knowing as well as I did that I was avoiding answering him because I didn't know what I wanted to do or what I loved. I didn't want to tell him how much I liked shopping for clothes. I told him I liked cheerleading and was interested in some of my classes, though most of it was doing what I was assigned and I didn't think about loving my subjects. I said, sometimes, I liked a particular teacher and worked extra hard to get a good grade, but the fact is, I did what was expected and didn't question it. That's why Tollie's question floored me--the thought of loving something, feeling passionate never occurred to me.

For a few minutes, we were both silent, eating the soup, taking a sip of wine. He looked at me and I don't think anyone ever looked at me like he did. I felt he was really trying to see me, know me and it aroused something in me to feel his caring. So I asked again, "Why do you want to know what I love?"

"Because I want you to be happy and know you will never be happy unless you know what you love."

"Are you happy?" I asked.

"Very," he answered, looking at me and smiled and there was something in his eyes--a twinkle and the sincerity of his smile touched me.

"Really," I responded.

"Yes, I love to garden and I love to write poetry and stories and I love the quiet and I love watching the birds and seeing the flowers bloom and the vegetables growing. I'm very happy."

"Aren't you lonely?" I asked. "I never see you with friends. "Don't you want to love some one?"

"Sometimes I'm lonely and yes, I would like to love someone and be loved. I do have friends. They don't live around here but we stay in touch and a dear friend is going to visit here this Sunday. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Great," I said, wondering if it was a man or woman but didn't want to ask. "And I hope you find someone to love you. You seem like a really good person. I hardly know you but I can tell by the way you work in the garden and I see you writing all the time. I admire that."

He smiled, nodding, "Thanks, Sarah.

I looked at the little table with the lamp next to the soft chair and saw a big manuscript and a thick notebook. "Is that your novel?" I asked.

"That's the one I'm working on now but I have a few others. Mostly I've been writing poetry, lately."

"Have you been published?" I asked looking back at him.

"No—maybe one day, but I just want to write. Hardly anyone has read what I've written."

"Don't you want to be read? Don't you want to be published?"

"I do want to be read and one day I'll be published but it's not that important to me."

My eyes were drawn to his manuscript and I was curious. I liked to read but only had time to read what they assigned in school. I wanted to ask if I could read his novel but didn't.

"I'd like you to read my novel," he said, as if reading my mind, "but I know how busy you are--maybe one day you will read some of what I've written. I'd like that," he said, looking at me then continued, "I hope you find what you love to do, what makes you happy in your soul."

"My soul?" I responded. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what makes you happy deep inside, feel fulfilled, alive regardless of whether you make money or not--something that really means a lot to you."

I finished my wine and the soup and saw it was getting dark out. "I better get going," I said. "I've got to study for my history exam."

He leaned forward and looked into my eyes and again I felt he was looking at me with such caring. I felt his warmth, his gentleness and his eyes sparkled and it felt like he was seeing deep into me. No one had ever looked at me like that and it made me tingle all over and I felt like I was glowing, blushing but I wasn't.

"I enjoyed having dinner with you," he said.

"I did too," suddenly feeling reluctant to leave but knew I had to. "This was nice."

"I'll wash your mom's bowl and bring it over tomorrow," he said when I got up and he walked me to the door that led to the stairway to the garage below.

"Let's do this again," he said. "I think you are very beautiful."

I blushed when he said that and swallowed. "Thank you," I said liking how he said that. It was so sincere and sweet.

When I walked back to the house, I glanced up at the window and saw him clearing the table and look down at me. He waved and I waved back and I suddenly felt something special had happened. No one had ever asked me what I loved or felt passionate about or looked at me like he did, but somehow he awakened something in me, made me think not just about the question what am I passionate about, what do I love, but about him, how he lived so simply and loved what he was doing and didn't seem to care if he was published or need anyone. He seemed happy and peaceful. I had never met anyone like him. He was no longer the man who rented out the carriage house and worked in the garden. He mystified me. I wanted to know more about him.

The next morning, I had to rush. I stayed up late studying and slapped off my alarm clock and went back to sleep then woke up with a bolt, got dressed, throwing on a pair of jeans and a new tank top I just bought, my sandals and hopped into Janine's car eating an English muffin, trying not to get crumbs on me. She parked right in front of the carriage house and I saw Tollie in the smaller garden on his knees. He looked up and waved and I waved back through the open window as Janine turned in the driveway and rushed away. I suddenly remembered the nice evening I had with him, feeling more connected in a strange way but Janine interrupted my thought telling me she and her boyfriend, Alex had a big fight so I listened to her.

Mom never got up early after working at the restaurant and I knew she and the staff always had a meal and a few drinks after they closed and she'd hang out--who knows when she came home or what she did. She always left for work before I got home from cheerleading practice or whatever so sometimes days would go by and we didn't see each other. I was pretty much on my own but mom always had something made for my dinner and a note saying she loved me or put the clothes in the dryer or take this or that to Tollie.

When I walked in the kitchen that afternoon, I saw the bowl from the night before on the counter and I suddenly remembered the nice night I had with him. I put the bowl in the cabinet and then went to the window and saw Tollie in his chair in front of the carriage house writing in the thick notebook. I watched him as he wrote, wondering what he was writing about. He was so deep in thought, writing intensely then he'd stop and look up at the sky as if that's where the words were coming from. I thought about going out to say hello but didn't want to interrupt him so I opened the refrigerator and took out the jug of apple juice, poured a glass and wandered around the big kitchen, thinking about how nice it is, how lucky we were to have such a beautiful house. I put the empty glass in the sink, rinsed it out and then went back to the window and saw Tollie wasn't there, wondering where he went and why I cared then shook that thought away, picked up my heavy backpack of books and went up to my room. I looked out my window and saw Tollie at his table writing on his laptop. He looked out the window and saw me and smiled, waving at me then went back to work.

After plopping down on my bed, picking up the glossy magazine with pictures of girls my age or a little older wearing sexy blouses or posing in short skirts, pocketbooks over the shoulders, or showing off their shiny hair with a bottle of shampoo next to them. I thumbed through the pages, hardly looking then stopping, wondering if I would look cool in those shorts or blue pants then tossed the magazine aside thinking about Tollie's question--what am I passionate about and I couldn't really think of anything and felt a pang in my stomach and chest then sighed staring up at the ceiling.

I then did one of my favorite things, unbuttoning my jeans and slipping my hands inside my panties and stroking my pussy with my finger, moving it slowly up and down, feeling my wetness and the growing pleasure as I got more and more turned on and then stuck two fingers inside, feeling my pussy gripping my fingers as I moved them faster and faster, my breathing getting heavier, quicker, my fingers going deeper, gripped by the warm wetness of my pussy and suddenly thought about Tollie, imagining him and not Tristan or some imaginary man, my fingers going faster and harder until I suddenly exploded, gasping, holding back a scream but then it burst out and I let go, a loud scream filling my room, glad no one was home and then releasing my fingers, feeling the warm cum on my thighs, my breathing slowing as I lay there loving what I could do to myself and feeling surprised that I thought about Tollie--he's so much older than me what am I thinking--suddenly feeling confused, surprised and stupid at such crazy thinking.

Just then my cell phone rang and I was glad I didn't get interrupted as I opened and saw it was Tristan, still feeling the relief from masturbating. I said, "Hi Tris...what's up."

"Nothing much. What's happening with you?"

"Nothing. Just glad it's Friday and it's the weekend."

"Yeah. Right. I wish I didn't have to go to that fucking job at the market."

"Oh right, when do you finish tomorrow?"

"Five. Wanna do something tomorrow night."

"Maybe. Like what?"

"We could get a pizza and watch a movie or something."