With apologies to fans of "Portrait of Jennie" A romantic fantasy, or a fantasy romance? I hope you enjoy. Jb7
Jack Jeffries pulled into the driveway of the somewhat dilapidated farmhouse. Although the house was in dire need of paint, at least all the windows he could see were still intact. He stepped out of his Jeep and approached the house, digging in his pocket for the key the realtor had given him at the closing that morning.
Walking up on the porch, he tested each step and board as he crossed the verandah to the door. At least the porch seemed sound. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it, feeling it work with satisfaction. He pushed lightly on the door, which, after an initial stickiness, gave way easily. Jack checked the doorjamb; only some slight scraping in the paint, nothing to worry about, unless it continued to happen.
As he wandered through the house, he saw traces where some animals had been busy tearing at the upholstered furniture which had been left in the house. He'd have to get a cleaning crew out to dispose of the pieces which couldn't be resurrected.
He was pleased to see the remaining windows were also still intact. In the city, he knew, a house, empty like this, would have long ago been boarded up, the glass and copper destroyed or stolen.
The bedrooms on the second floor were large, and, something unusual for the age of the house, had closets. The only drawback to the house that he saw, on this, his first trip through it, was the absence of a second bathroom. The existing bathroom was certainly more than adequately spacious, while the claw foot tub, with its eight inch diameter shower head, was quaint, and would be fine.
He made his way down stairs to the kitchen. This room would have to be his first priority. There were no appliances, not even a stove, but, he saw, there was the availability of gas to cook with. He had been fearing he'd have to cook with wood or coal.
Movement on the back porch caught his eye. When he opened the door, he was surprised to find a young teenaged girl sitting on the steps, gazing out toward what had obviously been a garden area.
"Figgered you'd come out here 'ventually." she greeted him. "M' name's MaryKate, but everyone calls me Irish. It's from m' dad. Says m' hair 'minds him of Bushmill's, whatever that is." All, seemingly in a single breath, around what had to be a gigantic wad of gum.
"Well, hello, Miss MaryKate. My name is Jack Jeffries, Jack to you, unless your parents object. May I call you Irish? I can see why your father says what he does about your hair. That honey amber blonde hair does indeed look like Irish whiskey. But I'll bet there's more than that behind your name. Your fair complexion, with that smattering of freckles, and your eye color, that green hazel combination, are pure Irish, I'm betting either your mother, your father, or both, are of Irish stock."
As she turned her body to look up at him, the tee shirt she was wearing drew taut against her budding breasts. She turned back and stood up. "You gonna look at the rest of your new farm, Jack? How come you bought this run down place anyway?"
"Yeah, I am going to take a look around. You want to come along, or do you need to get home for supper? Are you old enough to stay out after supper on a school night?" He looked at the young teen, beguiled by her innocent charm and beauty. Although he had to deal with troubled kids on a daily basis in his job as a mental health counselor, he often found himself at sea when dealing with normal teens. With Irish, he was completely at ease, enjoying her company.
"Of course I'm old enough; I had my fourteenth birthday nearly three months ago, 'n' my mom knows where I am. If I'm late, she'll save me a plate." As they walked around the outbuildings and field, she pointed out some features the showing agent's video had neglected, including the presence of a pond, suitable for swimming, in the woods. She said she'd take him there the next time she saw him, but now, with twilight approaching, it was getting late for her to be out.
"Where do you live? I could give you a lift home," he offered.
"Thank you, but we're just over there," she said, pointing with a nod of her head. Starting down the driveway, she looked back over her shoulder, sadness suddenly clouding her eyes, "See you around, Jack."
The next weekend found Jack on the road to his new farm on Saturday morning. He had contracted with a cleaning service in the village, through the listing realtor, to haul away the furniture he thought beyond repair, and to generally give the house a thorough sweep out.
When he pulled into the driveway, he was both pleased and surprised to find Irish waiting on the verandah steps, a more mature Irish. She was taller, with a more womanly figure. In greeting her, he commented on the change in her.
"I should hope so, I had my fifteenth birthday almost three months ago." Although puzzled, Jack accepted her statement thinking he must have mis-heard her last week. "The people came and cleaned out the junk. It took two truck loads to carry it all away. Come, see how much better it looks cleaned up. When are you going to start painting? I can help."
Inside, it, indeed, looked much better. Not only had they swept, they had cleaned the windows and washed the walls. As the teenager and the 38-year old bachelor walked through the house, they discussed uses for the large rooms, and possible color schemes. He was impressed by her color sense, creativity, and maturity.
At lunch time, he invited her to stay. He had a cooler with provisions for lunch in his Jeep. She quickly suggested a picnic by his pond.
They assembled the sandwiches, rather she did, while he sat and watched. She insisted on doing it all since he had supplied the food. From somewhere in one of the cabinets, she produced a cloth tote bag in which she packed the sandwiches, snacks and soft drinks Jack had brought from the city. She also produced a blanket from somewhere to use as a table when they got to the pond.
Out past the barn, Irish showed him the path to the swimming hole. On the way. she pointed out wildflowers he needed to be careful of trodding on, weeds he should pull as soon as he got a chance, and some of the trails used by the small wildlife in his woods.
A quarter of a mile into the woods, the path veered to the left, through a thicket of pine trees, and opened into a small park-like area surrounding a pond about twenty-five yards in diameter. On the far side of the pond, the trees grew right to the edge of the water, but where they entered the area, it was a grassy meadow, about thirty feet between the trees and the pond. The grass, nearly up to Jack's knees.
Irish looked at him with a flirty smile in her eyes. "Sometimes, when there's no one else around, I sneak out here and go skinny dipping. It's so nice to lay naked in the warm sun and let it dry you. I'll bet you try it someday."
Without considering the implication of his reply, Jack answered, "If you were a few years older, we could try it now."
"How much older, Jack?" she asked, her eyes bright with the promise of womanhood. "How old are you, anyway?"
Realizing what he had said, Jack swallowed hard. "Nearly forty, and you would need to be at least six years older than you are." He put the tote bag down and fished out the blanket.
"Nearly forty, huh? Wow, I guess I better hurry and grow up." She sat and unloaded the tote. As they ate, she asked Jack about his work and what it was like. He briefly described his job and told her about some of the cases he had, without mentioning names.
He asked her what she wanted to do when she grew up. She said she hadn't decided, maybe a librarian, like her mom, or a nurse, or, she said with a smile, a glamorous actress.
"D'you think I'm pretty enough?" She pulled a stem of timothy grass and put it in her mouth. She then unbuttoned the top button of the blouse she had tucked into the waist of her mid-thigh length shorts, and leaned back on her elbow, looking like a Hollywood publicity photo of a teen-aged starlet. As she looked at him, she rolled the grass from side to side with her tongue, that small muscle just grazing her lips.
Jack felt an uncomfortable surge in his pants, and stood up. "We better be getting back to the house. I'm supposed to meet some salespeople here this weekend about the kitchen appliances."
Although they walked back in silence, Irish slipped her hand in his and held it tightly all the way to the house. "You don't need to be afraid, Jack. I won't bite," she said softly when they arrived there.
"Irish, it's not you I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I might bite."
She smiled, her eyes bright, and stood up on tiptoe to give him a quick peck on his cheek. "I hope so," she whispered. Then she ran down the driveway. "See you around, Jack," she called back. "Tell the appliance people to check the gas connections. Some of the houses have had problems."
The next weekend, Irish wasn't waiting for him, and, in fact did not appear. However, his living room and dining room furniture arrived and was set up. Jack spent the weekend stripping paint from the gumwood cabinets in the kitchen. When he was done, he wiped them all down with tung oil.
On his way back to the city, he drove through the village. The only road there was the one Irish had pointed out, when indicating the direction to her house. On that road, between Jack's farm and the village, was one old, burned out house and the village cemetery.
He stopped in at the only restaurant he saw. It was a quiet afternoon, and the waitress working the counter was willing to chat. When asked about Irish and her family, the woman looked puzzled.
"Between school and marriage, I've lived in this place going on fifteen years. There aren't but fifty kids in the high school, 'n' all of them are in here at one time or another during the week. I don't ever recall hearing the names MaryKate or Irish." She turned to the kitchen pass through. "Hey, Carl, you ever hear of a girl named MaryKate, sometimes called Irish?"
A grizzled, toothless face appeared in the window. He looked at Jack, a pensive expression on his face. Slowly, he shook his head. "You buy the old Hoskins place? Ain't been any family out that way in twenty years or so, not since the gas lines blew up and burned them six families to death one night."
