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."
