Mother thought I’d suffer without my trust fund, but with designer shoes and an array of this season's fashion, I’ll be happy enough to tackle whatever they throw at me. As long as it's not cow shit. Not that I expect them to toss that stuff at me, but who knows what traditions these country dwellers have.
“You planning on staying a while?” she asks with an incredulous face scrunch. The woman grunts while heaving a hard case onto the wobbly trolley.
“A couple of weeks, at the most. Until my mother decides to stop torturing me.” I giggle. Mother will arrange return flights after a few days. I know it. This is just an elaborate ruse.
“If you’re getting picked up, you’ll need to head that way.” She points to the exit and pats the last suitcase balancing on a tower of luggage.
“Thank you.” I nod and set off.
As promised, Papa Sawyer is waiting for me… in a weird looking old truck thing with rust blistering the baby blue paintwork.
I thought the guy was rich. He’s supposed to own more land than I’ve ever seen in a lifetime. So my mother told me. She lied… I’m facing an eternity in poverty.
“Kid?” The graying elderly man stays put in the driver's seat and peers over the half window. A disheveled beard of white wiry curls leads up to a broad brim straw hat that looks just as ancient as he does. I hold back, not wanting to find out if he uses deodorant because it sure as hell looks like he doesn’t.
“Papa Sawyer. I might need some help getting these in the boot.”
“Speak up, kid. Sounds like you wanna put those cases in yer boots?”
I scratch my scalp, feeling it itch under the blazing heat. “In the boot. At the back of this…” Rust bucket. I kick the tire with my leopard print pump. “In the back of your truck.”
“Right…” he drawls. “That’ll be the bed, and cars have trunks. Here, boots are worn on your feet. You got ‘em this far, you can get ‘em in the bed too.” He turns up the volume on the radio. All I can hear is a slow country tune, sung by a twangy voiced woman. I think she’s in pain or maybe has a stuffy nose. “I ain’t got all day, youngin’, and I hope those hands ain’t painted on. There’s plenty of chores that need doin’.”
Holy shit. I’ve left behind civilization and walked into slavery. I manage to drag, kick and haul a quarter of my wardrobe contents into the bed. Bed… trunk… like who calls it that? Clearly everyone on this side of the pond does. Thankfully, I had trimmed my nails to a shorter length on the long flight over. Manual labor doesn’t work well with acrylic nails. Once I get settled into the Texan lifestyle, I’ll hunt out a nail bar in Heartville, and get them sorted.
The passenger door creaks as I tug the silver handle. If this thing falls off in my hand, I’m not paying for it. I need all the money I can save right now for essentials. By the look of Papa Sawyer, I’m doubting he drinks champagne or keeps Dead Sea mineral hand wash in the bathroom. Just as well, I smuggled some necessary supplies in my wash bag. Although, with all the dry air about, I doubt my rations will last longer than a week.
Before I get the chance to find the seatbelt, the engine growls, and the worn leather seat shakes underneath me. With a rattle and a jolt, we’re hurtling off into the sunset. And what a sight it is. A burning sphere creeps behind the land like it’s teasing to singe the earth with its flames.
I can’t quite place the smell inside the bouncy cab. It’s like damp dog, or dirty socks, mixed with petrol fumes and cigar smoke.
“So… Papa Sawyer. What’s the plan while I’m visiting?” I offer him my winning smile. The very same one that used to work on Mother.
Blue oil stained overalls make him appear small and frail. With shaded eyes focused on the road ahead, he clears his throat with a dry cough. “And by visitin’, you mean workin’?”
Okay. He’s obviously not chatty nor charming, but I’ll win him over, eventually. I can be quite persuasive, if I need to be. “Yes. What will we be doing?”
I find out the sad woman singing on the radio is retelling the story of her broken heart. She is so dramatic. A few months ago, I dated bad boy Blake a few times, and when it fizzled out, I didn’t get all whiny and teary eyed. Then again, I hadn’t fallen in love with him, or any other guy for that matter. Guys are fickle, more so when they find out I’m rich.
“You’ll be helpin’ around my place and working at Wild Hearts Ranch. They’ll need ya to clean. You’ll get a few dollars a day, enough to buy yer food.”
My eyes cut from blurry green fields that blanketed the countryside to the old man's profile next to me. “My mother told me she gave you money. I thought food was included in my stay.”
His chuckle is raspy, like he’d smoked all his life. “She paid me to take you, kid. Ya think I want a young thing livin’ in my place, makin’ noise and slurpin’ my home brew. You’ll need to earn your keep. Livin’ ain’t free.”
My low groan was muted when he twisted the volume button, pretty much inviting the depressed woman into the truck with us. Someone needs to tell her to stick a cork in it.
Papa Sawyer taps the steering wheel. The skin on his hands looks flaky and dry like a proper workman’s hands. And low and behold, I think I hear him sing along with a low mumble grumble like distant thunder. Mother never mentioned a wife. There’s no ring on his bony finger. I wonder if he understands what she’s singing about. Has the grouchy old man ever known true love? I’d like to hope when I’m his age, I’ll be with the love of my life, if such folklore exists.
After seven or eight, slightly more upbeat songs, he turns down the volume. “We’ll be nearing Heartville soon. I’ll stop in town, so you can go to the grocery store. Otherwise, it’s a half hour drive from the town to my place. I ain’t got you a welcome basket waiting at home.”
“Half an hour? What if I run out of moisturizer?”
For the first time since we met, his head revolves ninety degrees to face me. His weathered skin wrinkles as he stares at me with a peculiar expression. “Kid. Let’s get one thing straight. Ya run outta shit - ya run out.” He shakes his head slowly.
That can’t be right. This is the modern day. “You get Amazon deliveries, right?” I can feel my chest tighten with stress. Well, I think it’s stress, having never really been that stressed about anything. But right now, the realization of only packing one full tub of my French seaweed face cream hits me hard. The luxurious dream cream was developed by a leading plastic surgeon. It comes with a mega high price tag and is used by all the top celebs. It’s like a cult cream for models, and me. I will not live without it. I can’t run out.
“Packages get delivered to the post office,” he grumbles.
