The Gardener's Past

The sun. He loved the feeling of it on his bare skin, how warm, how comforting. It felt like a wonderful gift, to sit in the sweltering heat. His hair always turned a couple shades lighter, and his skin a deep tan, at the end of the summer. Ever since he discovered the bloodstone amulet.

“Scusi, signore Grey! Dinner is ready!” (Excuse me, mister...)

He turns back to look at her, leaning on the shovel he was digging a pond with. “Coming, thanks.” He musters a small smile, “I’ll wash up first. Don’t wanna dirty your pretty house none.”

Julius pads over to the stucco-walled outdoor shower, stripping out of his linen pants, taking off his glasses, and turning the faucet on high. He was enjoying being outside, finally feeling like he felt alive, for the first time in centuries. Something about having his hands in the dirt humbled him. Made him feel human. But of course, he had to get called inside. The sun was beginning to dip below the trees, anyways. Miss Bianchi meant well, no sense in being bothered.

Turning the faucet to off, after getting lost in his thoughts for a while, he wraps a towel around his waist, and puts his glasses back on. He tries to sneak in the back door without the woman noticing him, knowing she’d light-heartedly scold him for taking so long.

“Grey, the food is becoming chilled!” She exclaims, without even looking up at him.

“Getting cold?” he says with a grin. He loved the way she spoke English; it wasn’t really correct, but boy, it was endearing.

She rolls her eyes, but nods. “Si, presto!” (Yes, quickly!) This is when she notices that there is a man in her kitchen wearing nothing but a towel, which fries her brain a little bit. Her face gets a bit flushed, and she averts her eyes.

“Yes, yes. Mi dispiace.” (I’m sorry.) He goes through the kitchen, walks through the stairwell, and quickly grabs a change of clothes from his small wardrobe. A white button-up, which he doesn’t bother to button all the way, and another pair of linen bottoms. Good enough, he shrugs, looking into a mirror. He runs his hands through his hair, which was getting long. He’d have to ask Miss Bianchi to cut it sometime soon.

Dramatically plopping down in a chair that had a plate laid out on the table in front of it, he smiles at the little boy across from him.

“Ciao.” (Hello.)

“Ciao, signore Grey!” (Hello, mister...)

The two boys (as Gianna Bianchi would refer to them) talked and talked, both barely eating their dinners, to swept up in conversation. It warmed her heart, seeing her son happy.

Julius notices the woman staring at him, and smiles sheepishly, quickly turning his own attention to the bowl of pasta in front of him. He was always stuck between one side of him wanting to get to know this family that had let him in, let him stay with them, but the side that was battle-worn and experienced knew better. Knowing people only ended in pain.

After everyone finishes their meal, Gianna goes outside to look at the progress he had made, carrying a candle. She notices that Julius had forgotten to bring his clothes (more specifically, his pants... it didn’t bother her that he was shirtless in the garden, he was nice to look at, actually) inside, so she scoops them up. A small piece of paper falls from the pocket, and on instinct she picks it up.

‘We love you so so much Lance! Colette just turned two today, here. She looks and asks just like her papa, makes me miss you more and more every day. Did I tell you that I named her ‘Colette’ for the name’s meaning? ‘people of victory’... because despite everything going wrong, she is our victory, together. Visit us soon, please? 6 March 1600.’ A woman’s handwriting. She stumbles over the English written words, but manages to decipher the gist of it. Flipping over the note, she’s in a bit of shock. A photograph, of a beautiful woman and a little girl. Both with firey red hair. The little girl looks familiar, almost. Her features are familiar, like she had seen them before. But where? Maybe this ‘Lance’ was Mister Grey’s great-grandfather, or something of the sort.

Gianna shrugs, and puts the photograph back in the man’s pants pocket, letting a corner of it peek out, to start a conversation once she comes inside. So many question were stirring about in her mind, but those were questions for another day. Or, at least, some of them, for another day.

She comes back into the house, blowing out the candle she had lit to guide her way about the garden-in-progress.

"Signore Grey—"

"Miss Bianchi, you can call me Julius, I've told you before, it's quite alright."

"J-Julius, then. It looks great, already. Thank you."

He just nods, and shrugs a shoulder. "Needs work yet. Tomorrow I'd like to show and tell you my plan, if I can?" he asks, looking at her, asking permission.

"Si, si, that would be wonderful." She remembers the clothes in her arms, and holds them out to him. "Forgot these, Sig—" At a lighthearted glare coming from the redhead, she catches herself "—Julius. There was a photograph in the pocket too. Your ancestors?"

He clenches his jaw, and almost seems to flinch. "Something like that, yeah."

"How many generations ago?"

"Four, five? I don't know. They're the only family I've got, and they're bound to be dead by now, so... it's weird to think about." He can't stop looking at the photograph, and his expression is heartbreaking to look at; like he's lost, even.

She nods, solemnly. Maybe she shouldn't have asked that. "Well, you can always make a family of your own one day, si? I'm sure that there are countless women who would love to marry you!" she says with a chuckle, poking him in the shoulder.

"And you, Miss Bianchi?"

She turns red, misunderstanding his question. "I...I don't know. Couldn't tell you."

"You don't want a bigger family?"

"Oh! That! Well, I'm not too sure. I would love to have more children, of course, but it is the husband part that I... do not want to deal with again," she exclaims, glaring at the wall.

"Ah, I'm sorry. Maybe next time will be better, who knows." He yawns, and stretches out like a housecat. "We should both be getting to bed soon, eh?" he asks, cocking his head to one side.

"Si, si. Renzo has school in the morning, I must be up to take him." She pauses for a moment, looking for her words. "You know, having a man around is good for him. So thank you. He's been happier with someone here to play his silly games with, and such. So take your time with the garden, si?" she asks, with a little wink.

He gives a knowing smile in her direction. "Certainly, I adore him. He's a wonderful boy. Goodnight Miss Bianchi, see you in the morrow."

"Good night, Julius. Sleep well."

He walks back to his bedroom, and collapses into the bed. He stares at the photograph, and if one looked close enough they would have seen the tears in this centuries-old man's eyes. He traces the faces of the two figures, and his body begins to shake, letting out a silent, uncontrollable sob.

"I'd trade anything to be with you again," he whispers to the woman in the photograph, voice cracking and weak. Time is supposed to heal all words, or so they say, but the hole in his heart never got any smaller, even almost two-hundred years later.