Almost Happily Ever After

Thirsty Clyburn sighed contentedly as he surveyed the environment in which he found himself, still barely comprehending his good fortune and the sheer wonderment of it all. Four hundred acres of rolling Kentucky bluegrass bounded by miles and miles of cream-colored post and board wooden fence, much of it in double course to contain the outrageously expensive thoroughbreds that lived there in the event a rubber-necking tourist missed a turn and plowed through the outermost rails. A barn more exquisitely turned out than most of the houses of the typical high-end neighborhood. A lavishly stocked wine cellar, and a garage that sheltered more than one six-figure automobile. Not to mention the in-home saltwater pool, workout gym, and the uh-mazing home theater with plush leather stadium seats, Panasonic floor-mounted projector, and Tannoy speaker system.

           The reality of Thirsty’s situation was still sinking in, and he was letting it ooze into every pore of his work-hardened skin, slowly adjusting to a perspective on living that was so very new to him. For most of his almost thirty years, the oily-metallic smells and clinking, whirring sounds of his father’s auto repair shop had been molding and hardening both his body and his spirit, beckoning him, through his father’s expectations and his mother’s prodding, to carry on the family business for another generation. He hated the garage. He felt the albatross weight of it continuously, and he would have left ages ago if it didn’t mean finding other work and giving up the financial support his parents funneled his way as an incentive to keep him in line with their expectations.

           This opportunity had come utterly unsought or even thought of. His mother’s dead sister’s husband, who had come from money and had devoted his life to making more and more of it, had sent a letter asking him to come work for him as his property maintenance guy (Estate Caretaker, the letter had called it). As the estate utilized a contracted grounds maintenance service and employed horse trainers and staff based in Lexington, Thirsty’s lack of knowledge (he would add, interest) in those areas was inconsequential. He would be responsible for maintaining the fleet of estate vehicles and performing routine facilities maintenance or hiring out more complicated jobs. It was more, really, than his training and experience had qualified him for, but his uncle-by-marriage had always felt a sense of obligation to Thirsty informed perhaps solely out of the uncle’s sympathetic regard for Thirsty’s plight of being born son of two overbearing, self-focused parents. Thirsty didn’t care what the reason; he was just giddy to get away—away from a life that, he was realizing more and more with each passing day here, had been plodding forward aimlessly for, well … ever.

           When his flight landed at Blue Grass Airport two weeks ago, it marked his first ever venture beyond the confines of Chester County, South Carolina (other than being driven by his friend Milo to the Charlotte airport because his parents were too angry to take him). The limo drive northeast on the Paris Pike had been one of slack-jawed wonder as he took in mile after mile of rock fences and ostentatious estate gates, finally arriving at Stoner Stables, home of graded-stakes-winning horses and Kentucky’s twelfth-richest resident, Clayton Eugene Howell. Thirsty had was cautiously eager to meet the uncle who had promised through this job offer to change his life forever but had been denied the chance, being informed that Mr. Howell had urgent business that would prevent his meeting his potential new employee. Indeed, the housekeeper had told him, Mr. Howell often was away from home for weeks or even months at a time, with business interests throughout the world.

           Missing his uncle was no big deal, really. Thirsty was too preoccupied with the strange, intoxicating freedom of his new surroundings to give much thought to anything else. His uncle had left instructions with the housekeeper to get Thirsty settled into his new room (and what a room it was!), where he had discovered a letter left for him. He had broken the golden was seal on the envelope and read these words: “Dear Randall [no one ever called him by his real name], I am providentially hindered from welcoming you in person. I hope you will settle in without too great a strain on your constitution, and will make yourself utterly at home. I expect to meet with you in about two weeks’ time, and will go over with you what I shall expect of you as Estate Caretaker at that meeting. Please consider yourself on holiday, and enjoy all aspects of our little life here until then. Stroll through the grounds, visit the stables (we have some fine mares in the barn), and familiarize yourself with the garage and equipment building. Above all, get to know the staff who work here (Mrs. Robbins will introduce you). We are all a close-knit family here, and community is of utmost importance to me. I’m sure you will find yourself quite at home in short order. Fondly, Clayton E Howell.”

           So, here he stood, basking in his incredible luck and the possibilities that lay ahead. Everything was so … perfect. Well, almost. Thirsty had followed his uncle’s instructions precisely, and now knew his way around the place. The cars in the garage alone had made his head swim with anticipation. The luxuries of the house made him feel like royalty; he’d even watched some horses being exercised on the dirt track near the barn one morning. But the people living here! How his uncle ran such an incredible estate with the likes of those Thirsty had encountered in the past two weeks was beyond reckoning. The housekeeper, Mrs. Robbins, was of German or some other background that made her fairly spit out her words with the sound of a clogged carburetor. He had given up trying to have a conversation with her, and tried to avoid her whenever he possibly could. Three maids worked under Mrs. Robbins, and he had no interest in getting to know them. There was a gardener of sorts, not an employee of the hired grounds crew, who piddled in the flower beds and orchards near the house and always tried to rope him into conversation about creeping ivy and apple blossoms and innumerable other plants, flowers, and stuff he'd never heard of and didn’t want to hear of. This middle-aged man seemed to live in the house as well, though Thirsty rarely saw him outside the gardens. Several times, the man had raised his hand as if to draw Thirsty over and into conversation, but Thirsty had learned to act unaware and head in a different direction. Even the stable boys and exercise riders would try to bend his ear and rope him into their chatterings and musings when they saw him.

           In all his life, Thirsty had never encountered such outgoing, nerve-wracking people. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? His “holiday,” amazing overall as it had been, was definitely being cramped by the overtures of these … people. Always they bugged him. Continuously they wanted to chat him up. Never could he be ALONE. When his uncle returned, he told himself, then he could get to work and get away from all these people.

           Another week passed. Uncle Howell was overdue, and Thirsty was becoming restless. He could no longer enjoy his posh environment. He was weary of the smiles, the questions, the needy attention-seeking of the estate employees. He found himself walking into the house and heading for the wine cellar. He wanted a drink, and he wanted to drink it alone. Approaching the door to the cellar, he came face-to-face with a gentleman. No, not a gentleman. It was the gardener, dressed in fine clothes, smoking a cigar. The cheeky fellow! What was he doing here, dressed as he was, smoking? Thirsty shot him an irritated look and turned to leave.

           “Just a moment, Randall. I’d like a chat with you, if you don’t mind. There are some matters we should discuss before you leave for home. Could you join me in my study?”

[With sincere apologies to all: I have 2 minutes left to submit this story. It is far from finished, but I didn’t want to let this prompt get away without getting something turned in. I hope what I’ve managed to give you was at least worth your time reading. – T C]