Winston Clove (title under construction): Prologue

“Delly, we’re here.” The soft voice of my mother in the passenger seat pulled me from a fitful doze, and I squinted out the car window as my father turned onto an avenue with a few scattered houses. I sat up from my slumped position in the back seat, watching as the cluster of oak trees at the end of the road grew closer. Just past a lonely street light, a driveway secluded in the shadows of the trees came into view, and we turned down the graveled trail. A creamy yellow house with a porch encircling its waist soon appeared - a lofty edifice, solemn against the darkening sky. 

Once the car came to a stop in front of the porch steps, I scooped up my cat, who was curled up on the seat next to me. I gazed upward, noticing two brick chimneys that rose above the shingled roof like looming turrets, and the crisp evening air on my bare arms kindled a longing for the musky warmth of a fire. With a peeved meow and the back-to-back slams of the car’s doors, I followed my parents to the entrance of our new home. 

*

The next morning, I watched from the grassy meadow behind my house as brilliantly-smeared fingerprints of orange and pink replaced an ascending curtain of indigo. Arches and whorls of staggered clouds ushered in the dawn. In minutes, the heat of the Georgia sun had reached my legs, unconcealed by the shade of the apple tree I sat under. I removed my boots and rolled up the hems of my khaki pants to just below my knees. Stretching my legs out, I wiggled my toes in the slight dew of the grass and pulled out a worn notebook from the leather messenger bag slumped next to me. Ignoring the loose papers that were strewn about, I took the pencil from behind my right ear and leafed through the filled pages until I found a clean sheet.

“I like those boots.” A sudden shadow obscured the late morning sun, and I looked up from my notebook to find an extremely tall boy, or at least he seemed to be from my perspective on the ground. Greasy handprints were smudged on his faded jeans, his right cheek, and the cracked skin of his palms. He wore a button-up that loosely hugged his chest and torso, with the first two or three buttons unfastened to reveal a white undershirt and a sheen of sweat across his collarbone. Wondering how he had snuck up without me noticing, I scanned my surroundings from east to west before returning my attention to him. “Where did you come from?” 

He removed the dusty brown cowboy hat that had blocked the rays of daylight a few moments ago, revealing tousled brown hair tinged with wavering bronze underneath. “That house, over there,” he responded, gesturing towards a modest house near the edge of the forest. “I was in the mood for apples.” He raised a brow in a questioning expression, as if asking for permission to join me. I nodded, feeling conflicted between the notebook on my lap and the intriguing expression etched across his handsome face. “Feel free to help yourself.” 

Grabbing an apple from the nearest branch, he placed the hat on the ground and took a seat next to me. He leaned against the trunk of the tree with his boots propped up on a root sticking out of the ground. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he shifted to take a knife out of his pocket and methodically peeled the apple skin. The shavings surrounded him like the loose papers were scattered around me. 

“What’s this?” he asked, reaching for the sheet closest to him.
I grabbed the paper in his hand, standing to my feet to hide the burning in my cheeks. “Something private. Not for nosy strangers like you to read.” 

My attempts at retreat were ignored, and an impish grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was enjoying this. “Where’re you off to?”

“My mother taught me not to talk to strangers,” I rebutted. My curtness seemed to only fuel him, and his way of plowing through, unfazed, was fascinating in an irritating way. Like a puppy that resorts to licking your hands when you cover your face from its slobbering tongue.

“Well, my momma told me to give helpless young ladies like you a hand when they make a mess of things.” Propping himself up on the ground with one knee bent and the other up under him, he extended his hand to me and the dimple in only his left cheek deepened. “So if we introduce ourselves, I suppose I can do just that and then we’ll both honor our mommas.” 

I grinned, and took his hand. “Della Carthwight. Or just Delly.” 

His handshake was confident and firm, and his brown eyes never strayed from mine. “It’s a pleasure, Delly. Name’s Grant.”

I started collecting the remainder of my scattered papers. “Grant what?” He stood up to ‘give me a hand,’ placing the last few sheets between my thumb and index finger before answering. “Just Grant, for now. Until I make my place in the world.”