Friar Park (George Harrison x gardener!reader)

Chapter 3

"Was this a vegetable garden once, George?" I ask from beneath a blanket of yellow and brown twigs, stalks, and leaves.

"Probably. I think Dhani used to dig around over here. He always wanted to start his own farm," he recalls. "There's a much better plot on the other side of the house. Have you seen my rhubarb?"

I emerge from the tangle of brush to see a serious expectant face.

"Not yet," I smile, regretfully.

George's attention returns to the mass in front of us. "And this? What are your plans for it, Miss gardener lady?"

That's me. I'm "Miss gardener lady." Now is my moment to sound like I know what I'm talking about. Only...

"I think it looks worse than it really is." I submit, explaining that all it needs is a clear-out of the old growth that is suffocating the surviving plants, and a good tilling of the soil before adding some organic matter. I hope he wasn't expecting me to suggest an overhaul.

I coyly kick at some green bits, trying to shift my discomfort.

"This sage looks happy, though."

"Are you sure that's sage?" he pushes, his voice deep and low.

My eyes got wide. I wasn't naïve to the possibility that this former hippie and sixties rockstar might have brought a few activities with him through the decades, but as far as I was aware, growing the stuff was still illegal.

"George, you scoundrel! You'd never - !"

He cut short my panic with a satisfied chuckle,

"You're all right. It's sage."

I blink heavily, embarrassed by my nervousness. In my right mind, I know sage when I see it, and I know what a pot leaf looks like. But George was a master of deadpan. I'd read many accounts of his trickster ways, and seen plenty of archival footage of the sharp-witted Fab Four giving interviewers the runaround.

"Not a good joke, sir." I laugh, despite myself. "I may work with all kinds of plants, but one or two..." I begin to explain, but he's still chuckling.

"I could lose my job," I assert, hoping he takes note of my seriousness. My job is my whole world, and to lose this gig - this rare opportunity – is something I don't want to risk.

"Oh? Says who?" comes his playful challenge.

"My boss."

"And isn't that me?" he questions, boyishly confused.

An apologetic cringe forms on my face,

"'Fraid not. I work for a company, y'see. They hired me, judged what I can do, and then they sent me out to you."

"Ah," he nods. He's understood me, but I can see he's onto another thought.

That's probably enough chat about me, so I return to the brush and start slicing into the ground, trying to break up the solid dirt and release its hold on long-dead tomato stalks.

"So really, this could stay as a vegetable plot if you wanted it to, but I'm not sure how convenient that would be. We are at the bottom of a hill, after all. It might be nice to keep this foliage here and bring in some lavender or something, and have a nice little aromatic feature."

I'm half daydreaming now, picturing George as a young man stood at the top of the hill behind me. It's a blustery day, and his stance is almost heroic as a gust of wind launches at his coat and through his elegantly wild long brown hair. The fresh perfumes from the lavender and sage I've planted for him are carried upon the wind, encircling him as he takes a long, romantic inhale.

"Couldn't you go independent?" he starts again, snapping me out of my reverie, "And make your own rules?"

I set down my trowel and fix my palm upon my knee. Looking over my shoulder at him, I take a breath and ponder the suggestion.

"Then I'd be my own boss."

"Mm," he responds, recognizing the difference from his previous assumption.

"And that would make you my client." I add, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

A saucy smile appears on his face at my word choice.

"I like the sound of that," he admits, clearly amused by our conversational power play.

It makes me wonder how many independent women he's known that have made their own ways in life - in the music business, or management, or anywhere. In my lifetime, women and men have always been pretty close to equal when it comes to financial independence and career building. Granted, we've still miles to go before we reach anything like total equality, but when compared to her sixties counterpart, the woman of today is on top of the world.

George's smile remains on his face as he turns to head back to the house. He's still enjoying our recent proposition.

"Think on it!" he calls to me once he reaches the top of the slope.