In the summer, I usually drop by Mrs. Carlton’s house on Fridays to mow her yard, so that’s where I find myself the next late afternoon. (Frankly, I needed a break from the construction business after a disastrous day at work, which included Wendy Jenkins’s counter not being installed after yet another mix-up.) As promised, I brought a few kitchen faucets for her to choose from.
I park my truck in front of her house and carry the boxes up to the front door.
“Cal,” Mrs. Carlton says as she opens the door. “What do you have there?” She steps back and lets me in.
“Some faucets for you to pick from.” I carry them into the kitchen and lay them out on the table side by side. “I think you should pick one of these two,” I say, pointing to the middle box and the one on the right. “They have levers instead of handles, which would be better for your arthritis.”
She gazes up at me with warm eyes. “You are just the sweetest.”
Hardly, but I smile back. “I’m going to start with the back yard, then move to the front. I noticed the bushes need to be trimmed.”
“Don’t work too hard. It’s hot out there today.”
“I have a bottle of water,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
I head out to her garage and tune up the mower and gas it up before heading out back. It’s not a large yard, but she has a lot of trees, so it takes longer than the front.
When I push the mower through the gate to the front yard, Mrs. Carlton is waiting on the steps with a glass of lemonade.
I wipe sweat from my brow with the edge of my T-shirt before downing half the glass.
“I hate that you’re working so hard,” she says with a frown.
I laugh. “Are you kidding? I get to skip the gym now.”
Which is a fib since I already worked out this morning, but I hate that she feels guilty. My workout was extra punishing as I unsuccessfully tried to purge the memory of how I treated Molly yesterday.
“I could just hire someone to do it, Cal,” she says, still looking glum.
“Don’t you dare,” I mockingly scold her. “If you pay someone else, I’ll take it to mean I didn’t do a good job.”
She gasps. “Of course you do a good job. You’re a perfectionist.”
I finish off the lemonade and hand the glass back to her. “Then I better start perfecting your yard.”
She laughs, shaking her head as if I’m incorrigible as she heads back inside, and I turn the mower back on. When I’m halfway through, my shirt is sticking to my back, so I turn the mower off and pull the fabric over my head. The sweat-soaked shirt goes into the bed of my truck, and I grab my water bottle from the front seat, down half of it, then douse my head with the rest. I toss the canteen into the front seat and turn to find two women standing on Mrs. Carlton’s driveway, staring.
It takes me half a second to realize I know them both. The first is the waitress from the tea shop—Dee’s sister-in-law, Tina—and the second is none other than Molly.
Time seems to stand still as I look at her. She’s gorgeous in a yellow sundress, and her long hair is blowing lightly in the breeze. I’ve been thinking about her practically nonstop, alternating between yearning and regret—but mostly regret—since she drove away from me yesterday.
I handled it all wrong. While I think I had a legit right to wonder whether she was just getting close to me for the story, I don’t believe for one second that she slept with any of those men from her blog posts. I went through a bunch of them last night, when I couldn’t sleep, and in the ones with photos or videos, Molly looks bored, annoyed, or bemused. Nothing like the way she watched me yesterday. Besides, Molly’s too bright to sleep with men she paints as so stupid.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize to her now, yet two things stop me. One, she’s with Tina and, more importantly, I’m wondering what she’s doing here. I’d blast her for stalking me, again, but the surprise on her face looks too genuine.
“Do you live here?” she asks, wide-eyed.
“No,” I say, taking a step toward them and thumbing back toward the house. “I mow every week for Mrs. Carlton.”
“You mow?” Tina asks, looking confused. “Like, you answered an ad or something?”
I laugh. “No. I know her—” I stop short of saying I used to live next door, otherwise Molly might scour the block, interviewing my old neighbors. “She’s a family friend.”
Molly narrows her eyes and tilts her head to study me. She noticed my hesitation.
“You can mow Molly’s yard,” Tina says.
“My sister employs a lawn service,” Molly says dryly.
“I’ll bet he’d do a much better job.”
Molly shakes her head, but a small smile plays on her lips.
“So what are you doing here?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“What if I said this is my sister’s house?” Molly says, gesturing to Mrs. Dahl’s house.
“Then I’d say you’re lying.”
That intrigues her. She props a hand on her hip. “How do you know who lives there, Cal?”
I’m sure not going to admit I lived one house down from her for years, so I go with something safe and true. “Because the woman who lives there accosted me with an umbrella when I dropped by to check on Mrs. Carlton on Tuesday. Her name is Roxie Dahl.”
Which brings me back to my curiosity about why they’re here. I doubt Molly or Tina know her.
Molly must see the worried look in my eyes. “We’re here to do an exposé on octogenarians who live a swinger lifestyle.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Mrs. Dahl is in her seventies, but I don’t correct her. If she’s expecting a reaction from me, she’s not going to get one. Roxie Dahl has lived a very full life and has no plans to slow down anytime soon. “Nothing would surprise me when it comes to Roxie, but you might need to get permission from her family. I know she’s been having bouts of dementia.”
I’ve already said the words by the time I realize the way they sound. I’m not trying to be critical. I’m sure Molly’s not here to trick Mrs. Dahl, who loves to talk, but there’s a possibility her family might think she was exploitive. I figure a warning can’t hurt.
Of course she takes it the wrong way. “You think I’m out to get everyone, don’t you?”
“Not everyone,” I say with a sigh. I stop short of explaining, because maybe it would be better if she sees me as an asshole. It would make it easier for both of us.
Tina glances between us with a look in her eyes I can’t make out. Then she forces a cheer that doesn’t appear genuine. “We’re going to be late. We better get inside for that interview.”
“Yeah,” Molly says, but she doesn’t move.
We stare at each other for a few more seconds, and it’s like everything that’s passed between us unfurls in that moment. It takes everything in me not to close the distance between us, pull her into my arms and kiss her. But nothing has changed. We still can’t work.
I decide I should be the one to make a move. “Good to see you, Tina,” I say with a short wave. “Tell Dee I said hi.”