Nate hadn’t seen Amy for several days. She left for work before he and his crew arrived and returned after they’d left. The backyard was progressing well: They’d been uprooting, planting, seeding, reconfiguring. It was one of Nate’s better team efforts and he was feeling good about the results. Each morning Amy left snacks for Nate and the guys with notes that read “Keep up the great work!” or “Have the best day!” which was weirdly inspiring. A part of Nate was sorry she wasn’t there to observe them—she seemed to appreciate what they were doing—although another side of him was a bit relieved he could work without distraction. Amy seemed more interested in him than the average client and that last talk over iced tea had put him in a strange mood for the rest of the day.
Danny was still sure she was their mystery drive-by that Saturday on Escarpa, but they’d yet to see her car to help confirm his suspicion. Not that it mattered one way or the other, as Nate repeatedly reminded him. “Some detective you’d make,” Danny retorted.
One morning, after their first week or so at Amy’s, she appeared in the backyard in a sleek, navy business suit and black pumps, attaché over her shoulder, a tray of muffins in hand.
“Morning, all!” Amy said brightly as she set the tray on a small teak table. The guys all swung around from their work spots and eyed their well-dressed employer. “I tried a new muffin recipe last night. Let me know how I did, okay?”
“You’re gonna spoil us, y’know,” said Danny with a smile as he went for a muffin.
“They’re just carrot muffins, not lobster tails,” Amy joked, eyes crinkling, as she watched him savor the pastry. Butch and Luis came up for a taste as well.
“Hey, I want to show you something,” Nate said. “Do you have a second?” Amy, intrigued, followed him across the yard to a newly dug garden filled with a row of bright, crimson-colored bushes. “See, we tore out those boxy old hedges and replaced them with these great hydrangeas. It’s going to be all about the color back here.”
Amy studied the hearty plants. “They’re beautiful. It’s looking much more … ‘artistic’ than before,” she noted. He smiled, proud and a bit self-conscious. Amy checked her watch. “I’m running late, I’d better be going,” she said, “but I’ll see you soon.”
Nate didn’t want her to go. “Where do you work, by the way?” he asked to stall her but also because he honestly had no idea—and it seemed like something he should know.
“I freelance at a law firm downtown.”
“You’re a lawyer?” Nate wondered, as much a question as a statement.
“Para-lawyer. Paralegal,” she explained.
“Well, you look nice,” said Nate, surprising himself. Danny shot him a discreet—for Danny—eyebrow raise.
Amy looked Nate up and down attentively, and said, “You look nice today, too. Very handsome.” And, before Nate could respond, she shifted gears. “Have a good day, everyone!” She made an appreciative scan of her garden, then walked off to the garage adjacent to the backyard.
Before Amy was fully out of earshot, Danny lurched up to Nate. “She wants it, dude. And don’t even try to say she doesn’t!” Butch and Luis, overhearing, traded grins.
Nate, his face flushed as red as those hydrangeas, kept his voice down. “You don’t know that.” He grabbed a shovel and started digging a trench. Amy’s garage door groaned open beyond them.
“Oh, yeah? I’ve got two eyes—and obviously, so does she.”
Nate considered Danny. “Look, if she likes me, I’m flattered, okay? But she’s old enough to be my … well, I don’t know how old she is.” His digging sped up. “Besides, I’m not dating anyone right now.”
Danny got in his face. “Yeah—exactly! And what the fuck are you digging there, bro? A hole to jump into and hide?”
“Ha-ha, you should do standup. It’s for the herb garden, if you must know.” He stopped digging and faced Danny, who was still looming over him. “And you know what I think?” Nate asked, shoulders back, chest puffed. “I think you want to live vicariously through me, you old married man.” He grinned like he had just scored the winning touchdown.
Danny devilishly assembled his retort. “If I’m gonna live ‘vicariously’ through anyone, it’s gonna be, like, LeBron James or the gazillionaire from Amazon, not you, son.” Before Nate could volley back, Danny looked toward the garage, his eyes widening. “Oh, shit!”
Nate followed Danny’s gaze. Amy’s car was backing out of the driveway. It was a Toyota Camry—like that small white sedan from that day on Escarpa. Without a word, Danny raced out of the yard and into the driveway. Nate, shovel still in hand, went after him. They landed at the head of the driveway and watched Amy’s Camry vanish into the distance. The guys said nothing until the car was out of sight.
Finally, Danny’s face twisted into a shit-eating grin. “You’re just lucky I’m not the kind of guy who’d say ‘I told you so.’”
“Oh, yeah, you’d never do that,” Nate shot back.
At the end of the day, as Nate was about to get into his truck, he spotted a note stuck under his windshield wiper. He unfolded the sheet of paper, which had been torn from a realtor’s promotional pad (“Hallie Dell knows how to sell!”) and read the flowery script: Looking for a landscaper. Could you stop by for an estimate? - The Russos, 4648 Fortuna.
It was already well past five and Nate needed to get home to feed Cody. He had stayed on after the others left, as he sometimes did, to assess the day’s work alone and unwind before he got on the road and faced the inevitable rush-hour crush. But the Russos, whomever they were, lived only a block from Amy and, rather than chance them finding another landscaper, Nate hopped in the Silverado and sped around the corner.
Their house was a ranch like Amy’s though slightly larger, as was their decently manicured front garden. Nate assumed they had backyard issues—most folks did—and he was proven correct when he met Corey and Brooke Russo, an attractive couple he guessed to be in their mid-30s. They greeted him holding full glasses of cocktail hour rosé which, based on their cheery looseness, might have been refills. These two clearly don’t have kids, Nate mused.
Corey and Brooke yakked away with Nate like old college pals as they took him into their backyard. The place was a mishmash of rickety shrubs and abandoned gardening projects strewn amid blotches of dirt and grass. A gleaming, high-end stainless-steel grill stood proudly on a square of concrete beneath an awning; the Russos’ priorities were evident.
As if reading Nate’s mind, Corey said, “As you can probably guess, we’re bigger cooks than gardeners.” Corey and Brooke shared a quick peck on the lips. Brooke turned back to Nate.
“Sure you don’t want a drink?” she asked, tilting her glass at him. “We have beer, too.”
Nate passed on the offer and launched into an impromptu redesign. First, he recommended they go heavy on drought-tolerant plants (from its position and exposure, Nate could tell the spot got a ton of sun), stressing their eco-friendly nature. He went on to suggest a variety of trees, vines, and flowers—some of which he was using at Amy’s, others that would work better at the Russos’. They nodded happily in agreement.
“You might consider building a small gazebo over there,” Nate added, indicating a wide, barren corner. “It’d break up the yard and look really stylish.”
“I dig your ideas, Nate,” Corey said, adding, “No pun intended.” Nate laughed politely as if he hadn’t heard that joke before. Corey reminded him of one of those popular jocks who peaked in high school yet still relied on their charm and good looks to get by. Meantime, Brooke seemed like someone who didn’t bloom until college and still couldn’t believe she nabbed the prom king. Nate felt a twinge of envy at what they had (he even fleetingly wondered if their parents were all still alive) and it made him angry—at himself.
He slapped a smile back on his face and finished tossing out his ideas for their yard. Corey said they’d discuss it and be back in touch, which was good because Nate didn’t want to take the time then to rough out an estimate.
“How’s it going at the house around the corner?” Brooke asked as she and Corey walked Nate to his truck, now-empty wine glasses in hand.
“The place is really taking shape,” he answered. “You should stop by and check it out, see what you think.”
“It’s none of our business,” said Corey, turning serious, “but do you find it a little strange that she’s putting that much work into a rental? I mean, you’re redoing the front and back, right?”
Nate stopped a few feet before they reached the Silverado. “A rental? Amy owns the house,” he said, quickly replaying his and Amy’s first conversation in his head. That was what she said, wasn’t it?
“No, a woman named Jane Tanaka owns it. She retired to Monterey, keeps it as income property,” explained Brooke.
“I’m pretty sure Amy said she bought it last year,” Nate said, unlocking the truck door with a chirp. “Or maybe she said she moved in last year.” He stared at the key fob in his hand as if for clarity.
The Russos looked at each other. “I don’t know,” Corey said with a shrug, “I could swear she just moved in a few months ago—if that.”
Nate thought about that curious discrepancy all the way home, so much so that the 134 Freeway’s crawling traffic barely registered. The Russos may not have been the most reliable of narrators, at least not at that particular wine o’clock, but their words were jarring—especially after seeing Amy’s car again (was it again?) that morning. Taken individually, each item may not have meant much, if anything at all. But together they made him wonder.