Nate didn’t plan to return to Amy’s on Monday, even though there was much work left to be done. Her backyard was essentially completed but Nate and Danny had a way to go in the front of the house, even if, with Butch and Luis’s help, they’d made a lot of progress. No matter, Nate had been ready to turn the page on Amy’s property, return any advance payments, and start on the Russos’ place.
But it occurred to Nate that, his and Amy’s “situation” aside, it would be totally unprofessional to bail on the project midstream. (What would the Russos think if they passed by?) Plus, Nate, the gardening control freak that he was, would hate to see anyone other than himself and his team complete the yard as he’d mapped it out. In his mind, no one would ever do quite as detailed a job—would never put in the time and care—and it would pain Nate to see his vision monkeyed around with. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Then there was Danny. Nate wasn’t ready to bring him in on the secret—or whatever it was. And the tale he’d have to concoct to justify bailing on Amy would never pass Danny’s finely tuned bullshit meter.
So that’s why, when Amy exited her front door that morning ready to leave for work, she found herself facing Nate, a fragrant tub of heliotrope in hand, about to plant the purple, white, and baby blue clusters in a newly dug flower bed beneath her living room window. If she was surprised, she didn’t let on.
“I’m glad you decided to finish,” she said evenly, Danny and the others out of earshot.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to leave any loose ends,” Nate mustered, not realizing the dual meaning of his testy response. But Amy did.
“Loose ends?” She moved in closer to Nate, lowered her voice, and looked him squarely in the eye. “I moved my life to be near you, Nate.”
He was not prepared to have this conversation with Amy—or any conversation for that matter—but there they were, face to face. For the son of a man who spent so much of his life devoted to words—reading them, pondering them, discussing them—Nate had picked up few of his father’s crack oral skills. Maybe it was all those years in front of a classroom or lecture hall, but Jim could get to the heart of an issue in such a pithy, forceful, and persuasive way, it either opened the door to further rational discussion or closed it for good. Whichever way, Jim would win, yet he never made the person he debated feel as if they’d lost. That was an art. Fortunately, Jim rarely played those kinds of word games with his son, never tried to one-up him or engage in the rhetorical chess he reserved for his students and colleagues. That may have kept their relationship equitable and even-keeled but it didn’t prepare Nate for the type of deft verbal sparring that was sometimes needed. Now, for example.
Nate glanced across the yard where Danny and the guys were busy trimming an unruly jacaranda tree. Nate knew he had time: they’d be occupied for a while.
“And how’s that working out for you so far?” Nate, still holding the pot of heliotrope, asked Amy with an uncharacteristic smirk. He wondered how Jim would have handled a situation like this—that is, if he wasn’t the cause of said situation.
Amy studied him, her stance softening a bit. “Look, I can only imagine how hard this must be for you,” she answered, not taking the bait he’d tossed. “But it’s hard for me, too.”
“Well, if it’s that hard, you can always move back to Fresno. I mean, can’t you?” The impatience in his voice was undeniable yet Nate also realized it was a real question, one he truly had no answer to. It was hard to know what he did and didn’t know about Amy, how much to believe and how much to question. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t take everything—or anything—she’d told him for granted.
“I’m not moving anywhere. I have a job here. And a son.”
Nate was startled by the assurance of her words, so much so that he had no immediate reply. Instead, he placed the pot of heliotrope on the ground and dug a hole for it in the flower bed. Amy loomed behind him, watching him work, apparently prepared to wait for as long as it took for Nate to pick up the conversation. Which, from the looks of it, wasn’t happening anytime soon.
Suddenly, Danny crossed toward them. But he stopped short at what could have been construed—if you had a mind like Danny’s—as Amy standing there, checking Nate out, as he kneeled to plant the colorful flowers. Without turning around, Nate could feel Danny’s presence and froze, imagining how this must appear to his wily partner. Amy, still waiting for Nate’s response, was so silent she might as well have vanished.
“Am I interrupting something?” Danny asked with forced sincerity, as if trying to square how he could razz Nate yet stay respectful to Amy while getting both of their attention.
“Oh, Nate and I were going over a few things before I left for work,” Amy answered.
Danny asked to borrow Nate’s shovel, then left, carefully tossing a jokey leer at Nate, should he care to catch it. He didn’t and went on with his planting.
“Do you know what the name Nathaniel means?” Amy asked when it was clear that Nate still wasn’t talking.
“I don’t know, ‘fool’?” he shot back as he packed the soil tightly around the heliotrope with his hands.
Amy let several seconds pass before dignifying that with an answer. “It means ‘Gift of God.’” She allowed that to sink in, then added, “I named you that.”
Nate finished with the plant, then rose to face Amy, his look inscrutable. Even he seemed unsure what was going to come out of his mouth next. Would he finally take the high road and listen—really listen—to what the woman had to say? Or would he recoil once again, in fear of the possible truth—and its possible consequences?
The latter won out. “Do you always return your ‘gifts’?” he heard himself say.
Amy’s skin tightened, her eyes dark. They stared each other down for as long as they could bear it until Amy gave in and broke the spell. “I think today should be your last day here,” she said with near-frightening resolve. “You can refund me a thousand dollars. That should cover what you’ll owe me.” And without another look, she turned and walked off to the garage, leaving Nate stunned by the taste of his own medicine.
Before Nate could process what just happened, Danny was in his face. “Dude, what the fuck just happened? She did not look happy.” Nate considered how he could answer, but honesty seemed too crushingly complicated.
“Today’s our last day here,” he punted. “It’s a long story.”
“I got time,” Danny said, crossing his arms and narrowing his gaze at Nate. Butch and Luis, who were finishing up the jacaranda tree, looked across at their bosses as if they were in trouble. Danny called over something in Spanish that seemed to calm the guys.
“So you gonna tell me or play all mystery man like you always do?”
Nate could feel his hackles rise and his stomach sink. Danny was his friend, his partner, and he owed him the truth. But it was not forthcoming. Not yet. “I’ll see if we can start at the Russos’ house tomorrow,” Nate finally said. “If not, take the day off, okay?”
“With pay?” Danny asked, a hint of his trademark twinkle resurfacing.
“Don’t be a dumbass. Yeah, with pay.” Nate gave Danny’s shoulder a playful shove; Danny returned it, grinned. Yet behind his smile was a well of concern. He’d have to leave it there for now.
They worked till four and called it quits. After the others left, Nate stood alone and glumly looked around at the half-finished yard. He felt like a failure. So much left undone—and even more unsaid.