“We never did decide on that gazebo, did we?” asked Corey Russo, fresh off a pre-breakfast bike ride with Brooke. The sunny couple, both still in jerseys and cycling shorts, matching coffee mugs in hand, gazed out appreciatively at their newly finished backyard as Nate gave the plantings a last once-over. Everything looked like it had begun to take root, though he was concerned about some yellowing on a few of the larger California natives, especially a quite beautiful manzanita. He’d have to adjust the sprinklers in case they were getting too much water.
“I decided for you,” answered Nate. “You didn’t need one. You’ve got plenty going on back here without it.” He cast an approving eye on the dry creek bed, which was even wider, longer, and curvier than Amy’s, and if he had to say so himself, pretty damn cool-looking.
“Well, we’re in love with what you’ve done back here, Nate,” said Brooke, handing Nate a check for his last payment. “You’re a true artist. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Only one person. And she was his next stop that morning.
Part of him wanted to bury the thoughts and questions that had been vexing him in the hours since finding that photo—or rather since it found him. But given that she lived so close to the Russos and he just happened to take along that old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, her picture conveniently still wedged inside, Nate couldn’t help but stop by for what he knew would turn into an interrogation. Fortunately, he was meeting Danny at nine—and it was already eight—so he couldn’t stay at Amy’s long. That is, if she was even there.
She was, answering the door already dressed for work in a smart-looking blue pinstripe dress, but still in stocking feet, wielding a mascara wand. If she was surprised to see Nate, she didn’t let on.
“Were you at the Russos’?” Amy asked after inviting him inside.
Nate didn’t remember if he’d ever even mentioned his clients’ last name to her, but she knew it anyway. He nodded, hovering in the doorway. His feet felt like cement. It prevented him from moving forward—or turning and running.
Amy eyed the book in his hand. “Why are you holding a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Without a word, Nate removed the signed photo. She silently left the doorway and returned minus the makeup brush, reading glasses in hand. She put them on, tilted the snapshot up to the daylight, and turned it over, reading the inscription.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
Nate raised the book. “It was in here. Where my father must’ve hidden it—or whatever he meant to do—after you sent it.” His answer was loaded with accusation and conjecture. He was proud of neither.
She studied Nate, composing herself. “Why are you looking at me that way? It’s just a picture. And would you please come inside for a minute?”
Their brief relationship had been such an emotional rollercoaster that it was sometimes hard for Nate to remember where they’d left off. He flashed on hugging her goodbye the day before, so things couldn’t have ended too badly. But hadn’t it been a kind of calm after the storm? All he felt was the storm at the moment. Still, he put one leaden foot in front of the other and followed her in.
They sat in the living room—Amy on the white couch, Nate in one of the wide wingbacks—as she examined the graduation day photo. Glancing around the precise, well-appointed space, it once again hit Nate how different Amy was from her parents. Maybe it was because of who they were, and the more basic way they seemed to live their lives, that she felt the need to rise above them. To be what they were not. Nate always aspired—successfully or not—to be more like his father, even if only in temperament, in goodness. Did he still feel that way?
“What do you want to know?” Amy finally asked. She sounded defensive, weary.
“Why did you send that picture to him? How did you send it?” Nate asked, trying to stay calm. “You said no one knew where he’d moved. You said you never spoke to him again. Yesterday, you also said there was nothing else you were keeping from me—and then I find that.” He indicated the photo in her hand. “How can I ever really know what’s true?”
Amy rose from the couch and handed the snapshot back to Nate as if she wanted no part of it—no part of the memory. She stood above him looking fragile yet resolved. “I never did speak to your father again,” she said. “All I ever did was write. And only that one note.” She gestured with her chin at the photo. “And, sure, maybe sending it was a little cry for attention. I told you, I never really lost my feelings for him.”
Nate, unmoved, gazed at her with anticipation. Amy explained that she mailed the photo to Jim’s old address in Fresno hoping it would be forwarded to wherever he was—if he’d even given the post office a location to do so. She had no idea if he ever received it—until now, that is—and she never really expected to hear back from him.
“I promise you,” Amy said, reaching for Nate’s hand, “I did not know where he was living. I did not know where you were. And if I didn’t bring it up yesterday after the whole money thing came out, it was because I’d completely forgotten.” She squeezed Nate’s hand; he let her, then withdrew it. Amy sighed. “Anyway, it’s such a tiny thing in comparison,” she concluded. “What difference does it make?”
Nate stood, looming over Amy, looking as sad, as wistful as she now did. “If you have to ask that question,” he told her, “then you really don’t understand.”
Amy got up from her chair. “Look, maybe you’re still overwhelmed from the trip north,” she said with a tinge of hope. “Maybe it was too much, too soon.” When he didn’t answer, she gently added, “I thought we could finally have a real relationship. Do you know how lucky that would make us?”
He did. Of course he did. And yet. “I’ve been trying to trust you—wanting to trust you. I have. But it’s … the whole thing … it’s just really hard.”
“No one ever said it was going to be easy. I mean, talk about an understatement.”
“Okay, but do I really want to keep putting out all this emotion, all of this effort, only to ultimately fail? For us to fail?”
Amy turned away from Nate and crossed to the front window. “Every time I look at the yard it gets more beautiful.”
“Well, it cost you enough,” Nate said, coming up behind her. “I hope the owner appreciates it.”
Amy faced him, a trace of a smile forming. “Maybe one day I can deduct it from the purchase price.” But when she saw Nate’s startled expression, she quickly waved away her comment. “Don’t worry, I’m not buying anything yet.”
Nate peeked at his watch. It was 8:40. He really needed to leave. And he should have before the blunt thought that came to mind flew out of his mouth. “Honestly? I don’t know if you should move here if it’s just to be near me. I wouldn’t want that pressure. That responsibility.”
Amy looked like she had just been slapped with a wet towel. But instead of shirking back, she stood straighter. “What kind of responsibility? I can take care of myself quite well, thank you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“If you want me to leave town, I’ll quit my job and leave town.”
Nate placed the cherry atop the self-sabotage sundae. “I don’t want you to leave,” he asserted. “But right this very second, I’m not sure I want you to stay.”
“Well, that’s definitive,” Amy hit back. “No wonder you can’t commit to Jennifer. You don’t really know what you want.”
She couldn’t have known, of course, how that would sting at this particular moment, but Nate sure did. “Please leave Jennifer out of this,” he ordered. “And it’s not like you’ve done so great in the romance department.” Before he could register Amy’s hurt, he made for the front door. “I’ve got to go. I have a new job to get to.”
Nate spied Amy in his rearview mirror as he drove away. She was standing shoeless on the front lawn, looking helpless and increasingly small.
Lake Hollywood was an upscale enclave of well-kept homes about ten minutes south of Toluca Woods. The neighborhood gave way to the scenic Hollywood Reservoir, a popular walking spot in the shadow of the famed Hollywood sign. Until signing this new gig, Nate hadn’t spent much time in the area—beyond giving estimates on a few jobs that didn’t pan out—but he’d always liked its tucked-away privacy and quiet charm.
Driving up hilly La Sombra Drive, Nate noticed how many of the older, Spanish-style houses had been enlarged or knocked down altogether and replaced with the kind of boxy, industrial-looking, glass-and-concrete giants that now dotted Los Angeles. He disliked their flat lines and soaring starkness, enormous picture windows, and sleek walls usually painted in austere whites or grays. They were a personal affront to Nate: their sparseness didn’t lend itself to the kind of lush, clustery planting designs that had become his specialty. That’s not to say he couldn’t warm up the pricey homes a bit with some creative landscaping, but the thought didn’t excite him. Maybe he was more of an artist than he gave himself credit for.
Danny was waiting for Nate in front of a classic, low-slung stucco ranch with leaded windows, arched doorways, and a red clay tile roof. He’d already unloaded the heap of tools from his truck that they’d need to start tearing up the front yard’s shrubbery beds, which were getting a full refresh. It was a smaller job than usual, one that Nate and Danny could handle alone, and shouldn’t take more than a few days. Still, the homeowner, a veteran TV soap star named Charla Kent, who’d lived in the house since the late-1970s—or “four husbands ago,” as she’d brashly informed Nate—said she was “known to change her mind.”
Nate, who was feeling pretty alienated after tangling with both Jen and Amy, was so happy to see the buoyant Danny that he grabbed him in a rowdy bear hug.
“What’s got into you, man?” Danny asked with his usual broad grin as he disengaged from Nate. “You find out you got two weeks to live or something?” (If that impulsive remark felt “too soon” after Jim’s passing, neither seemed to notice.)
“Nah, just glad to see a friendly face, that’s all,” said Nate.
Danny raised an eyebrow and gave his head a dubious tilt.
“What?” Nate wanted to know. As if he already didn’t.
“Rough times up north?”
Part of Nate wanted to give his friend a full report but the other part wanted to stick to his self-imposed cone of silence. That said, it was feeling iffy whether he and Amy could truly make things work, so maybe, Nate figured, he should just scrap plan A and get Danny’s unfiltered opinion. Before Nate could proceed either way, Charla popped out of her front door in a violet velour jogging suit, shrewdly unzipped to expose just enough well-toned cleavage to prove the attractive, seventyish actress still had it going on. The lady clearly liked an audience, especially if it contained young men.
“How are my guys today?” she asked in a slightly come-hither voice.
“Ready to make your yard as beautiful as you,” Danny said with a smile that could melt butter. Nate was glad at least one of them was a bit shameless. The thing was, Danny meant what he said and knew how to make folks feel good in the process. That was a gift.
Which reminded Nate: He needed to carve out some time for a serious talk with him about new business goals and revising their partnership. That then reminded Nate: It was Amy who’d first planted the idea for him to grow his company. It made him feel crappy about the way he’d left her earlier—in anger and confusion and distrust. Maybe the situation was simply bigger than the two of them—three if you counted his father—and, despite best efforts, there was no real long-term solution.
“Oh, Danny, if only I were forty years younger,” Charla said coyly. She thrust her chest out and moistened her glossy lips, gestures she’d likely employed thousands of times for the TV cameras.
“If only I wasn’t married,” retorted Danny with a wink. “Anyway, age is just a number. Isn’t that what they say?” Nate didn’t know who said that but it sure wasn’t Danny. But damn if Charla wasn’t blushing like a schoolgirl.
By the end of their first afternoon, the actress had agreed to build a dry creek bed in her roomy backyard, visibly wowed by pictures Nate showed her from their last two jobs. She also gave an enthusiastic yes to replacing a pair of misshapen old peach trees in front (“I haven’t seen fruit on these things since Reagan was president!”) with pygmy date palms, which Nate felt would add a tropical touch without overwhelming the garden.
To thank Danny for his stellar performance that day opposite a real actor, Nate took him out for beers at a neighborhood bar on Hollywood Way in Burbank called Bailey’s, which drew an assortment of workaday folks from the nearby Disney and Warner Bros. studios. Alicia had given Danny the okay to hang out with Nate “for an hour—that’s it!” and with a one-drink limit, even though she knew he’d have two. He promised to be home in time to bathe Raffi and put him to bed so Alicia could finish up some work that was facing a tight tax deadline.
Nate wondered aloud how he’d fare having to negotiate his free time with a wife (“It’s called compromise, dude. Look it up!” super-husband Danny told him), though the way things were going for Nate it was currently a moot worry.
Sitting in a cracked red leather booth as a jukebox shuffled between old disco hits and even older Johnny Cash tunes, Nate toasted Danny and thanked him for all his hard work and friendship. Danny smiled appreciatively, then took a swig of his Heineken. He studied Nate over his beer bottle.
“That it?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Nate replied. In truth, he still wasn’t sure how to approach the partnership idea. Amy’s words from that morning echoed: You don’t really know what you want. At the time, that seemed like an unfair thing to say. But now? Maybe it wasn’t so incredibly off-base.
“You still haven’t told me anything about Fresno. Was it good? Did it suck? Are you happy? Are you pissed off? Were your grandparents nice? Are they crazytown? What about the sister? Was she chill?”
The clacking of billiard balls from a corner pool table blended with the twangy strains of Cash’s “Ring of Fire” (Nate recognized the song from the remake he liked by Social Distortion). A wave of exhaustion came over Nate at the thought of revisiting the events of the weekend, even the better ones. But Danny was eyeballing him with such insistence, the kind that demanded, “Are we friends or not?” that Nate sucked down some beer and was about to fill in the blanks. But he took a sharp, decidedly diversionary U-turn and launched into an impromptu proposal to make Danny a fifty-fifty partner in the future Cronin/Soto Landscaping Inc.
“In exchange for half the responsibility for, well, everything,” Nate explained. “But, hopefully, double the business—and profit—for both of us.”
Danny was so stunned by Nate’s offer that he was, for once in his voluble life, speechless. But so visibly proud and honored, he looked near tears.
Danny bucked up and broke into a wall-to-wall grin. “Leesh is gonna be super stoked!” His face turned sober. “Shit, now I can’t use the ‘we need more money’ excuse to put off kid number two.”
“I thought that was already in the works?”
“In the works, yeah. In the oven, no.” Danny pointed his beer bottle at Nate. “Whaddya think, I just wave it at her and boom—baby time?”
“Yeah, I know how it works, papi.” Nate rarely used Spanish with Danny, who spoke so little himself. But third-generation American that he was, Danny wasn’t proprietary about his mother tongue. He got a kick out of Nate using it and smiled now at the jab.
Nate had a practical thought. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’ll have more work to do now—and so will Alicia,” he said as a noisy disco song called “Get Down Tonight” blared from the wall speakers. “She’ll need to do a full revamp of our accounting and salary distribution system and help us incorporate. And that’s just for starters.” Nate finished his beer and added, “Anyway, maybe it’ll buy you some time. I mean, if that’s what you want.” It occurred to Nate that this was none of his business and ended it there.
They both watched as an older couple, drinks in hand, danced by the jukebox. “Forty years? That’ll be me and Alicia,” Danny mused.
“Dancing to better music, I hope.”
Danny drained his Heineken, then turned back to Nate. “Don’t you want that, man?”
“What?”
Danny nodded toward the dancers. “That. Or what me and Alicia have. Or half the world has, for that matter. You deserve it.” He paused. “Jen deserves it.”
“Jen.” Nate sighed. “Yeah, well that’s another story.” He vacantly rolled his empty beer bottle in his hands.
Danny studied him. “Wait, I thought you two were good again? What happened? She ask about your trip and you wormed out of it?” Before a surprised Nate could protest, Danny tacked on, “Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice, ’cause I did. Twice.”
Nate looked away shyly, evasively. The dancing couple boogied away from the jukebox toward the bar to scattered applause.
Danny considered his glum partner. “Hey, I get one more drink. Let’s do a shot. Celebrate you and me.” As he turned to go: “Patrón okay?”
Nate brightened. “More than okay.” He pushed a twenty at Danny, who waved it away.
“On me, bro. And then you can talk shit about your mom and Jen—or not. No pressure.” Nate nodded with a smile and Danny took off for the bar. He stopped short, turning back to Nate. “Hey, it just hit me. Something like … ‘Soto/Cronin Landscape Designs’ has a cool ring to it, don’t you think?”
Nate grinned. Did he know this joker or what?