smart and funny. He could not get her out of his head.
Saturday morning after the concert, he started calling her at nine in the morning. No answer. He left a message, then tried calling again after fifteen minutes. An hour later he went to his computer, downloaded directions to her address, and was on his way. She had said she would see him. She had said she would be home. No point, he thought, in wasting the day.
Her house was in an older neighborhood, the streets lined with shade trees and brick sidewalks. He pulled into number 17, a white, expanded Cape Cod, with green shutters, and lots of daffodils blooming. The front door was closed. A Subaru wagon was in the driveway, and the garage door was open. She was home. He went up the walk and rang the bell. There was no answer, but he could hear music. He walked around the house, past the garage. A post and rail fence surrounded the back yard, and as he pushed through the gate, he could hear the faint jingle of a brass bell that was attached to the gate. It should have announced his coming into the yard, but the sound was drowned out by the music that blasted out of open French doors.
Diane was toward the rear of the yard, trying to dig up an oversized azalea bush. He could see she had already prepared a new hole for it, right beside a large, slate patio. She was dressed in overalls, faded and baggy, caked with dirt. She was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt underneath, and her hair was pulled up and off her face in a spiked ponytail. She had been working for a while, and had almost completely dug up the bush, but it was stuck, and as she strained to uproot it, he could see the muscles on her arms tighten from the strain. Sweat trickled down the side of her face, soaked the neck of her shirt. She pushed against the shovel with all her weight, grunting with the effort, but the bush did not move, and as her arms began to tremble she threw up her hands.
“Fuck,” she said very loudly. Michael broke onto a grin.
She was wearing green canvas gloves, and she pulled them off and threw them down.
“Fuck.” She turned away from the azalea bush, then walked back to it and tried to kick the shovel with her foot. She missed, and stumbled, off balance.
“Fuckfuckfuck.”
Michael walked toward her. “Would you like some help with that?” he called, trying not to laugh.
She whirled and stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.
“Michael. God. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I tried calling, but you weren’t answering, so I thought I’d take a chance on just coming over. You said you’d be home.”
The blood rushed to her cheeks. “Oh, right. My ex picked up the girls early, so I’ve been out here all morning. I can’t hear the phone, especially with the music. I’m sorry. I should have brought out the cordless. I knew you were going to call.” She wiped her hands against her thighs. “I was trying to keep busy. I didn’t want to be hanging over the phone all day.” She looked away from him, biting her lip
“Oh.” He was watching her closely. When she looked back at him, he grinned. “So, do you want some help?”
“That would be so great. I was starting to get a little frustrated.”
“So I heard.”
She looked sheepish. “Not exactly appropriate language for an English professor, is it?”
“No, I thought it was perfectly appropriate. Do you have a pitchfork?”
“Yes.” She walked back toward the house and picked up a pitchfork from off the grass. He took it from her, and plunged in into the moist dirt. He worked quickly, using his weight, and in a few minutes, the bush heaved and flopped sideways. He and Diane lifted it into a wheelbarrow, he took it over to the patio, and moved it into the new hole. He shoveled in dirt and she tamped it down, then she dragged over the hose.
“Thirsty?” she asked. He nodded, so she handed him the hose and went into the house. She turned off the music, and returned with a tray laden with two glasses and a
Saturday morning after the concert, he started calling her at nine in the morning. No answer. He left a message, then tried calling again after fifteen minutes. An hour later he went to his computer, downloaded directions to her address, and was on his way. She had said she would see him. She had said she would be home. No point, he thought, in wasting the day.
Her house was in an older neighborhood, the streets lined with shade trees and brick sidewalks. He pulled into number 17, a white, expanded Cape Cod, with green shutters, and lots of daffodils blooming. The front door was closed. A Subaru wagon was in the driveway, and the garage door was open. She was home. He went up the walk and rang the bell. There was no answer, but he could hear music. He walked around the house, past the garage. A post and rail fence surrounded the back yard, and as he pushed through the gate, he could hear the faint jingle of a brass bell that was attached to the gate. It should have announced his coming into the yard, but the sound was drowned out by the music that blasted out of open French doors.
Diane was toward the rear of the yard, trying to dig up an oversized azalea bush. He could see she had already prepared a new hole for it, right beside a large, slate patio. She was dressed in overalls, faded and baggy, caked with dirt. She was wearing a sleeveless tee shirt underneath, and her hair was pulled up and off her face in a spiked ponytail. She had been working for a while, and had almost completely dug up the bush, but it was stuck, and as she strained to uproot it, he could see the muscles on her arms tighten from the strain. Sweat trickled down the side of her face, soaked the neck of her shirt. She pushed against the shovel with all her weight, grunting with the effort, but the bush did not move, and as her arms began to tremble she threw up her hands.
“Fuck,” she said very loudly. Michael broke onto a grin.
She was wearing green canvas gloves, and she pulled them off and threw them down.
“Fuck.” She turned away from the azalea bush, then walked back to it and tried to kick the shovel with her foot. She missed, and stumbled, off balance.
“Fuckfuckfuck.”
Michael walked toward her. “Would you like some help with that?” he called, trying not to laugh.
She whirled and stared at him, her mouth open in surprise.
“Michael. God. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“I tried calling, but you weren’t answering, so I thought I’d take a chance on just coming over. You said you’d be home.”
The blood rushed to her cheeks. “Oh, right. My ex picked up the girls early, so I’ve been out here all morning. I can’t hear the phone, especially with the music. I’m sorry. I should have brought out the cordless. I knew you were going to call.” She wiped her hands against her thighs. “I was trying to keep busy. I didn’t want to be hanging over the phone all day.” She looked away from him, biting her lip
“Oh.” He was watching her closely. When she looked back at him, he grinned. “So, do you want some help?”
“That would be so great. I was starting to get a little frustrated.”
“So I heard.”
She looked sheepish. “Not exactly appropriate language for an English professor, is it?”
“No, I thought it was perfectly appropriate. Do you have a pitchfork?”
“Yes.” She walked back toward the house and picked up a pitchfork from off the grass. He took it from her, and plunged in into the moist dirt. He worked quickly, using his weight, and in a few minutes, the bush heaved and flopped sideways. He and Diane lifted it into a wheelbarrow, he took it over to the patio, and moved it into the new hole. He shoveled in dirt and she tamped it down, then she dragged over the hose.
“Thirsty?” she asked. He nodded, so she handed him the hose and went into the house. She turned off the music, and returned with a tray laden with two glasses and a
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