by Con Riley
Row after row of raised beds shored up by weathered wooden boards fill his field of vision. There’s the greenhouse he saw before he boarded his flight. Its glass panes reflect sunshine that leave Mrs. Sikorsky haloed with light. It’s an apt optical illusion considering Jon’s just seen a version of heaven on earth.
“Your garden is huge.”
“Yes.” Her agreement is simple, although her face does something complex. Worry creases the corner of her eyes for a fleeting second, swiftly followed by determination. “And I manage it just fine.”
“Uh huh.” Jon can’t help noticing that many of the planks flanking the raised beds are rotted and broken, and that only the edges of the beds are tended. Then the business-trained part of his brain gets busy. He calculates the value of this much land so close to the business district, only half listening as Mrs. Sikorsky chatters. He stops running numbers when the shovel starts to feel heavy in his hand, like gravity exerts more force on its blade, urging him to dig into this dirt so badly in need of turning over. Many of the beds they pass are wildly overgrown. Only one solitary section of ground is clear, covered by a light-blocking weed barrier. She catches sight of him frowning at it.
“Tyler laid that weed stopper for me.” Her smile trembles for a second, and her gaze flicks to other beds where weeds have laid siege and conquered.
Tyler should have finished the whole job.
Jon’s fingers curl around the handle of the shovel. It’ll take a helluva lot of digging to eradicate all of the roots now they’ve taken a firm hold. He says as much aloud, but Mrs. Sikorsky only shrugs and doesn’t answer. They walk on, making slow progress when Jon stops over and over to ask questions. The amount of work here only truly hits him when he kneels to take a closer look at an irrigation system.
“When did this quit working?”
“Last year,” she quietly admits.
“You really tend to all this on your own, Mrs. Sikorsky?”
“Peggy, please.” Her nod is quick, and she evades eye contact. Keeping on top of it all has clearly become an issue. “It’s just me, pretty much, since my husband passed. My boy helps when he can, but he’s always so busy.” She straightens her slight shoulders. “He’s already done so much for me, like placing the rental ad before he moves out of the apartment. He was all set to show you around. I’m sorry that you coming early like this means you don’t get to meet him.”
Wait.
Wait.
All that trash hadn’t been abandoned? The man Mrs. Sikorsky speaks of like a family member, who left every single chore he started half-done, actually still lives here? And he’s the man she says looks after all her business dealings?
Anger catches Jon by surprise. He takes it out on a fallen frame covered in rotting netting, hauling it back into position over a row of raspberry canes and blueberry bushes. It’s awkward to maneuver; there’s no way someone frail as her could right it all on her own. What kind of asshole leaves work like this for a senior citizen?
If Jon lived here, he’d—
A vision of picking the fruit grown here is so clear it saturates him. He can almost taste raspberries beaded with dew and feel the pop of ripe blueberries between his teeth.
If he rented this apartment, he’d be able to harvest his own for breakfast like he did as a kid. He absently brushes dirt from his hands on the seat of his pants as he faces the house. He’d grill outside all summer long if he lived here. And so what if there was no AC upstairs? Wasn’t Seattle known for rain rather than sunshine? And hadn’t he always loved to camp out? It would be no hardship to rig a hammock downstairs.
That thought gives him real pause.
Was he really considering renting somewhere so bad that camping out might be a better option than sleeping indoors? He toes at dirt that’s still covered with a winter’s dead leaves and engages the logic Bettman expects from their high flyers. Perhaps if Tyler had left the apartment habitable, Jon could’ve easily said yes to signing a lease that gave him access to all this.
For a moment Jon hates a complete stranger.
He’s furious that he won’t get to have this. It’s a shaft of emotion so pure he lingers behind an overgrown bush of rosemary that sorely needs pruning. Better that he delay for a few minutes than let this sweet old lady see him so pissed off. Luckily, she doesn’t notice a thing, heading back to her house, still chattering as if Jon’s right beside her. From this distance, he can see where roof shingles have slipped above where he’d sleep if this place was even halfway decent. He squints, and yes that’s a hammer rusting right next to another unfinished repair.
Despite the calming scent of rosemary that he’s unconsciously crushed in his fist, anger steadily smolders. It doesn’t matter how much he wants everything that he can touch and smell and see out here, he’d be dumb to pay rent for what’s inside, even to someone so vulnerable and clueless.
He hangs back when a blond man jogs over the grass toward her.
“Tyler!” Mrs. Sikorsky’s exclamation is happy as the man approaches. She’s joyous to see ‘her boy,’ despite the many shortcomings Jon’s noted, and his anger ignites in a hot flare when their conversation drifts in his direction. He overhears Peggy say Jon won’t be renting the apartment, and this guy has the gall to console her.
“Maybe it’s for the best, beautiful,” he murmurs, not sounding one bit sorry. His tone is persuasive, equally soothing and convincing as he adds, “Perhaps it’s a sign, like I said. Time to sell up and get somewhere easier to manage.”
“But what about you, Tyler? Where will you live if I do that?” It’s heartbreaking to hear her so worried about someone who clearly couldn’t give a crap for her welfare.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Tyler says. “You’re my number one priority.”
Jon’s heard so much doublespeak this year he’s pretty sure that means the opposite.
“And you know I meant it when I said I’d deal with all the paperwork for you, don’t you? I can handle all of it for you if you sign a power of attorney. I printed one off the internet for you, and I could make a start by taking down the rental listing if he’s not going to take it.”
An hour ago, Jon would’ve agreed that putting the house on the market was a good plan. This place is falling down around her ears, and it’s clear as day that Peggy can’t manage on her own. Now, he’s unprepared for two things. The first is the fact that Tyler looks the opposite of predatory when Jon steps out from behind the bush. As soon as he catches sight of Jon, his gaze is as warmly welcoming as in that blurry photo. He’s even cuter in real life—all “boy next door just tumbled out of bed” rather than cold-hearted and sly. He looks nothing like a sleazy asshole, but Jon’s already got his number.
The second surprise is how quick Tyler’s expression can change, confirming all his suspicions. It quickly shifts from caring to ice-cool when Jon insists, “You don’t need to sign anything right now.” Jon speaks directly to Mrs. Sikorsky, but he looks right at Tyler.
“I changed my mind. I’ll take it.”
Chapter 3
BY MONDAY morning, Jon regrets his impulsive decision. Then, because one lapse of judgment apparently isn’t enough, he goes ahead with another. A rational man would keep his motel room instead of taking an excited old lady up on her offer to move in quickly. She likely didn’t mean he should turn up at the crack of dawn less than forty-eight hours later. He should absolutely stay put in the motel, but irrationality must be his new mantra. It’s the only explanation for all of his actions lately, like losing his cool with a client in the first place or keeping the sprig of rosemary he crushed yesterday in his fist. Leaving it on his nightstand after emptying his pockets last night is another clear sign.
A reasonable person would’ve thrown it away.
There’s nothing reasonable at all about every spiky, needle-thin leaf seeming to point toward his suitcase. Nor is there a single good reason for him to check out of his clean and comfortable room before having breakf
ast. But common sense is a stranger to him today. Stupidity rules him instead, commanding him to fill his suitcase and leave, then sit in his car like a complete fool outside the worst place he’s ever rented.
His heart rate picks up the moment he sees it again.
Jesus Christ, it’s so dilapidated.
He could drive away right now, and no one would know that he’s been here. Get to his new gig at Hallquist Holdings before morning traffic delays him and be there bright and early. He’ll get one chance to make a first impression. Short-term consultant or not, he should act professional from the outset. He fumbles at the ignition, and the door keys Peggy gave him jingle on his key chain. They’re brand new and shiny, thrust into his hand before she even looked at the check he wrote her, let alone had time to cash it.
That complete trust is another cause for hesitation—basing her financial decisions on Jon having an honest face is terrifying.
No wonder lowlifes like that Tyler guy take so much advantage.
He sits back and squints, surveying his new home address. Watery sunlight reflects from the windows across the driveway. The drapes are still drawn—it’s way too early to disturb Peggy by returning her keys. He almost drives away before he notices that the garage door stands slightly ajar.
Curiosity gets the better of him, yet another impulse he regrets when the hinges squeal. He steps quickly inside, and the space is as he recalls, only now morning sun strikes the tools neatly arranged on its far side. Each metal edge of hoe and fork and shovel gleams like silvered lures that draw him, helpless as a magpie to fight against its nature. He’s there, hips pressed to the potting table, with a bright and shiny fork snug in his hand before he even knows it.
It’s his second mistake of the morning.
The first was driving here at all, but he lets himself into the backyard regardless. He’s so intent cataloging all the work that needs to be done out here that the damp kiss of dew to his suit pants doesn’t register. Neither does a flash of movement over at the house when a set of curtains open. He’s too busy promising himself that he’ll leave real soon to notice. He’ll drive to his new workplace and stamp his mark good and early, just as soon as he pulls the weeds that swamp this bed of spinach.
Even as he tells himself barefaced lies, his gaze wanders to the next bed where more weeds await attention.
Slowly, his heart rate settles.
A half hour later, sweat prickles his brow, but he’s oblivious, humming as he bends once more. A smile softens his expression, which has been hardened lately by the reports he’s written. That last report in particular had been a doozy to put together. And for what? So hundreds of families had their futures wiped out due to one man wanting to run out on his obligations? So needless when all his findings had suggested the opposite. So wrong when there were so many other options. At least pulling weeds makes clear sense, as does clearing the paths of vines that reach out to snag his ankles.
It doesn’t register right away that the traffic’s gotten louder. The volume increases even more when he finally stands to ease the strain in his back. Then it ebbs when he closes his eyes, and other sounds take over. To his left, there’s a buzz from bees collecting nectar, and there’s a soft drip-drip-drip of a leaking spigot. It’s a quiet accompaniment to the sound of a city waking, percussion to a birdsong chorus he hasn’t noticed in years.
He breathes in deeply through his nose once more before letting out a gusting exhale that feels never-ending.
The low rumble of traffic is still there, although barely noticeable now that his focus has shifted. His back aches all right, but he’s relaxed like he hasn’t been in an age, centered in this simple spot that feels so familiar. He inhales deeply again, only this time the sound of his steady exhale is masked by the loud crunch of footsteps on gravel.
The sun’s gotten a whole lot brighter since he arrived.
Jon raises a hand to shield his eyes and finds Tyler blinking at him.
He’s a polished actor. His concerned expression sure seems genuine as he gets all up in Jon’s business. “What are you doing out here?” Tyler asks from so close that shades of slate and dove grey are visible in his wide eyes. He scans Jon’s face very carefully, as if he’s the one whose motives need assessing, and his tone deceptively softens when he adds, “You sure you’re doing okay there, bud?”
It’s a surprisingly gentle question, but Jon’s hackles rise on instinct. His abrupt response—“I’m fine.”—should be enough of an answer, but Tyler doesn’t let up his act.
“You’re fine? You sure about that? Can’t exactly say you look it.” He tilts his head and squints, like he has room to talk despite his own bad case of bedhead. It’s ridiculous that someone who no longer lives here thinks he has the right to interrogate him. That doesn’t stop Tyler from persisting. “Looks like you’re dressed for the office. So what are you doing out here?”
“I’m….”
Actually, what is he still doing here exactly?
Jon rubs at his brow where sweat has dried tight at his hairline, and frowns rather than confess he lost track of time. He doesn’t need to explain himself to someone wearing pajama pants dotted with Bambi and Thumper, even if they do look as soft as his gaze.
Deflection seems a good plan. “I’m minding my own business, bud. You might want to try it sometime.”
“Hey.” Tyler holds both hands out, palms visible, as he finally takes a step back. “I was minding my own business, getting ready for bed, when I saw you from my window.”
Getting ready for bed at this time of the morning?
It’s another line Jon has trouble believing, like the one deepening between Tyler’s eyes that suggests honest worry. He’s so good at seeming concerned. No wonder he has Peggy wrapped around his finger.
“Are you… are you sure you’re okay?” Tyler keeps up his pretense. “You know you’ve been standing in the same spot for the last ten minutes, don’t you?”
Ten minutes? It had felt like seconds. He blusters while mentally regrouping. “I have every right to be here.” Then he adds, “Like I have every right to stand around if I want.”
Jon really, truly doesn’t if he doesn’t want to be late.
The urge to look at his watch is almost overwhelming, but there’s no way he’ll acknowledge that to someone about to waste daylight hours by sleeping. He stays on the offensive, like he would in front of his old roommates. “And what do you mean you could see me from your window?” He’s not above pulling the height card, and he draws himself up as tall as he can to maximize that advantage. “The apartment isn’t yours anymore. I’m moving in today, so you better have cleared out all that crap.”
Tyler doesn’t back down or look at all like the arch manipulator he is. Instead his lips draw up into a lopsided smile Jon refuses to find attractive. “I did already,” he says while looking over Jon’s shoulder. “And I saw you from over there.”
No wonder he’s smiling.
He’s pointing at Peggy’s house instead of the garage. The man clearly isn’t done with trying to get his hands on a vulnerable senior’s money. He’s simply moved from the garage apartment to her place so he can coerce her some more.
Tyler doesn’t hang around to check out his reaction. He backs off before saying, “So I have every right to be here too, bud.”
That last word comes out teasing. It’s as infuriating as his final sentence.
“So you better get used to sharing.”
Chapter 4
THE WALK of shame Jon makes on his first day at Hallquist Holdings is almost an action replay of his last day in New York. It’s not exactly how he planned to make a good impression. The glass-walled corridor leading to his new office does nothing to shield him from the view of strangers, who all got to work before him. They peek over cubicle corners to catch a glimpse of the tardy East-Coast consultant. Jon strides past like he can’t see them, head held resolutely high, as if turning up so late for work on his first day is all part of his pl
an.
He thanks his lucky stars that the instructions he got at the reception desk downstairs were so clear. It would suck so hard to have to ask for directions right now. His office should be to the right, just past a breakroom that’s crowded. The hubbub of those grabbing coffee dies down as he passes, then gets louder.
“That has to be him.”
“No way.”
“The consultant? I thought he’d be way older.”
Jon would kill for a cup of coffee, but he can’t face small talk right now. Thankfully his office is right where the directions lead, and—thank God—it’s empty. Seeing Jonathan Fournier: Management Consultant etched in black on a shiny doorplate is a nice touch lending an air of permanence to what’s likely a three-month project at most.
He lets himself in, pushes the door closed behind him, and crosses to the window. The city below is made up of unfamiliar neighborhoods, but as he follows the path of a freeway bisecting subdivisions, he wonders if he recognizes at least one. The row of houses he spies are smaller than Monopoly hotels from this height. Light glints in the distance. Maybe it’s Peggy’s greenhouse reflecting sunshine that filters through breaks in the clouds that have rolled in.
He backs away from the glass.
What the fuck had he been thinking wasting so much time there this morning?
Jon sinks into the chair behind his desk and gets his head back in the game. He should figure out just how behind his lateness has made him. No doubt there will be meetings, but right now, he needs to track down whoever’s been assigned to meet with him first.
A voice from the doorway interrupts him. “Jonathan Fournier?”
“Yes.” Jon extends his hand. “That’s me. Good to meet you…?”
“Stan.” The man’s maybe forty-five and well dressed, but the callouses Jon feels as they shake indicate a hands-on climb up the corporate ladder. “Heard you just got in,” he says. “Wanted to stop by and say welcome. Sharon Weiss had a lot of good things to say about you. Said you came from a small business background but had a keen eye for efficiency. I’m looking forward to having that mix of experience and skill at my table.”