Stay With Me (12 page)

I dragged my mower over the driveway and through the side wooden gate, ready to tackle the backyard. I cut rows slowly, moving closer and closer to the fence. The trees would cover me peering into the Blakes’ yard, but I couldn’t quite figure out what to do about the person whose yard I was cutting. The back of the house had four windows, nice sized, facing my direction, and he’d been
very
clear about me not trimming his trees. I hemmed and hawed until, finally, he solved my problem for me.

“Son,” he called from the gate, over the roar of the motor, “I’m running out for a while.”

I let go of the handle of the mower, and suddenly blessed silence reigned over the yard. “Okay,” I said, probably smiling just a little too big. “I only have two more rows before I finish. I’ll probably rake, and trim that azalea too.”

His arthritic hand trembled a bit as he struggled to pull money from his wallet, and I was suddenly glad I’d taken the job seriously. He stuffed a few crumpled bills into my sweaty palm. “You do darned fine work, Martin.”

Now my smile was genuine. Mr. Nesbitt was actually a pretty nice guy. I stuffed his three twenties in my pocket. And sixty bucks would certainly look nice in my gas tank right now. I’d never worked so hard for sixty dollars in my life, but I shook his hand when he offered it. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll probably need you again in about a month. This grass grows like wildfire. Better not to let it get out of hand, you know.”

“Yes, sir, you’re right.”

“If you just do a little at a time, you won’t have such a big job when you finally get to it, you know?”

“I know.”

“Now, don’t trim those azaleas too close. They took a beating from the storm and haven’t been the same since. This is the healthiest I’ve seen them since Hurricane Wilma.” He ran two fingers over his quivering mustache, and I sighed inwardly. What the hell happened to his errand?

I heard a bang next door, like a back door slamming closed, and I cursed inwardly. This was my window!

“I like to go out to the Everglades and get my soil. Just a couple pots or two at a time, you understand, since I’m not really sure about the legality of it all. That soil is so rich and dark, Martin, you could probably grow an apple in Florida.” He laughed, at the impossibility of that I assume, and continued. “I mix a little o’ that with my yard dirt and a palm full of the Dynamite, and whoo-ee! You’ve got some real soil there!”

“Huh?” Was that giggling? “Yeah, sure. Good soil.”

“For a while I did try makin’ my own compost, but I could never quite get that mixture right. And damned if Beth didn’t hate that smell. ‘Stanley!’ she would yell, ‘Quit diggin’ through my garbage and creatin’ more garbage.’”

A rustle and a soft laugh filtered through the trees, and I swore under my breath.
No
. I did
not
cut this yard for nothing. I put a hand to my ear and looked off distractedly.

“Martin? Martin, are you all right?”

“Shhh!” I continued looking around wildly and then tiptoed toward the unsuspecting azalea bush. “You hear that?”

“Hear what?” He leaned in, even while proclaiming himself hard of hearing. “Damned timing of life, you know. Had perfect hearing for thirty years while my wife was alive. Perfect hearing through thirty years of ‘Do you think your laundry walks
itself
to the laundry basket?’ and other such, and now that I’m by myself, I can’t hear a thing!” He gave a great belly laugh that totally ruined the drama of my moment.

I tried to recapture it by looking around wildly. “No,
listen
. You hear that?” He leaned in farther, casting a suspicious look at the bush.

After a moment, he nodded sagely. “You know, I think I do hear little something.” He slanted squinty eyes at me. “What is it?”

“I’d know that sound anywhere. Last time I heard such hissing, I was in for the fight of me life.” Okay, less Crocodile Dundee, more Steve Irwin, I scolded myself. “It’s a snake. A big one, from the sound of it.”

Mr. Nesbitt showed me that eighty was still young as he sprang away from the bush as if it was mired in quicksand. “What kind of snake?”

“Big one,” I said, thinking quickly. “Erhm,
optimal priminius
. But don’t worry, I’ll kill ’er. You should probably go, though.”

He nodded quickly, running a hand through his shock of white hair and then over his face. “Of course. Do what you can. Just get rid of that snake!”

When I heard his truck start in the drive, I dashed over to the fence. Hell, if he saw me near it now, I’d just claim that
optimal priminius
had slithered out of the bush and transformed into something real. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I hit the Bluetooth button.

“Yeah?”

“You got what you need yet? I just saw Nesbitt take off as if his house was on fire.”

“Just finished convincing him there was a big-ass snake in his yard.”

Drew guffawed in my ear as I scaled the nearest tree with minimal effort. It was an old, sturdy tree with plenty of good footholds.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he managed through his laughter.

“He was gearing up for a nice long convo, and I heard something going on over here. Now I’m up in a big tree.” I grunted, heaving myself up to the highest branch.

“With your eighty-year-old knee?”

“Shut it,” I murmured with little to no heat, weaseling my way through some of the tougher limbs until I had a prime spot. As I parted the leaves, I felt that eager feeling settling in my stomach, the one where the culmination of all your hard work comes together. Mrs. Blake had been a little harder than most to catch, but look at her now,
shameless
, in her backyard where her children played, for God’s sakes. Using the lawn furniture her family gathered on to… hold a Girl Scouts meeting?

I looked on in disbelief as a circle of ten or so girls, all clad in blue vests, sat on various pieces of lawn furniture, their attention held rapt by Mrs. Blake. She was holding up some sort of brochure and displaying the glossy, lard-laden pictures within.

“A Girl Scouts meeting?” I nearly shouted, and then stilled as a few girls nearest the gate looked around in the air. “A Girl Scouts meeting,” I repeated in an angry whisper to Drew as he died laughing. Hopefully died, anyway.

“Okay, Mac. This mission will certainly go down in history. This is even better than if you’d found her with a rose bush and a sack of fertilizer in hand.”

I sighed. “I can’t believe I cut Nesbitt’s yard for nothing.”

“Not nothing. You got paid, didn’t you?”

“Yes, it’ll go toward my skin graft fund after spending three hours on the surface of the sun.” The girl with brown pigtails tied with blue ribbons that matched her smock raised her hand quickly and then stood when she was acknowledged. I grinned. I knew a know-it-all from a mile away. She held up a box of Thin Mints that had come from God knows where, and my stomach rumbled.

“Drew, I’ve found the Keebler tree,” I murmured. “I wonder if those cookies are for sale now.”

“You know, now that you know she’s not cheating, you’re spying on a Girl Scouts meeting. Not a good look for a grown man. Hard to explain to cops,” he added helpfully.

“All right. I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Harder to explain to cops,” he quipped, and I snickered.

“Idiot.”

“So what’s our next move?”

I sighed. “Well, cookies obviously, but that’s a no-brainer. Maybe we coax Blake to take a business trip. You know, a few days a whole city away?”

“He does actually have a job, you know. Not so simple.”

“A weekend, then. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.”

“Where to?”

“Who cares? Just tell him to get lost next weekend, and we see what Lolita does.”

“She’s not a Lolita yet,” he said, and I caught a whiff of annoyance in his tone.

“She’s cheating,” I said, nibbling on my thumbnail. “I just haven’t caught her yet.”

“Not everyone’s a cheater,” Drew snapped, his tone making me start. “Sometimes people actually find the real thing. It
is
out there, you know.”

“Chill, Cupid. I didn’t say everyone cheats.”

“Sometimes I feel like you’re just waiting for it. And you’re so damned satisfied when you’re right.”

“I’m just a firm believer that people shouldn’t play with people’s feelings.”

“No, you’re still just scarred from something that happened when you were, like, thirteen. Maybe it’s time to stop reliving your parents’ relationship over and over.”

“Fourteen.” I frowned at the weathered, bark-laden branch underneath my Cons. “And you’re so annoying.”

“When I’m right? I know.”

“Besides, I
am
moving on. I don’t tell you about every relationship in my life.”

“Moving on to whom, the next straight guy you see? Like Jordan, who you don’t think I know spent the entire day with you yesterday?”

“We staked out Rachel’s mystery meeting. Turned out to be her real estate agent. She’s seen him twice in as many days, and she ain’t selling or buying. Property, that is.”

“Since when do you stake out with a client? Or is Mr. Blake also in that tree?”

I sighed. “I’m coming down. You can bitch me out over food. Otherwise, it’s just too depressing.”

When I landed on the soft grass with an
oomph
, I stretched and straightened, glad the mission had at least been completed without a hitch. And then my gaze landed on the patch of unmowed grass. The unraked grass. The un-weed-wacked grass.

“Are you serious?” I rubbed my eyes tiredly.

“What?”

“Drew, get my cookies or suffer the consequences. Samoas. Not those damn Thin Mints. I’ll see you in an hour.”

A
FTER
THE
morning I’d had, a swim in the community pool sounded like certain ambrosia. I dove into the deep end, slicing through the water cleanly, not taking the time to acclimate from the heat to the sudden embrace of cool water. The cold snatched my breath clean from my body, and I surfaced with a gasp, shoving hair out of my eyes. I expected a burn from salt water in my eyes that never came—I guess I was too used to wiping out in the salty ocean.

I did a couple of freewheeling flips in the water, getting acclimated to the different buoyancy. It was only then that I realized how long it’d been since I’d swum in a pool. Swimming for recreation had never really been my thing. Nick had been the swimmer between us. He’d swum like a beautiful fish, the lean muscles of his swimmer’s body flashing in and out of the water. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost see him grinning at me, water sluicing off his defined pectorals, the very picture of health. God could never decide which should be more golden, his hair or his skin, and there he was, framed by sun, his goggles pushed up on his head. A grimace twisted my face as I reached for him and he disappeared. It had been a stupid vision anyway. Now Nick couldn’t even walk.

My unfortunate vision and my steadily tiring leg ruined what was left of my impromptu swim, and I slowly floated to the ladder. I slogged upstairs for a nap, lying down in the cool dark that I associated with my own private haven. I could only keep my eyes open for a few minutes before they began to flutter uncontrollably and then dropped shut as if a lead weight lay upon each one. My muscles ached restlessly as I rolled in my covers, like a gigantic guinea pig, searching for the right spot.

My body was tired after the rigors of my day—the yard work, the tree climbing, the swim (wow, my days had gotten strange)—but my mind refused to shut down without a fight. I finally fell into a jerky sleep of restless dreams. Dreams of dark roads and flashing lights that played on an endless reel. Nicky looking at me, talking to me, laughing, teasing me about my choice of music.

As he cast a glance my way, I simply looked at him, framed by sudden headlights where there had been nothing but darkness. He was so damned beautiful, but something was wrong. Why the headlights were coming at me and framing Nicky’s profile hadn’t registered just yet. The window exploded upon impact, and my eyes slammed shut instinctively. And then the night was alive with sound—wrenching sounds of sirens and screams. Nicky screaming. Me. Screaming? No, my mouth was an empty, soundless scream as he flew out of the car, and the slick black ice took him farther from me. The sound of crushing metal and shattering glass was horrific, leaden and metallic in my ears.

I twisted to the side, but I felt trapped in the heavy blankets, sodden from my sweat.

Are you okay? Okay? Okay?
Annie, are you okay?

My eyes flew open as I jackknifed up in bed. “Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?” Words from the song “Smooth Criminal” blared from the clock radio.

I slapped a hand over the snooze button and ran a shaky hand through my hair. My dreams were rare. But when they came… they were overwhelming.

I stripped the bed of my sweat-sodden blankets and padded to the washer, dragging the length of my comforter behind me. I dumped in an excessive amount of laundry detergent (because measuring is for squares), and dragged myself to the shower. The hot water drained me and gave me energy at the same time, as I lathered myself with my new soap, hoping the scent wasn’t too fruity. I sniffed. Smelled damned decent, actually. By the time I’d thrown on a pair of cargo pants and a faded black tee, I felt almost human again. I cranked down the air mercilessly—I wanted an ice cube to feel nice and comfy. I dropped down on the couch and flipped through my DVR menu restlessly.

Junk. Junk. I deleted another episode of
The Closer
that kept popping up. Junk I would guard with my life if anyone got froggy with the delete button. I set an episode of
Burn Notice
to record and let an episode of
Law and Order
play while I checked e-mail on my HP. Before long, I found myself browsing car websites and scratching leisurely. Just as God intended.

I had just gotten an interior tour of a Chevy Avalanche—thank you QuickTime—when my cell phone went off. I listened to the ringtone until it was almost too late before picking up.