The Man Next Door

Kim was intrigued in spite of herself. “I’ve heard of people taking home stray dogs, but stray shrubs?” She glanced across at the rambling two—story house next door, impressive with its red—tile roof and carved balustrades—very upscale for all that it was a rental. The yard had long ago been turned into a neatly maintained rock-and-cactus garden. “You wouldn’t have a place to put it over there. The owner doesn’t like mess.”

He nodded. “I’d already guessed as much. When I signed the lease, she threatened a lawsuit if I spill anything on the carpets.”

Kim hesitated, but then she spoke. “The owner also happens to be my mother-in-law.”

“She mentioned that, too.”

Nobody could accuse Michael Turner of being loquacious. If he was curious about anything, he didn’t let on. Kim suddenly felt a discontent she couldn’t explain, and she jabbed her shovel into the ground again.

“For eight years, I’ve looked at this damn bush,” she muttered. “That’s about to change.”

He didn’t answer. With seemingly little effort, he managed to walk over to her and relieve her of the shovel. Kim felt a stirring of unease. Yes, there was an aura of power to this Michael Turner, as if he was accustomed to taking what he wanted.

She’d known, of course, that Sophie had been looking to rent the house next door. The last tenants had been a pleasant older couple, but they’d moved out more than a month ago. Her new neighbor, this Michael Turner, started digging around the shrub, every motion efficient and methodical. No show of brawn here; he was just getting the job done. Kim suspected he was the type of person who’d always get the job done, whatever it happened to be. As he worked, his dark hair curled a little over his forehead. The way it refused to stay properly in place implied a certain unruliness.

Silently she cursed Sophie for renting to this man and his son. Of course, she’d been cursing her mother—inlaw for one reason or another these eight long years. Why should that change even now?

Kim felt a bitter sensation inside. She couldn’t let herself think about Stan and all the rest of it. She couldn’t let her anger out, that was for sure. Because if she ever started to let it out, who knew where she’d end up?

Meanwhile, this stranger was digging up a bush in her front yard.

“It was therapy,” Kim said.

Michael Turner glanced at her, although he kept on working. It was remarkable how much progress he’d made in just a few minutes.

“Digging up the damn bush was therapeutic!”

He glanced at her again, his dark eyes unreadable. And then, silently, he handed the shovel back to her.

“Thanks for your help,” she said.

He gave another faint smile. “Why say it if you don’t mean it?”

“Something to do with being polite.” She worked the shovel into the ground.

“Forget polite,” he said. “You’re not very good at it, anyway.”

Kim wished she could start over with the man, maybe something on the line of “Hello, neighborgoodbye.” She dumped a shovelful of dirt beside her.

“Funny, but my mother-in-law has a similar complaint about me. Says I’m not nearly well mannered enough.”

“Do you listen to her?”

Once again Kim couldn’t detect any humor in his expression, just that hardness she’d already sensed. Michael Turner, a man of stony edges.

“Mr. Turner,” she said, “it’s been nice getting acquainted, but—”

“You’re pretending to be polite again.”

She’d scarcely met the man, but already he chafed at her nerves. It almost seemed as if he was doing it deliberately, to get a reaction from her. Kim wielded her shovel more forcefully.

“Not very many people rent in this neighborhood,” she said. “Everyone here likes to think of themselves as the silk—stocking type. Pride of ownership, the whole bit. Pretty snobbish, unfortunately—”

“Why don’t you come right out and ask what I’m doing here?” he suggested. The mildness in his tone sounded deceptive.

“Hey, nobody’s too sure I belong in this neighborhood,” Kim said. “I’ve lived here eight years, and they still don’t know whether to accept me or not. But that’s beside the point. I’m just saying you seem more like the home—owner type yourself.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” She was lying. For all that he was a father, Michael Turner didn’t look like the kind of person who would settle down behind a white picket fence. He had a watchfulness about him, like someone who always had to be on his guard, someone who perhaps wouldn’t stay in any one place for very long. Certain details about him she couldn’t seem to fit anywhere, such as that he was home in the middle of a weekday. Other men on this street worked long hours as lawyers or business executives to afford the life—style of the neighborhood.

“Okay,” Kim said, giving in with a sigh. “What are your credentials, Mr. Turner? What’s your. line of work?”

He paused just a second before answering. “I’m a writer.”

He didn’t look like a writer, Kim thought. It seemed too tame an occupation for him.

“What kind of writer?”

Again the slightest pause. “Mystery.”

That made sense, anyway. “Well,” Kim said inadequately. “Sounds.interesting. Not that I’m trying to be polite.”

He remained inscrutable. “As long as we’re swapping credentials, it’s your turn.”

Kim realized she’d forgotten to shovel, so she got to it again. “I don’t have any credentials—unless you count my marrying into the Bennett clan. Not that the Bennetts count that in my favor.” She didn’t want to talk anymore. She just wanted this wretched bush out of her life. She toiled away, exposing the roots. They looked stunted, shriveled, as if they hadn’t found enough nourishment in the dry Arizona soil. Kim almost started to feel sorry for the bush, and that worried her. She’d always hated it—why change her mind now?

She was hoping Michael Turner would simply turn and walk away; surely she’d made it clear she wasn’t one for cheery conversation. But he just stood there, observing her as if he couldn’t believe this was how she handled a shovel. Kim was annoyed, yet she also felt something else—a skittering awareness along her spine. She didn’t think she could ever relax around a person like Michael Turner. She certainly wasn’t relaxing now.

The heat of the sun pressed down on her, and his gaze pressed on her, too. At last she stopped attacking the bush and stared back at him in exasperation.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You’re going to remind me that I’m doing it all wrong.”

His expression was serious. “I just wondered if it was working—the therapy part.”

“No. It’s not.” She jabbed the shovel into the ground and kicked it, stubbing her toe. She held in an expressive oath. So much for sneakers. Next time she worked in the yard, it had better be boots.

Michael Turner came over next to her, just as he had before, and took the shovel.

“Maybe it’s time for a different tactic,” he said.

His nearness was disconcerting. Not that it lasted long, though. He moved a few steps away and resumed his own shoveling.

“I was doing just fine—” Kim began.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d say you were digging at more than this bush. Something’s obviously bothering you. Maybe you should figure out what it is before you really hurt yourself.”

His confident attitude was irritating, but what could he possibly know about her? “I’m not trying to get out my aggressions, if that’s what you think,” she protested. “It’s not like that at all.”