This Won’t End Well, page 7
As I was hanging up the phone, I happened to look beyond the hedges separating our yard from Harper’s (I’ve finally managed to stop calling her home the Novaks’). I couldn’t see much, but I could tell someone was lounging near the pool. I wish my mother’s house wasn’t a ranch—though a second floor would provide more space for her odds and ends to multiply like rabbits in the spring, it would also give me a better vantage point to inconspicuously check on Harper and make sure that bad man hasn’t returned to hurt her. Since this wasn’t an option, I had to resort to my yard-work trick.
It took me a while to find the pruning shears, which were on top of the fridge, wedged between a pack of stale mini-muffins and a bag of dog treats (for whose dog, I’m not sure; we’ve never owned one).
“Where are you going with those?” my mother said, frowning at the shears.
“I told you the other day, I’m trying to work on this place’s curb appeal,” I told her. “You’re welcome.”
“But the curb is in the other direction!” she squawked as I let myself out the back door.
I’m not sure the hedges have been pruned since I was a child; they’re technically ours, so the Novaks let them grow. Now they’re higher than my head and so dense that it was hard to see much other than a blur of blue water through them. I suppose I could have fetched a ladder from the garage and made a show of trimming the top of the laurels while I was spying, but I’m not sure my mother’s ladder is to be trusted. Anyway, if Harper spotted me, we would then have to engage in small talk, and all I wanted to do was make sure she was okay.
But lo and behold, there was a curious hole in the hedges near the far end of the yard, perhaps the work of a hungry deer or a wayward meteorite. The opening was approximately the size of a soccer ball, perhaps three feet off the ground, and it gave me a near-perfect view of Harper, who was floating on a large inflatable raft in the center of her pool. She was wearing a bright yellow bikini, which covered so little that I couldn’t help but notice that she was very thin, and even tanner than she had been when she arrived. No surprise—August has been oppressively hot. She was wearing sunglasses, the aviators again this time, so I couldn’t tell if her eye was still bruised (I assume so).
The Novaks did a beautiful job on the pool. Instead of a typical concrete border, bright blue and yellow Spanish-style tiles line the perimeter, and there’s a small, mosaic-tiled water fountain in the deep end. I wonder if they would have had the pool installed if they’d known Linda would have less than two years to enjoy it.
At any rate, Harper was alone. This was a relief. Late last night, shortly after midnight, I heard a car door slam and a vehicle skid out of the driveway, so I knew there was a possibility the man had returned. It would have been conspicuous to leave my head in the hole for too long, so I quickly glanced around, mostly to see if she had company. After all, if I saw something, then it was my duty to say something.
But as I began to retreat, I spotted something scurrying just beyond the pool.
It was a groundhog, squat and sleek. Though it appeared to be in a hurry, it abruptly stopped at the pool’s halfway point and cocked its head to look at Harper; apparently I’m not the only one who finds her enthralling. Then it pushed through the hedges at the back of her yard and disappeared into the Rogers’ garden.
Bess spent nearly half an hour on Monday telling me how a pair of groundhogs were destroying her crops, and she feared it wouldn’t be long before an entire colony popped up under their garage, setting the stage for a sinkhole that would suck Larry out of his workshop and right into the earth. I decided it was better to skip a brief tutorial about the conditions in which sinkholes form, and instead impart upon Bess that groundhogs are solitary creatures. Their mating season, as my own has turned out to be, is quite brief. Then they return to their pleasant, self-sufficient existence. The young, I assured Bess, stay with their parents but a few months before setting off on their own. (On that count, groundhogs and I differ.) Not that I said this to Bess, but provided their garage isn’t sitting on top of a mile of eroded limestone or, say, Line 5, Larry is safe for now.
Or is he? I was about to return to my pruning when I heard a rustling behind me. While Harper’s house abuts the Rogers’ backyard, my mother’s house backs into a trail leading into County Park. There’s a waist-high stone wall separating the trail from the yard. My mother claims my father built the crumbling wall, which always does remind me of that foolish Frost poem, shortly before he set out for Alaska. Beyond the wall are a bevy of holly bushes, punctuated by a smattering of oaks and evergreens. It was among these trees that I saw something out of the corner of my eye. And whatever this something was, it was definitely larger than a groundhog. On another day I might have taken the darting figure for a doe, but I had just read Margie Linden’s post on the neighborhood Listserv (note to self: consider unsubscribing). So my first thought was that it was a human—maybe even someone casing the joint.
Now, on the one hand, I welcome whomever would like to rob my mother’s house to do so—the treasure is so deeply buried among the trash that I daresay even American Pickers would run screaming in the opposite direction. On the other hand, the idea that I was being watched gave me goose bumps.
But my fear was more than a sign I’d contracted a mild case of mass hysteria (Margie, naturally, being patient zero). Because the flash I saw was dark, possibly black, rather than fawn colored. What’s more, I saw—I’m almost certain of it—the back of a man’s head.
Except I can’t remember if his hair was black or brown. Nor do I know how tall he was. Was he even a he at all? I know too much about recall bias to let my mind fill in memory gaps with details that match my already-established beliefs. The only truly important thing is that the incident rattled me profusely.
I was tempted to walk over to Harper’s and knock on the door like a normal person and let her know I had concerns about someone potentially spying on her. Then I thought better of it. In addition to the fact that I have no concrete proof anything dangerous or illegal had happened, I really don’t want to interact with anyone other than my mother, Viola, and my other cleaning clients (who are usually gone when I’m there anyway, thank goodness).
Fact: People are the cause of most pain.
Fact: I cannot handle any more pain right now.
So I will continue to surreptitiously check in on Harper. I wish she had arrived in our neighborhood with less baggage. But if a little intrigue—albeit from a distance—distracts me from my own troubles, who am I to mind my own business?
—AEM
FIFTEEN
August 15
TO: undisclosed-recipients
BCC: Annie Mercer
FROM: Leesa Sato Liznewski
SUBJECT: FALL into a Whole New YOU!
Ladies!
Could your life use a lift? (You know what I’m going to say next, right?!)
LITEWEIGHT™ can help!
Please join me on September 1, 6:30 p.m., at my house, for a big reveal:
The LITEWEIGHT™ Transformative Collection™!
Without giving too much away, I can tell you that in addition to LITEWEIGHT™ signature products like CashLash™ and LifeMadeLite™, I’ll be unveiling:
*The crystal with the power to put the va-va-voom back in your bedroom!
*The essential oil that adds a spring to your step AND melts belly fat!
*The herbal-infused lotion-oil (yes, there is such a thing—just wait until you try it!) that completely eliminates the need for lasers and injections. Ladies, this product ZAPPED my wrinkles in less than two weeks—saving me potentially thousands of dollars in invasive cosmetic procedures!
*And so much more!
As always, wine and LITE apps (pun totally intended!) will be served. Space is limited, so please claim your spot by RSVPing here. Psst: If you’re one of the first five women to register, you’ll get $5 off your order!
xoxo,
Leesa
Leesa Sato Liznewski
LITEWEIGHT™ Brand Evangelist
LITEWEIGHT™ Southeastern Michigan Sales Representative of the year!!!
August 15
TO: Leesa Sato Liznewski
FROM: Annie Mercer
SUBJECT: Re: FALL into a Whole New YOU!
Leesa,
When I said I needed space, that definitely meant I don’t want to receive sales pitches. However, since you sent this to me anyway, I feel obligated to point out a few things:
You know a crystal can’t actually change anyone’s libido, right? At best, there may be a placebo effect at play.
Ditto for essential oils. Also, you can’t target fat loss in one specific area . . . and even if you could, would you really want to? Fat makes it easier to get through long Michigan winters, and for women who are so inclined, ups the odds of bearing children.
While I would argue that the best way to stop worrying about wrinkles is to reject societal norms that dictate women should avoid signs of aging at all costs (while men with gray hair and laugh lines are considered sexy—what’s that about?), the fact remains that you’re 27 years old—i.e., a little young for crow’s-feet. And you’ve always had amazing skin, just like your mom. Remember how you told me that Japanese women just don’t age the way other women do? While I’m not sure whether that’s true, there’s no doubt you owe a great deal to genetics—not a lotion-oil, whatever that is.
At any rate, for the love of Marie Curie, please unsubscribe me from this mailing list.
Annie
August 15
TO: Annie Mercer
FROM: Leesa Sato Liznewski
SUBJECT: Re: Re: FALL into a Whole New YOU!
Annie,
I’m SO sorry you got my LITEWEIGHT™ letter—that was a mailing list glitch. I’ve unsubscribed you and it shouldn’t happen again.
But I have to ask: What is going on with you? I don’t say this meanly—I’m legit worried. I know you asked for space, which is why I haven’t been emailing or calling, but it’s been a MONTH, Annie. We have literally never gone a month without speaking, even when I was studying abroad in Florence. Also, I’d really like to start planning your bridal shower soon!
Is this about your job? Or Jon? (Is he home yet?) I wish you would tell me so I could help you.
When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.
xxxx x 1,000,
L
Leesa Sato Liznewski
LITEWEIGHT™ Brand Evangelist
LITEWEIGHT™ Southeastern Michigan Sales Representative of the year!!!
August 15
TO: Leesa Sato Liznewski
FROM: Annie Mercer
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: FALL into a Whole New YOU!
Leesa,
I appreciate your concern, and your unsubscribing me. I’ll be fine. Tell Molly and Ollie I say hi, and please don’t worry about the bridal shower. I’ll be in touch later.
Annie
SIXTEEN
August 16
Aristotle said that nature abhors a vacuum. While there’s some debate as to the scientific validity of his statement, it certainly applies to my life. Aside from a brief email exchange with Leesa (which I shouldn’t have done—while I wasn’t flat-out rude, my anger toward Jon does seem to be spilling over into other areas), I’ve mostly managed to clear the deck of my own problems. So other people’s have managed to find me.
I guess drama from a distance is better than reading Jon’s emails over and over, as I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve been doing. It’s an exercise in self-flagellation—what’s done is done, and I’m certainly not going to Paris. But I just keep thinking . . . was his request some kind of test? Am I supposed to prove to him that I love him so much I’m willing to ditch everything and fly to Paris? If so, he’s mistaken me for someone else. I gave him four weeks, even though one should not need a vacation from the person one intends to spend the rest of one’s natural life with. That was nothing if not an act of love, and if he can’t see that . . . well, as much as I hate to admit it, it makes me wonder if he really loves me.
Anyway. As previously noted, I’ve been keeping a watchful eye on Harper when possible, worried that what I may or may not have witnessed last month will happen again. The mystery man hasn’t come back around—at least not that I’ve seen, as Harper keeps such odd hours (a funny thing for me to say, I suppose, given that I’m as likely to be spotted at seven in the morning lugging a vacuum down the street as at seven at night). Just yesterday she came teetering out of the house wearing a pair of wedge sandals, those cataract sunglasses, and a long, tight dress. She was holding a flute of sparkling wine, which would have been less peculiar if it hadn’t been two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Then a blue sedan pulled up in front of her house and she ducked into the backseat, glass still in hand, not to return until nearly midnight. Watching her, sometimes, I get the sense I’m doing it all wrong—and I’m not even talking about waiting too long to close my life to new applicants.
Anyway, this evening I heard splashing coming from Harper’s pool, and I wanted to confirm that said splashing was not actually the sound of, I don’t know—someone drowning, perhaps? I decided to take advantage of the late August sunlight and went out back to prune the bushes. I was still conscious of the darting figure I saw in the trees earlier this week and considered slipping a small pruning knife in my back pocket for protection. After some debate, I decided I was more likely to injure myself than another person, and left the back door cracked so I could call for my mother if I were attacked.
I made my way to the hole in the hedges, but a woman wearing a large sun hat, who I assume was Harper, was floating on a lounger in the pool. Unfortunately, she was facing the hole. Hoping for a less obvious vantage point, I crept over to the low stone wall, moving slowly to avoid attracting attention. When I reached the wall, I was pleased to see that if I climbed it and positioned myself behind the large oak at the corner of Harper’s yard, I could get a good view of the pool and avoid being seen.
I can hardly be described as athletic, but there are certain advantages to being tall, so I got on top of the wall with little effort. I was just inching toward the oak tree when I heard the same sort of rustling I’d heard the other day.
The sound must have startled me, because one second I was wondering whether a deer could make that much noise; the next, I was on my back on the ground on the other side of the wall.
Except . . . I wasn’t on the ground. I’d landed on something cushioned yet firm.
And that thing was a man.
I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to scream in such situations, but I’m sorry to admit that I made this terrible squawking noise as I rolled off him. I looked around for my pruning shears to defend myself, only to realize I’d abandoned the shears in the yard. (Good thing—otherwise I might have impaled myself.) Then I jumped up and scrambled for the wall. But before I tried to climb over, I couldn’t help turning to get another look at the person I’d fallen on.
He was a few inches shorter than me, with black curls, brown eyes, and tan skin. He looked to be in his midtwenties, though it might have just been the black T-shirt and cargo shorts he was wearing. “Shhh,” he said, lifting a finger to his lips.
“No, I won’t shhh!” I hissed. “You’re trespassing!”
“This is city property,” he whispered, gesturing to the bushes behind him. “It’s part of the County Park trail.”
I shouldn’t have kept talking to him, but he looked . . . tremendously unthreatening, to be honest. Now, I’m painfully aware that I’m not in a position to be making judgment calls about other people (see also: my fiancé). Still, his expression told me he was just as surprised as I was that I had landed on him.
“That may be true, but you were lurking behind my wall, weren’t you?” I said in a low voice.
He nodded.
“I should call the police,” I said.
He held up both hands, palms facing out, like he was a crime suspect. This was not reassuring. “Please don’t,” he said. “I’m doing the exact same thing you are.”
“And what’s that?”
He lowered his hands. “You first. Why did you climb the wall? I thought you were perfectly happy spying on your neighbor from the comfort of your own backyard.”
I could feel my cheeks grow warm (I really should see a dermatologist about my eczema). “I was not spying,” I told him. “I was minding my business in my bushes and simply needed to get higher to trim a certain part of the laurel.”
“Which is why you left your scissors in the grass,” he said, grinning. Feeling guilty for smiling back at him, I reminded myself that human emotion is contagious. Then I pushed my lips back into an even line, because I didn’t want to give him the impression his behavior was acceptable.
“They’re pruning shears,” I informed him. “And anyway, what I’m doing should be of no interest to you.”
“If that’s true, then what I’m doing should be of little interest to you. By the way, you’re welcome. You could have broken something if you’d fallen flat on your back.”
“I’m supposed to thank you for creeping around my backyard?” I narrowed my eyes. “Was it you parked in a silver sedan on the other end of the block earlier this week?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” he said, but then he laughed. “I’m just kidding. Yeah, it was me.” He reached into his back pocket.
Afraid he was going to pull out a weapon, I started for the wall again. Then I heard Harper call out, “Hello? Hello? Is someone back there?”
We ducked. After we were crouched low to the ground, he looked over at me. He had a wide, welcoming face, though it’s possible that was said of Charles Manson.
He passed me a small rectangular card. It said, Mo Beydoun, Private Investigator.
“If this is true,” I said, examining the card, “then aren’t you supposed to be incognito?”
