5. Five
Honking wakes me. Obnoxious, lay-on-the-horn honking. When it doesn’t stop after a solid minute of burying my head in my pillow, I jolt from bed, surging with angry energy.
It’s Sunday—the only morning I let myself sleep past seven. I need the rest. A monster list of to-dos has swallowed the week. Ripping up carpets, scrubbing the endless grout, painting the walls (white in the bathrooms and sage everywhere else to match the kitchen tiles), and finally organizing and arranging—I expected these.
But another monster of must-dos snuck in with the unexpected. Jane’s contact transplanted the raccoon family, cleaned the chimney, and fixed the upper cap to prevent more settlers, punching an unexpected, six-hundred-dollar hit to my bank account.
Then, the dryer conked out, the AC unit’s motor died, and a toilet leak in the guest bathroom required a plumber. The latter resulted in an awkward encounter with a brutish man who smelled of beer and cheese and visibly shuddered at the sight of me. Two-hundred-fifty to him, $700 to Best Buy, and another thousand for the motor replacement, and my savings reflected my energy level—drained.
As is my tolerance for deliberate honking before eight on a Sunday morning.
My front door swings open with the force of my annoyance and sends waves across my nightgown. Yes, that’s when I realize—I’m standing outside in my nightgown.
The offender locks eyes with me from across the lawn, where he sits smugly in the driver’s side of an older model white van like a pedophile looking for targets. He honks the horn again, smirking at me as he presses it. With my arms folded across my skimpy tank gown, I trudge barefoot through the high grass, determined not to retreat now that I’ve been spotted.
The window rolls down at my approach.
“Jack Graham… why are you honking?”
He motions behind him, where the back seats are nearly full of senior citizens.
Rose bats her blue-gray eyes at me. “Didn’t you get my emails? It’s the church party bus. Want to join us?”
Their newsletter, Daisy Chain, Connecting Our Streets Since 1997, had reached my inbox—seventy-seven back issues and counting. It’s named for our street, Daisy Lane, not the slang term, thank God, although a sex den was mentioned when we first met, so who knows? The headlines, often shorthanded with emojis, boast merit badges, honor rolls, church concerts, medical appointments, and proper lawn maintenance. I’ve only skimmed a few issues.
Spotting my ignorance, Rose giggles. “A teacher who doesn’t like homework, aye?”
I deflate like an undone balloon gone flaccid, anger gone, and embarrassment taking over. “You drive the church bus?”
“Keen observation, Miss Marple.” A snide look accompanies his jab. He thinks I’m an old busybody. “Hop on. You’ll give the preachers plenty to sermonize about in that get-up.”
His brown eyes burrow into mine, daring me for a rebuttal that doesn’t come.
“Sorry, Jack. Forgot my readers.” Vernon climbs into the open door on the right side.
“Oh, do come, Rowan. It’s such fun.” Rose claps.
“No!” My brain floods with excuses as if I need any, and these compile awkwardly into, “Shoes… clothes… sleep… Just go.”
I step back, and Jack gives me a shameless once-over. Legs, hips, chest—braless, of course. I feel like a cut of meat ogled by a hungry wolf. But his amusement vanishes at my scars, though he slowly studies them, too. He glances at the little house behind me before peeling away.
My face falls into my hands, and I wish I could erase the last five minutes. Better yet—that I could erase buying this place at all for how it has zapped my energy, drained my money, and put me in that man’s periphery.
This is not my first awkward encounter with Jack Graham. It’s not even the first time he’s woken me up.
Often, I hear him late at night, playing music, moving around his deck, splashing in his pool, or taking shots on his driveway basketball court. Once, when this happened at 3:30 in the morning, I slipped outside and peeked over the hedges, thinking something must be amiss. No one in his right mind would be gallivanting at this hour.
But there he was, half in the pool, hovering over a composition notebook that was surely getting wet as he scribbled into it. Beside him, a glass of brown liquid served as inspiration. Before long, he tossed the notebook aside, downed his drink, and dove under. I seized the moment to scratch my leg—something was biting me—and when I looked again, he stared in my direction. I ducked and back-stepped, nearly tripping over an unruly garden bed, and then dashed inside, hoping he hadn’t really seen me.
But he did. The Miss Marple remark surely confirms it.
One morning, returning from a run, I slowed outside his house and witnessed him escorting a gorgeous brunette to her car between groping and kissing her. It was the second woman I’d seen him with that week. His eyes met mine over her shoulder, and he tossed me a wave, as if boasting about his virility.
The worst encounter, though, was Friday night. Returning from Mira’s around ten, I pulled up behind five unsteady bicyclists, balancing beers on their handlebars and taking up the entire road. It took a short honk for them to notice me, even though I drive a convertible 1977 VW Bug that anyone sober would hear coming a mile away. Clumsily, they made room for me to pass, and one said, “Dude, is that your new neighbor?”
Jack snorted with derision. “Unfortunately. Wish I’d bought the damn place myself.”
“Why? She’s pretty.”
“She’s pretty fucking annoying.”
“Bet you still bed her,” another man prodded, bringing the rest into a howl of laughter.
“Hard pass,” I muttered at the same time Jack said, “Hell no.”
I sped away, leaving them in a plume of old car exhaust, which wasn’t nearly satisfying enough.
Over tea one afternoon, Rose shared that Jack’s house is where he grew up. After his first bestseller, he bought it from his parents and moved them to a swanky place on the water. He’s been renovating and tweaking it since. Contractors show up almost daily for estimates or upgrades. The house—the biggest on the block—is an ashen brick two-story colonial that looks regal (and normal) from the front while being a full-on man-cave in the back. It’s the house version of a mullet haircut.
Despite his partying, playboy, asshole persona, he’s a meticulous homeowner. He keeps no discernible life or work schedule, but I see him daily hunting for weeds in his professionally groomed flower beds, sweeping cobwebs from his front porch, or cleaning his pool. Once, I spied a long branch emerging from the top of the hedge on his side, and by the day’s end, he’d trimmed it.
And the neighborhood adores him, as evident in the emoji and GIF-covered pages of the Daisy Chain back issues I peruse over coffee. “Jack’s Writing Block Holds at Five Months”… “Six”… “Ten”… “Jack Tells Reporter in Neighborhood to ‘F@#k Off’ Refuses Interviews Appearances”… “Jack Saves Motherless Opossum” (with picture)… “Jack’s Release Party for The Other Us Planned for August.”
Though two months away, his upcoming black tie release party headlines every recent newsletter alongside media buzz about the book. Less exciting are the smaller articles on the neighborhood’s annual Fourth of July oyster roast. Though I like that the neighborhood celebrates together, it’s disconcerting that it’s Jack they celebrate most.
In the most recent edition, I find a small corner about me under the headline “Our Charming New Neighbor, Rowan.” The couple shares how I fell in love with the place based on the book The Little House, and how Margot, who now resides with her son Corey and his husband in Asheville, teared up with the story and called my new ownership, “Meant to be.”
Rose also elaborated that I’m “a proper English teacher with a snazzy wardrobe, a black cat named Edgar, and perhaps a fiancé on an acting hiatus, from which he might return at the end of summer (Rowan’s sister, Mira has doubts).” *Puzzled emoji followed by the shocked face of Kevin McAllister when he applies aftershave*
I groan.
Another email snatches my attention—Dr. Evelyn Tate requests an appointment to discuss my Inspiration Project.
I don’t know which bothers me more—my nonexistent Inspiration Project or my absent boyfriend.
I need a beach day.
It’s my favorite thing to do—spend the day at the beach with a book. I contemplate my library, wondering which classic might spark an idea for my Inspiration Project. But my brain feels dried up like a desert with tumbleweeds rolling over it—completely uninspired.
A text from Mira interrupts. Hey, free around lunch? I’ll bring over wine and subs. I have a favor to ask.
Mira would understand if I said no. But she rarely asks for favors, and whatever it is takes priority over me getting my beach on.
Sure. See you then!
So when my doorbell rings just before lunch, I expect Mira on the other side. My smile falls into surprise and, quickly, disappointment at Jack Graham shadowing my doorway.
He thrusts a bottle of whiskey toward me and says, in a dry, robotic voice, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He glances behind him, pulling my attention to Vernon and Rose staring at us through their living room window. Quickly, they turn their heads upwards. Rose even points to an imaginary thing to look at as if she can hide their obvious nosiness.
I burst into a laugh. “They’re the absolute worst spies… I assume they put you up to this. No—wait. Don’t answer that. Another one of my keen observations, right? Look, I’m not a nosy Miss Marple. Yes, I saw you swimming through our hedges, but that’s only because you were making a lot of noise, as you often do. At all hours. When something wakes me in the middle of the night or early on a Sunday morning, for that matter, I get out of bed to investigate.”
His hands go into the pockets of his khaki shorts. “Investigate. Like Miss Marple.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the whiskey.” I turn to retreat inside.
“Rowan, wait. Can I have five minutes to talk about the tree?”
I nod begrudgingly. He waves me to his property and leads me along the hedges toward the back until we reach a towering pine tree at the corner, mostly on my side. Slightly tilted toward the street, it reminds me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
“Yes, it’s a tree.”
“It’s a dying tree.” He points to the branches with their bursting needles and drooping pinecones. “The needles should be green. Not brown. My tree guy confirmed it. It’s rotting from the inside. If we don’t have it taken down properly, the next hurricane will do it for us.”
Living on the North Carolina coast makes hurricanes a frequent problem. He shows how the tree will fall—directly between our houses, surely damaging both.
“It’s mostly on your property, making it your problem, but I’m offering you the same deal I had with Margot and Ben before… well, before. I’m willing to pay half. I’ve already gotten estimates.”
“How much?”
His broad shoulders bounce in a careless shrug. “Fifteen hundred.”
Everything sinks—my jaw, my shoulders, the nervous knot in my throat.
“It’s not only a safety concern. It’s a nuisance, dumping needles in the pool and housing squirrel nests, which means more yard fleas.”
I think of my itchy ankle the night I spied him swimming. But still—$1,500?
“Your yard needs work,” he continues. “Your grass is high. Trimming the overgrown shrubs and cleaning the garden beds will prevent mosquitoes, fleas, and other pests from infiltrating my yard. It’s a common courtesy for your neighbors on both sides. I can recommend a lawn service if you’re too busy.”
My hand goes up, stopping him. “I’m not hiring a lawn service, and the tree will have to wait.”
“We’re already in hurricane season. Sooner is better.”
I don’t doubt he’s right about the tree. It seems unhealthy, though, at first glance, I never would’ve noticed its dingy gray bark flaking away in odd splotches or its needles losing their luscious green color. As a lifelong renter, things like tree health aren’t on my radar. So, this information is useful.
But this man irks me. As a teacher, I’ve encountered many off-putting personalities—rich, entitled kids, cocky athletes, and all sorts with angry chips on their shoulders. Even so, I’ve never truly disliked a student or failed to find a way to work together.
Jack Graham seems like a bad combination of the worst qualities—rich, entitled, cocky, and angry. Besides, it’s hard to get along with a guy who clearly doesn’t want me living next door to him.
“I’ll add the tree to my long list of to-dos.” I force a smile. “Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”
“You’re brushing me off?” His head cocks as he scrutinizes me.
“Yes, for now. I want to think about it.” And do research. And get my own estimates. Is it normal for homeowners to have a “tree guy?” I’ll have to ask Mira.
Jack looks insulted. He folds his muscular, tatted arms and chews on his inner lip. He needs a haircut. And a shave. Whenever I see him, he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow and dark, wispy hair that constantly falls into his daring brown eyes, as if he prefers the messy look. Or refuses to be bothered with such mundane things—not when there’s partying to do. Finally, his hand goes out like he’s about to handle something delicate.
“What’s there to think about? I have the estimates inside if you want to see them and the report from my tree guy. All you have to do is agree. I’ll set it up. I’ll even front the money, and you can pay me back.” His eyes narrow. “In installments if need be.”
I don’t want to owe this man anything. “Since you must have an answer this minute, it’s no. I’ll take care of the tree myself, but thanks for not being condescending or pushy about it. Oh, and here.” I push the whiskey into his stomach. “I don’t need your heartfelt welcome gift.”
An audible grunt emerges as he presses his lips together, and it’s satisfying—not giving in to his demands. I turn to storm off properly. But the desired effect doesn’t happen with flip-flops on grass.
“Rowan, what the hell?” He stops me between the windowed side of what looks like a library and the neatly trimmed hedge. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m trying to be helpful. That’s all.”
I seek some sincerity in him, but it’s like panning for gold in a sandbox. Meanwhile, I carefully edge around him, determined not to be penned in—a move that amuses him. I imagine him thinking, “What’s this? A woman who doesn’t want to run her tongue over my chest muscles? It can’t be.”
My throat clears. “Helpful, huh? If that’s true, I appreciate it. But I’ll handle the tree on my own. Like you said, it’s my problem.”
He takes me in like a puzzling grammar mistake—he knows I’m wrong but can’t figure out why. “What about the yard, Miss Independent? Ben and Margot loved their yard. They took good care of it.”
My head cocks as I scrutinize him. I really don’t like this man.
“So will I. In my own time, not yours. Not getting your way must be so hard for you. Unfortunately, I can’t help but be pretty fucking annoying, right?”
My words emerge slowly and with surprising confidence, which sticks even when he looks confused. I don’t wait for a response but twist on my flip-flops and beeline toward my driveway as Mira’s SUV pulls in.