CHAPTER 2 – AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
Jack
Ipark my truck at the curb, take a deep breath, and remind myself that this is the burbs and that I need to be “Minnesota-nice.” After all, I’m not in a war-zone anymore.
Sure, I spent twenty years in the Air Force, but all that’s over and done with.
Retirement hit a couple months ago, and now, my only mission is to enjoy the good life.
Except that the military doesn’t just leave a man once he’s put in his papers.
Gazing down the street, my eyes scan the neighborhood reflexively, looking for anything out of place.
A van that shouldn’t be there. A homeless person who seems too curious.
A streetlight that’s flashing when it shouldn’t be.
Of course, there’s nothing. The entire scene is as normal as can be, and I shake my head ruefully. Damn, old habits die hard.
I stroll towards Gerald’s house, forcing myself to smile although I’m sweating through my t-shirt already.
Retiring from the Air Force was supposed to mean I’d get some relief from dress codes, but the climate today is “hot and sour soup.” I head up the walk, noting the riot of hostas and hydrangeas crowding the front beds.
They’re too precise, almost military in their symmetry—a touch I recognize from Gerald’s compulsive gardening habit.
I round the side of the house, following the sound of a weed whacker, and sure enough, there’s my buddy in a battered straw hat and orthopedic sneakers, mowing down dandelions like he’s on a mission.
He looks older than last time, or maybe that’s just me, seeing him in the harsh daylight instead of half-lit barstools.
His arms are still thick, but there’s a soft collapse to his posture that wasn’t there before.
He spots me, waves the weed whacker in a salute, and yells, “Yo Jack! You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I call back. “How’s life treating you?”
He snorts. “Like shit. Nancy’s got me on more projects than I can count.” He sets the tool aside and wipes his brow with a rag that was white sometime during the Clinton administration.
Then I see her.
She’s kneeling in the garden, a line of tomato plants standing at attention in front of her.
She’s wearing short-shorts that reveal tanned, golden legs; a tank top with a picture of a laughing puppy on it; and cute white sneakers.
A thick ponytail slithers like molten gold down her back, and she’s got a garden trowel in one hand and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
But nothing can hide that curvaceous figure, complete with big breasts, a slim waist, and wide hips.
I try not to stare at her tits, but fail awesomely.
The young woman glances up, squinting, then offers a polite smile. “Hi, Mr. Landry.”
The “Mr.” stings a little, like a shot of cheap vodka. Do I look that old? To her, I probably do. Nonetheless, I muster a friendly smile.
“Yep. Eliza, right? Last time I saw you, was when? Last year?”
She stands and brushes dirt from her hands, looking me up and down with a sweet smile. “That sounds about right. I think you saw me stuffing my face with peach pie at one of our barbecues.”
Gerald laughs. “She loves her sugar, this one.” He slaps me on the back, which almost knocks the wind out of me. “Come on, bud, let’s get you something cold to drink.”
We head to the patio, which is as perfectly maintained as the front.
Nancy’s already there with a pitcher and three glasses.
She hugs me, then fusses with the arrangement of coasters until Gerald tells her to sit down and “stop acting like it’s the Queen of England.
” It’s soothing, actually, the comfortable bickering of people who’ve run out of new arguments but keep at it anyway for sport.
Eliza sits across from me, one knee drawn up, the shorts riding even higher up her creamy thigh.
I try not to notice, but my body is not a team player when it comes to temptation.
I sneak a look at her face—blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose, and a mouth that looks pink and pouty, perfect for kissing.
She’s a damn beauty queen, and I try not to go ga-ga, even though my rod’s already hardening in my jeans.
Meanwhile, Gerald pours lemonade, then launches into a monologue about the neighbor’s dog, the city council, and the merits of oscillating sprinklers.
It’s classic stalling tactic, and I recognize it from years of knowing the man—he’s giving me time to adjust to civilian life, and the new rules of engagement.
Eliza mostly ignores the conversation, twirling her glass in slow, hypnotic circles.
“So as I was saying,” Gerald drones. “City Council has lost its shit! Excuse the language…”
I tune him out, merely trying not to stare at his daughter.
Eventually, Nancy gets up to check on the food, and Eliza follows with a tumbler in one hand.
I watch her go, my eyes caught on the sway of her hips and the expanse of her big bottom.
I have to remind myself not to gawk like a pervert, because this woman is how old?
Nineteen? Twenty? Damn, she’s so young, and so totally off-limits.
But it’s tough because Eliza moves like a sylph, seductive and yet innocent with her big blue eyes.
“So,” Gerald says, leaning in, “You’re really done with the Air Force, bud?”
“That’s the rumor,” I say, taking a long swallow of lemonade. “I’m not going to miss the paperwork.”
“You thinking of settling down?”
The question is so loaded I nearly choke. “Not sure the world’s ready for that, Gerry.”
My friend laughs, then winks. “You never know, Jack. Good women can reform even the most degenerate men.”
I resist the urge to ask if he’s seen the world lately, because it sure as hell hasn’t reformed me.
But Nancy and Eliza reappear then, and for the next half hour, it’s lunch—sandwiches, potato salad and macaroni salad, the whole Midwest feast. Conversation is mostly small talk, but every now and then, Eliza fires off a comment that cuts through the boredom.
Like when Gerald mentions his new mower:
“It’s got a self-propelled drive, but I still have to steer,” he grumbles.
Eliza deadpans, “If you can’t handle a lawnmower, Daddy, you probably shouldn’t have had kids.”
It gets a laugh, and for a second, she meets my eyes. There’s that smirk again, cute behind her innocent facade.
After lunch, Gerald insists on showing me “his real pride and joy”—the backyard vegetable beds, which he claims are better than anything at the farmers’ market.
He brings Eliza along, bragging about her “green thumb” and how she designed the whole layout herself.
I nod and admire the symmetry, but mostly I admire her.
When the young blonde bends to tie up a tomato stalk, her shorts ride up just enough to make me question every good intention I’ve ever had.
We walk the perimeter, Gerald gesturing like a proud general inspecting his troops.
Eliza trails a step behind, arms folded, lips pressed into a smile that’s half amusement, half boredom.
At the far end of the yard, she slips off her sandals and steps barefoot into a patch of grass.
She stretches, arms overhead, tank top riding up to reveal a soft, tanned stomach.
Gerald is talking, something about pest control, but I can’t hear a word of it.
All I see is Eliza, silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, a goddess in cutoff denim with big breasts that bounce, and a round rear end.
She glances back at me, eyes gleaming, and I look away before I embarrass myself.
But I can feel the heat between us. It’s stupid and dangerous and entirely predictable.
Eventually, Gerald runs out of things to point at, and we head back to the patio.
Nancy joins us, and Eliza disappears inside to “get started on dessert,” which is a pie she baked herself.
Gerald offers me a beer, and I take it, even though I shouldn’t.
He leans back, the king of his suburban kingdom.
“So, Jack. Any big plans now that you’re settled?”
I shrug. “Take it easy for a while. Maybe travel. See what happens.”
He nods. “You earned it. But if you ever get bored, we always have room for another hand around here.” He jerks his chin toward the house. “Eliza’s got big ideas for the garden, but she needs someone who can keep up.”
I smirk.
“I’m not sure I know anything about vegetation, but sure, I’m happy to give it a try.”
There, that sounds like a normal reply, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the illusion that this could be my life—simple, domestic, anchored to a plot of land and the people on it.
Then Eliza returns, her hair down now, carrying a pie so beautiful it almost makes me cry, with its whipped cream turrets and gleaming red fruit.
She sets it on the table and smiles sweetly.
“Cherry pie, Mr. Landry? I know you’ve got a taste for cherries.”
Holy fuck, is she implying something with those words?
Is she saying that I like to pop young girls’ cherries, claiming their virginity once and for all?
There’s no way that Eliza could be a virgin, right?
So I merely grunt in reply as the conversation continues …
but there’s the promise of something reckless just out of reach.
Unfortunately, Gerald’s still blabbering on even after dessert.
When did my bud become such a fucking chatterbox?
But he drones on for the next half hour, his mouth moving at a rapid pace.
It’s a running commentary on city council races, his fantasy football prospects, and a long, meandering story about a neighbor’s dog that ate a sock and had to have it surgically removed.
All the while, Eliza smiles at me, something naughty in those big blue eyes.