2. Alessandro
Chapter two
Alessandro
My Italian Mammina’s voice hums like busy dragonfly wings in my ears. “Alessandro, caro. When are you going to get married? All mie amiche already have grandchildren. You went to the States to work, but what do you have to show? Come home already.”
I shake my head and switch the phone to my other ear, since this one’s sweating. Literally being talked off because her friends have grandbabies. “Mamma—”
“No! don’t you mamma me! I miss you.”
I chuckle and pull items out of my toolbox, lining them up on my workbench, ready to use whenever this call finally ends. “I miss you too. But things are going well—”
“You met a signora?” Her tone pitches with hopefulness.
I scratch my head. “Not yet, mamma.”
She clicks her tongue in frustration, not seeming to understand that life exists outside of finding a partner and procreating.
It’s true I don’t have much to show for two years. A steady client list for my lawnmowing business, yes. But friends and a less tangible inner satisfaction? Not so much.
As mamma drones on about my aunts and her circle of middle-aged amiche, I lean on the shed doorframe and stare out at the estate.
The inground pool across the walkway glimmers in the afternoon light.
It took me hours to clean all the stone paving, deck chairs, and the tiki bar after yesterday’s party.
The waterfall cascading down a series of rocks before reaching the swimming area seems loud in the silence, the owners probably still nursing hangovers inside their three-story manor.
Sweat trickles down my spine and I reach over to turn on the big industrial fan, hoping to get some air movement inside the storage shed.
My bed sits in the corner, a mattress thrown on top of a low shelf and covered in mosquito netting.
A far cry from the luxury outside the door, but at least I have a base.
Most importantly, maintaining the Warkow’s pool means I can use this workshop and keep all my lawnmowing gear inside, including my truck and trailer. Minimal rent, plenty of space, that’s everyone’s dream, right? Even if it’s all a bit quiet.
“Are you listening, Alessandro?”
I twitch. “Sorry, mamma.”
She switches to Italian to give me another earful, her tirade turning back to her lack of grandchildren within seconds. That is my burden to bear, I suppose, being an only child.
Fox and Coyote, the Warkow’s guard dogs, trot past my open doorway, their ears pricked forward and their stride intentional.
I take a few steps out to see what’s caught their attention. A dog barks on the other side of the back fence and a small red form launches from the top of the dividing wall into the row of Japanese Maple trees.
One moment later, a shaggy golden furball sails over the seven-foot fence. The long-haired dog races over to the closest tree and sets his front paws up on the trunk, barking at the squirrel.
The Doberman Pinschers dash forward with vicious snarls, teeth bared. Whimpering, the golden retriever whips around.
My blood runs cold. “I have to go, Mame! Ciao. Mwah.”
I hang up and run as fast as my legs can carry me. “Fox! Coyote!” I add their German command to stand down, shouting to be heard above the barking. “Steh!”
Both dogs halt with their savage teeth mere inches from the retriever’s throat, growling in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The newcomer curls in a ball at their feet, yelping. My heart beats at double time. Was I too late?
“Zurück! Get back!” I order the guard dogs.
They quiver with low growls and for a moment I think they aren’t going to obey me. But then they back up, one slow step at a time. After a second glance at the pair to make sure they’re staying back, I drop down on my heels by the shivering intruder.
“Hey there, friend. What are you doing here?”
He lifts his nose and looks around before belly-crawling right under my knees. His coat brushes my skin, silky and emitting a coconut fragrance. Someone looks after him well.
In the distance, a door slams, followed by what sounds like a sob. Right, a lady no one’s ever seen lives next door, and a few times I’ve heard someone whistling like they were calling for a dog.
The retriever peeks out from under my knees, panting as he swivels from me to the guard dogs who nearly tore him to pieces. His pink tongue slides out over black lips before he sits up on his haunches and slaps his silky tail on the ground. He lets out a soft yip.
“Oh, so you’re a talkative one, are you?” I ask, reaching out to pat his soft head. A quick check of his collar reveals a phone number and a name, Mr Shares. What a strange name for a dog. But rich people like to do all sorts of things with their animals around here.
I take my belt off and slip it around the collar to form a lead. “Come on, Mr Shares. I think I better take you home.”
He trots happily beside me on the left side, tail wagging, as if he wasn’t a naughty runaway.
It takes a good eight minutes to walk down the street and around the corner to the house that backs onto the Warkow property, given the size of these massive estates.
But Mr Shares heels the entire way, clearly well trained.
Around the corner, Number Eight Leighton Drive carries the expected sophistication of this premium suburb, but the security looks even tighter. I’ve heard speculation from my landlords about the owner, who’s never been seen leaving her house. Only service vehicles come and go.
If Mr Shares’s adventure has given me a chance to sate some mild curiosity, then I’m happy to take it. Not that I can afford too much interest in people whose lives are so far removed from mine.
I press the buzzer on the locked gate.
The panel clicks. “Come back later,” a strained female voice says.
Maybe I should have phoned instead. “I can ma’am, but I think I have your dog here. Are you missing a retriever?”
She inhales sharply and the camera pans down. The beautiful dog paws at the gate as if demanding to be let in.
“Please come in,” the woman says.
The gates slide open, giving us entrance. I half expected her to tell me to leave the dog inside the yard, from how snappy she sounded at first.
The further we walk along the drive, the harder the dog’s tail wags. I lean down to ruffle the hair between his ears, and he lets out a throaty yip, hindquarters dancing in joy. I bet he’d love to play tug-of-war with a rope.
His manicured coat makes sense in light of the perfect arrangement of the yard. The trimmed hedges, clean fountain, and grass cut to the perfect height all speak of exacting attention to detail. And money, of course, to make it happen.
The double front doors swing open, revealing a beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties dressed in a smart business suit with a low-cut cream blouse.
Her strait blonde hair hangs to her ribs, the locks swaying as she tilts her head to study me.
A thick wooden-bead bracelet draws my gaze to her manicured nails.
Everything about this woman shouts professionalism and self-care.
But it’s her eyes that I can’t look away from. Blue as the sky, smoky with subtle brown and copper dust on her lids and framed by black mascara.
And in them lives a sorrow that haunts me.
Her red-rimmed gaze fixes on the dog at my side and her fingers extend slightly toward him, like he’s the most precious thing in the world. The deep need emanating off her stops me in my tracks.
Padre always said I had a gift for reading people. I never thought much about it until now, but this woman feels like a book that needs to be read cover to cover.
Faint smudges of mascara run on her lower lids, suggesting hastily-wiped tears. This beautiful woman was crying over her runaway dog.
I hide my grass-stained hands behind my back, wishing I’d thought to tidy myself up before coming over.
Mr Shares barks and tugs on my make-shift leash.
I slip the belt free and he bounds up the steps, jumping up at her without touching her legs.
With a strangled cry, the woman kneels inside the door and wraps her arms around his neck, stroking him over and over.
Her dog licks around her ears, wriggling with joy.
She clutches him tight and murmurs into his coat, the words spoken too softly for me to catch them.
“Thank you,” the woman says in a shaky voice after a long reunion, kissing her pet’s head once before looking up at me.
True gratitude, heartfelt and sincere. She loves her dog like family. Not like the people around me who keep animals as showpieces and guards. Mr Shares bunts his head under her arm for more cuddles, returning the love.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” I say. “I couldn’t believe when he flew in right over that big fence.”
She quirks a smile. “You and me both. I had it raised once already, because he can jump so high.”
I lock my hands behind my back.
“As much as I enjoyed Mr Share’s company, can I suggest you raise the height again? He nearly came to disaster with the guard dogs over there.” I point in the general direction of her back yard.
The woman winces, suddenly appearing very small, crouched in the entrance of her massive house.
“That’s what I was most afraid of.” She looks up, her eyes boring through me as if she’s the soul reader. “The fence is already at the max regulation height. I think I’ll only let him out the front from now on.”
I chew on my lip.
“About the fence,” I start, hesitant. “What about adding a decorative panel? I’ve seen a few places around here add them to the top of the fences. That might keep your pretty boy contained without violating any, ah, codes. Sì? I mean, yes?”
Her face lights up. “Oh, really? I haven’t seen that.”
I stare, stunned. With a smile, she looks like a completely different person. Relaxed, carefree. Approachable even. Instinct drives me a step forward.
Isn’t she uncomfortable crouched down like that? Especially with an alpha towering over her? Granted, my presence isn’t particularly strong, but most people give alphas a second look.