Chapter Thirteen
Maci
The late-morning sun lit up the backyard, and the lemon tree leaves looked as shiny as green glass. I stepped onto the porch with my favorite coffee mug, enjoying its warmth before I took a slow sip.
Zaire was in the driveway wiping the last drops of water from his SUV. He always took his truck seriously.
I leaned on the porch column and smiled to myself.
"You planning to enter it in a car show?" I called out.
He looked back and gave me the grin that had gotten him out of more arguments than I wanted to admit.
"Can't help it if I like my things clean."
"I can't compete with that."
He laughed softly and turned back to the driver's side mirror. A warm breeze moved through the yard. Two ripe lemons dropped from the branches above. I watched them fall, then looked up and smiled.
"I'll be right back," I said softly.
I went inside and came back a moment later with a woven basket. Zaire glanced over again.
"About to make something to die for?"
"Something like that."
Grass brushed my ankles as I walked under the branches. I picked the lemons one by one, checking each before putting it in the basket. The air smelled like citrus, and soon the basket was nearly full of bright yellow lemons.
"Those look good," Zaire said.
"They do."
I turned toward the house, and he threw a damp towel over his shoulder.
"Oh, before I forget," he said. "I threw that receipt away. Pretty sure you meant to get rid of it."
I paused.
"The one from earlier this week?"
"Yeah."
I smiled.
"Thank you."
He shrugged.
We went back inside together. Cool air greeted us as the door closed. I carried the basket into the kitchen and set it on the island. Bernice looked up from seasoning vegetables.
"My goodness," she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Those are beautiful."
"They were almost falling off the tree, so I thought I’d pick some and give a few to Camille since she likes my lemons so much."
She walked over, picked up the basket with ease, and smiled.
"That’s nice of you. I'll get these washed and dried."
"Thanks, Bernice."
She went to the sink. I wandered into the living room and finished my last sip of coffee.
A few minutes later, Bernice returned with the lemons, still wet from rinsing. She placed them in the basket and set it back on the island.
"All clean," she announced.
"Perfect."
"I've got laundry to finish before lunch."
"I appreciate it."
She smiled and walked down the hallway, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I looked at the basket of bright yellow lemons, each one polished. I opened a kitchen drawer and picked up something small, just the right size to hide in my hand.
When I turned back to the island, I moved carefully and quickly. After working with each lemon, I paused for a moment taking it all in.
The basket looked untouched, just as Bernice had left it. I wrapped the object in a paper towel and tossed it in the trash can. Then I adjusted a lemon near the top until it looked right.
I smiled, satisfied.
I covered the basket with a white kitchen towel and slipped the handles onto my arm.
"I'm running over to Camille's for a few minutes," I called.
Zaire looked up from the sofa. "Tell her I said hey."
"I will."
I walked across the cul-de-sac. The basket bumped against my hip as I went. Some neighbors waved from their yards, and I waved back, noticing the charm of the neighborhood.
Camille's house looked the same as always. Every blade of grass was in place. Only Camille seemed different. I rang the doorbell and waited for footsteps.
The door opened just enough for Camille to peek through.
"Oh." She let out a small breath when she saw me. "Maci."
She smiled, but it seemed practiced, as if she had prepared it before opening the door.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No." She opened the door wider. "Not at all. Come on in."
When I walked in, she glanced over my shoulder before shutting the door.
"I brought you something." I carried the basket into the kitchen and lifted the towel. "I figured I would bring you some this time. You still got to ask though."
Her face softened as soon as she saw the fruit.
"Oh, these are gorgeous."
"I thought you’d like them."
She reached into the basket, rolling a lemon between her hands and admiring its bright yellow skin.
It was hard to miss the heaviness around her.
"How have you been?" I asked.
"I'm okay." She answered a bit too quickly.
"I mean..." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm trying not to let all this get to me."
I leaned against the kitchen island.
"That was strange. Any old friends you may have fallen out with?"
She shook her head and let out a dry laugh. "All my friends are here."
"What does your husband have to say?"
“At first, he thought it was strange, but after the flowers, he’s convinced it’s a man from my past. I’ve never been unfaithful, so I don’t know why he’d say that.”
“Hmm, I’m not sure. I’m sorry to hear that. Do you think your husband is cheating?” I whispered. Camille smoothed her blouse and smiled.
“He knows better,” she said with a smirk. I bet he does, I thought. She shook her head at herself.
"I sound crazy."
"No, you sound like a concerned wife who’s just trying to figure all this out."
"I am."
She lowered her voice.
"I keep thinking someone's watching me."
I glanced at the big kitchen windows that looked out over the backyard.
"I can only imagine. I hope this all gets sorted out soon. You’ll have peace again before long." I smiled at her.
"I hope so."
She picked up another lemon.
"They're beautiful."
"I'm glad you like them."
"I love them, thank you for thinking of me."
"That's what neighbors do. Guess I'll see you at the Lemon Pound Cake meeting Thursday. Call me if you need anything."
“I definitely will.” I leaned in and gave Camille a quick hug. I caught a hint of her favorite perfume, the one she always wore. Then I hurried back across the street, feeling like I had done what I set out to do.
Bernice looked up from dusting the foyer as I stepped inside.
"Did she like them?"
I slipped off my sandals by the door and nodded.
"She loved them."
"I told you they were beautiful lemons."
"They really were."
Bernice smiled to herself, then disappeared down the hallway, humming softly as she finished her afternoon chores.
I went upstairs to my bedroom and stood at the window, looking out over the cul-de-sac. From there, I could see Camille’s house clearly.
People often find comfort in how things look, even if it doesn’t last. I saw Camille through her dining room window across the street. She took the towel from the basket and arranged the lemons in a bowl on her kitchen island. Then she stepped back and smiled at them.
She smiled at the lemons, and I smiled at her. Neither of us knew how much the neighborhood would change before the week was over.