A Hoe Lot of Trouble

by Heather Webber

Gone now was his pudge, replaced with sinewy muscle. In another year or so girls would be tripping over their feet to get his attention.

  I thwapped him on the back of his thigh with my dish towel.

  When he spotted me, he hastily shoved the magazine he'd been reading under his pillow.

  Hmmm.

  I saw nothing new in the blue depths of his eyes as he looked at me. Just scorn, an emotion I thought I had steeled myself against years ago. Today, however, it brought a fresh slice of pain. I had kicked Kevin out of the house. Eventually Riley would join his father. Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat, I pushed that thought out of my mind. One thing at a time.

  Slowly he reached up and lowered his left earphone. "Yeah?" He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it into place.

  His hair was normally a wavy brown. This week it was black with bleached stripes. A sign of maturation, in his opinion. A sign of idiocy, in mine.

  "School. You need to eat." When addressing a teenager, you needed to speak in short concise sentences. Anything less was not absorbed.

  "Not hungry," he mumbled.

  I thwapped him again with the dish towel. He raised his gaze to meet mine. Anger replaced scorn. I was actually grateful for the change, but his behavior grated on my already stretched-to-the-point-of-no-return nerves. I will not fight. I will not fight, I repeated until I felt my anger turn from boil to simmer.

  Reaching up, he slid the headphones down around his neck.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. "A banana?"

  "I'm not a damn baby, Nina."

  I dismissed the urge to tighten the headphone cord around his throat. What would Child Services say? "I didn't say I was going to mash it and spoonfeed you."

  "I told you: I'm. Not. Hungry."

  "Fine!"

  "Fine."

  "Fine!"

  His dark lashes lowered. "You think I'm stupid."

  I sighed. It was going to be one of those days, not just for Ana but for me too. "I do not think you're stupid, Riley."

  "Yes, Nina, you do. You think I don't know what's going on with you and Dad?"

  My stomach twisted, nausea coming sudden and swift. He was definitely smarter than I had given him credit for, but I had never thought him dumb. Kevin and I had tried to disguise his absence with a lame-o story of him being under cover. Riley had obviously seen right through our little sham.

  "That's our business."

  "No, it isn't."

  He had mastered the art of condescension. I looked deep

  into his unreadable eyes. "Your father and I are having some problems," I admitted.

  "Did he cheat?"

  The words hit me with force. I stumbled backward, a knot of something sour eating away at my stomach. My voice had gone AWOL, leaving me with nothing to reiterate that it was none of his fifteen-year-old business.

  His lower lip jutted out. "Thought so."

  I realized with a start that I'd been played. Riley'd been on a fishing expedition and I'd wriggled right up to the hook and impaled myself. Damn, I hated when that happened.

  He waved a hand toward the door, dismissing me. "You can go."

  Grrr.

  Replacing the headphones, he turned his back to me. Carefully, I backtracked out of the room, supremely proud of myself for not slamming the door.

  I paused outside his room. The notion that I should apologize nagged at me. Why? For caring if he starved? For wanting to keep his father's and my business to ourselves? The floor stopped vibrating, and I pushed away from the wall before Riley could come out and accuse me of spying on him.

  Since I tended to clean when stressed, I headed for the laundry room to throw in a quick load of wash. As I stepped over the threshold, I stopped short. This was where it had all begun two days ago—the beginning to the end of my marriage.

  Lipstick on his boxers—a shade that wasn't mine, seeing as how I hadn't worn lipstick since the seventh grade. His betrayal was so cliché I wanted to laugh. But I couldn't. It still hurt.

  I left the laundry in the hamper.

  Back in the kitchen, I broke a cardinal commandment by calling the office on my day off.

  My secretary, Tamara Oliver, answered on the first ring. "Taken by Surprise, this is Tam."

  Despite the mess my life was in, I couldn't help the shimmer of pride I felt. My company, Taken by Surprise, Garden Designs, had started as a lark and spread like wildfire. It was just about the only thing going well in my world right now. "It's Nina."

  "It's your day off," Tam reminded, humor lacing her words.

  I ignored her unsubtle dig. "How are things?" When I didn't get an immediate answer, I got nervous. "Tam?"

  Her heavy sigh echoed across the line. "A hoe is missing."

  "Another one?!" This was the third in two weeks.

  "And a shovel. And a rake." I heard the wince in her voice as she continued. "And a wheelbarrow."

  "What! From the storage unit?"

  "No. From Kit's truck."

  Kit was my head landscaping contractor and site foreman, and he was one of my closest friends.

  "But he doesn't know when the things were taken. Last he saw them was at the Johansen site on Sunday. I hate to repeat it, but he said the truck hadn't been broken into."

  I read between the lines: One of my employees had sticky fingers. Not really surprising, since I tended to hire people with questionable backgrounds. I was a sucker for the wellexecuted sob story.

  "Should I file a report with the police?"

  I drummed my fingertips on the counter. "No. I want to look into it first."

  "All-righty."

  I heard Riley on the stairs and told Tam I'd check in later.

  As I hung up the phone, Riley came in wearing a red shirt with baggy, oversized army green pants, but I said nothing. I learned a long time ago not to argue with his choice in clothes. He had his father's fashion sense, and there was little I could do about it.

  "Sink's full up."

  I glanced at the water and caught one of Kevin's eyes staring back at me. Dashing to the sink, I blocked Riley's view as I picked the piece of photo out of the water and shoved it in the pocket of my robe.

  "Disposal's blocked."

  "Want me to plunge it?"

  Shocked at this altruistic side of Riley I'd never seen before, I think I gaped at him. Finally, I found my voice. "Naw. I can do it."

  "Fine." He plopped his backpack on the counter and grabbed his lunch money off the top of the microwave. Crossing over to the fridge, he removed the orange juice carton from the top shelf. He raised it to his lips.

  "Don't you—"

  He took a swig, replaced the carton, and turned to give me a sly "what're you going to do about it" smile. I fought the urge to scream at him. It was what he wanted—to get a rise out of me. He lived to taunt me. To him I was the embodiment of evil stepmothers—someone to be hated at all costs.

  I smiled oh-so sweetly. "Have a nice day."

  He swung his backpack over his shoulder. "Oh, Nina?"

  "Yes, Ry?" This situation demanded my best behavior.

  "Xena's missing."

  I jumped onto the nearest chair and said, "Please tell me you're talking about the TV character."

  "Sorry."

  Funny, he didn't sound sorry at all.

  "Then tell me you're joking," I seethed through clenched teeth.

  "Nope. Been gone since last night."

  "Dammit, Riley, why didn't you tell me last night?" My voice slowly rose to a pitch only dogs could hear.

  He scrunched his nose in a manner that would be charming if he wasn't purposely making me suffer. "Didn't want to worry you."

  "Riley—"

  Ignoring the warning in my voice, he strutted out the door.

  Maybe he was kidding. You know, just playing a prank . . . Biting my lip I thought back to the last time Riley played a practical joke. And couldn't remember one. Gulp.

  Swallowing my fear, I scanned the kitchen floor, keeping my eyes peel
ed for a four-foot-long boa. Unfortunately, I had to get ready to meet with Bridget and I couldn't very well stay on the chair all day. Could I? While I debated canceling breakfast with Bridget so I wouldn't have to climb down from my safety zone, my gaze swept over the kitchen's nooks and crannies.

  As I stared at the pot rack, a movement at the kitchen window caught my eye.

  The chair wobbled beneath me as I turned quickly, fearing a sneak snake attack. My scream split the air as I spied a face peering in at me through the glass.

  The chair gave one final shake and heaved me onto the tile floor.

  Two

  "Miz Quinn, you really oughta lock that back door." Mr. Cabrera helped me to my feet. He'd dashed into the house as soon as he'd seen my graceless free fall.

  I tightened the sash on my robe, dusted myself off. When was the last time I'd washed the kitchen floor? "You really shouldn't peek in your neighbors' windows." I'd long ago given up on trying to get the old man to call me Nina. You'd think with all his spying we could at least be on a first-name basis.

  "Seriously. There's been some burglaries lately."

  He was right, but I wasn't about to own up to it. "The window, Mr. Cabrera?"

  The baggy sleeve of his shirt, a fluorescent orange button-down covered in bright green bananas, flapped as he waved his hand. "Just checking to see if you were home."

  Teeth clenched, I said, "Something wrong with my doorbell?"

  The wrinkles on his face jiggled as he shrugged. He slapped a piece of paper on the counter.

  I picked it up, saw a column of numbers. "What's this?"

  "A bill."

  "For what?"

  "For the damage Riley caused in that overgrown steel

  trap that takes him to school. Two hostas and a bed of New Guinea impatiens . . ." He snapped his fingers. "Gone, just like that."

  Huh? "The bus? Why give this bill to me?"

  He shook his head. A lock of snowy hair slid onto his forehead. "Riley didn't take the bus."

  "He didn't?"

  "Gray van, oversized tires, rust spots the size of New Mexico."

  Didn't sound the least bit familiar.

  "Kid wearing a dog collar driving."

  "What?!"

  "Maybe you oughta pay better attention, Miz Quinn."

  I bit my tongue. Hard.

  "Thanks for the visit, Mr. Cabrera." Herding him to the back door, I held up the bill. "I'll look into this."

  "Be sure that you do."

  I fairly shoved him out the door. He turned to look at me. "You don't happen to have a minute, do you, Miz Quinn? I'd like your opinion on something I'm planning out in the backyard."

  My jaw dropped open in shock before suspicion snapped it closed. Mr. Cabrera was a natural-born gardener who needed no help whatsoever. Over the years I've tried to get him to work for me, but he's old and still clinging to his ancient delusions about men not working for women.

  His asking for my advice about anything, but especially gardening, had me on the defensive. Warning sirens blared in my head, but curiosity got the better of me. "Uh, sure."

  I ran back to the kitchen, used an I Love Lucy magnet to attach the bill to the fridge, and followed him out the back door.

  The dew soaked grass squished between my bare toes. I was still trying to piece together what he was up to when he said, "I'm looking to make myself an oasis of sorts. A getaway."

  I squinted as the sun reflected off his shirt, nearly blinding me. "A getaway?" This from a man who loved to be in the middle of it all?

  "Someplace I can relax, unwind."

  I winced as I stepped on a rock. Mr. Cabrera wasn't the relaxing kind, not in the least. What was he up to?

  He spun, his arms waving, bright green bananas flapping at me. "I thought maybe you could help me plan something out." He nodded knowingly and smiled, his dentures nearly slipping out. "It's best to stay busy during these trying times."

  I should have known that's what this was about! This little field trip into his backyard was Mr. Cabrera's own special way of prying information out of me to pass on at his weekly cribbage game.

  He wanted the dirt on mine and Kevin's falling out, the sneaky, sneaky man.

  I smiled brightly, refusing to give in. "What kind of scale did you have in mind, Mr. Cabrera? Something small, hammocklike? Or your own personal pagoda?"

  His smile dissolved into a grim line. "Nothing too fancy," he muttered. "Something peaceful. I'm thinking of learning some yoga. A man needs to be at peace with himself."

  I rubbed my temples, fighting off a headache.

  His eyebrows snapped together, forming one long, thick snowy line across his forehead. "I'd like some shade, too. Some privacy. A man also needs his privacy."

  My eyebrows jumped up. He was definitely feeding me a line. I just wasn't quite sure about what.

  "A hammock'd be okay, I guess," he said.

  We'd stopped smack-dab in the middle of his backyard. There wasn't a single tree in this area and I really didn't care for the look of a freestanding hammock. "Then we'd need to move farther back," I said, "near the trees . . ." I started back toward the woods that served as a boundary for all the yards on this side of the street.

  "No!"

  Stopping in my tracks, I turned to face him. "No?"

  His arms were flying out every which way. "It has to be here. Right here."

  I sighed. "Why? There's no shade here. Or any privacy."

  "I've been reading up on that Feng Shui stuff. It needs to be right here." He stomped. "Right. Here."

  I knew very little about Feng Shui, so I couldn't dispute for certain what he was telling me, but I had the sneaky feeling he was making it all up.

  He rubbed his hands together. "Whatcha got for me? I'd like to get started right away."

  I tightened my robe. It was useless to point out to him how long it took me to perfect my designs, how many hours I spent poring over each detail. The draw of TBS was how quickly the job could be done. In and out in a day. Designs had to be relatively simple, yet stunning and dramatic. It wasn't as easy as it looked. Many, many hours went into coordinating and planning, not just inside the office, but with various contractors and craftsmen.

  However, Mr. Cabrera wanted instant gratification, and I wanted out of there, so I gave it to him. I'd recently designed something similar to what he was looking for, so I used that.

  "You could have a gazebo built, maybe with benches inside, or maybe that hammock, although that might take up a lot of room, leaving you with none for your yoga."

  One bushy white eyebrow snaked up as he apparently tried to decide if I was mocking him.

  I pushed on before he figured it out. "It'll have a roof, so that will provide shade. You can trellis or lattice the walls, or leave them open and plant some ivy or other vines that are winter hardy to fill in spaces and gaps. In the warmer months you can have flower boxes or hanging baskets too. You can add a path—gravel or flagstone—and have some shrubs around it . . ."

  He was rubbing his chin and nodding thoughtfully. "That might do."

  "Some quick-growing evergreens will help with the priva—"

  "No! No trees."

  "Ohh-kay."

  "I'll go get me some lumber from that new Home Depot and start today."

  The man was full of surprises this morning. I felt the need to warn him. "This is a big job, Mr. Cabrera, especially if you're doing it on your own—which I don't recommend."

  "I've got the wherewithal. And the time."

  "What about Margaret? What's she have to say about this?" Margaret was his latest in a long line of 'women friends.' He'd long since told me he was too old to have girlfriends.

  He kicked at the grass. "Nothin'."

  I gasped. "Oh no! She didn't die, did she?" I hadn't heard, but I'd been out of the gossip loop for a few days.

  "No!" he snapped.

  I winced. "Sorry."

  "But she heard the rumors."

  Everyone had heard the r
umors. Seemed Mr. Cabrera never settled down and remarried because the majority of his 'women friends' kept dying on him. All of natural causes, or so the autopsies said. That didn't stop people from gossiping, though. Or from thinking Mr. Cabrera was one jinxed man.