Hmm. Maybe I could print out the instructions and tape them onto the lawnmower, so that, in case I had a problem, I could refer to them.
I immediately discarded that idea. First of all, I doubted there was a place to tape the directions, and second, I needed to concentrate on operating the mower properly, not distract myself with how-to’s. Or how-not-to’s.
“Maybe I shouldn’t try this,” I said to the dogs. “What do you think?”
This shows how unsure I was, right? I mean, normally I don’t come right out and ask the dogs for advice. Not that this ever stops them from offering it.
Lucy gave a deep sigh and walked over to the bookcase, which is packed with a mixture of books and family photos.
Note to self: This needs to be dusted. Sometime in the far, far distant future.
Lucy turned around and looked back at me, to be sure I was paying attention, then parked herself in front of the bookcase, stared at it, then looked back at me again.
I tried to figure out what was so fascinating. I hoped it wasn’t the dust.
“Okay, Lucy. I give up. This time I really don’t get it. What is it about this bookcase that’s so fascinating?”
My eyes traveled to a row of family photographs. “Oh, look, there’s a picture of Jim and me when we brought Jenny home from the hospital.” My eyes filled up and I reached for the photo. “That was such a happy day. Although the first few days home, and the nights, were pretty challenging. I had no idea what I was doing. Who knew becoming a mother was so difficult? I worried constantly that she wasn’t eating enough. Or that I wasn’t holding her properly. And I was terrified to give her that first bath.”
I smiled, holding the photo, lost in memories.
And then, I snapped to it. Because it finally dawned on me what Lucy was telling me. When I was a new mother, I was completely unsure of myself. But I persevered, slowly, and finally I got the hang of caring for a newborn. So that, by the time Mike was born, I was a pro.
And in a little while, I’d be a pro with Jim’s stupid riding mower, too. I just hoped the labor pains weren’t too bad.
Chapter 4
I don’t let anyone embarrass me. I do a better job all by myself.
Before I made my official riding mower debut, I gave the dogs a good romp around the back yard. Then I shut them in the kitchen. Firmly. And bribed them with two dog biscuits each.
“No barking,” I lectured them. “You’ll wake Jim. And I need to do this all by myself, so you’re staying in the house. I can’t take the chance that either of you will accidentally get hurt by the mower.”
Lucy gave me a skeptical look.
“Listen, Lucy, you’re the one who convinced me that I am perfectly capable of using the darned mower. So don’t give me the evil eye.”
I pulled a kitchen chair closer to the window. “Here. You can hop on this and have a clear view of my mowing prowess. I hope that satisfies you.”
One more biscuit for each canine, and I was out the door. Approaching the garage. Scared to death. Lying to myself that I could do this. And not believing me for a single minute.
And if I can’t convince myself, well, feel free to fill in the blanks.
Even though we’re very good friends, I’m not going to give you all the gory details of what happened next. Suffice it to say that this was not my finest moment, and made my first driver’s test—which I failed when I backed over a curb and nailed three safety cones and a fire hydrant—look like I was ready for a spot in the Grand Prix.
But I gave it my best shot, and hope you’ll give me an A for effort.
Oh, all right. Here’s what happened.
I figured that I might have to add some gas to what I now thought of as the Orange Monster. And that, for safety reasons, should be done outside the garage. So I turned the mower operating switch to “on,” said a brief prayer, and started to walk the machine outside.
Big mistake.
The darn thing took off like a rocket, with me running after it.
Who knew the mower had so much power? And speed? Good gracious. I’d never run so fast in my whole life. Trying not to scream. Mustn’t wake Jim. Praying that the sucker wouldn’t hit the fence. Or, worse, the house.
Our gas grill was in its path. Wham! Totaled. No more cookouts this year. Or maybe ever. At least, not on that baby.
Note to self: Purchase new gas grill asap. Preferably before Jim notices what happened to the old one.
Then, the mower headed toward the birdbath and nailed that, too, as well as two shepherd’s hooks that were next to my birdfeeders. I was cringing, especially when the machine reversed itself and actually backed into our picket fence. All by itself. It was like the machine had taken on a life of its own. Stephen King’s Christine could take carnage lessons from the Orange Monster.
I finally managed to stop the mower when it got stuck in one of the bushes on the side of the house.
Truthfully, the mower stopped itself. I guess it was tired from all that exertion.
Me, too.
I collapsed beside the wretched machine, gasping for breath. I hadn’t had that much exercise since…well, never mind. Let’s just say it’d been a while. And the other circumstances are none of your business.
I sat down on the grass and forced myself to survey the wreckage of what had been, until a few minutes ago, my beautiful yard.
You’ve really done it this time, Carol. Wait till Jim finds out what happened. He’s going to kill you.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to calm myself. I willed myself to focus on something beautiful. But the only beautiful place my subconscious was willing to take me to was my yard. Before I wrecked it.
I didn’t cry, though. For those of you who know me well, I bet that surprises you.
I decided to save my tears and hysterics for my conversation with Jim. I’d need them big-time then.
“Do you need some help, ma’am?”
My baby blues snapped open at the sound of a male voice. And found myself staring at a pair of well-worn work boots. The owner of the boots (he was also wearing jeans and a forest green windbreaker, in case you’re interested) squatted down beside me and offered his hand to pull me up from the ground.
I was embarrassed. And also a little scared. After all, he was a complete stranger who had probably witnessed my humiliation and now was in my yard.
I snatched my hand away and laughed. Nervously.
“Thank you so much. I’m fine. Really.”
I rolled over and managed to stand up on my own. Not gracefully, but at least I was upright.
The stranger surveyed me skeptically. “Mrs. Stevens didn’t think you were fine. That’s why she sent me over here to help.”
He stretched out his hand again. “I’m Will Finnegan. I do lawn work for your neighbors across the street.”
Oh, great. That busybody Phyllis Stevens probably took pictures of my humiliation that she’ll spread all over the neighborhood.
Now I was even more embarrassed.
Will Finnegan looked around the yard. “Are you sure you don’t want some help cleaning this up? I’d be glad to fix what I can.” He gave me a big grin. “Before your husband sees it, that is.”
“What makes you assume I’d hide this from my husband?” I asked. “That’s pretty presumptuous, considering you don’t even know me.
“And how did you know I’m married, for that matter? Or did Phyllis tell you all about me?” The blabbermouth.
“Why, for sure any woman as attractive as you are must be married,” Will said, offering me another grin. “That’s easy. And as far as keeping this from your husband, well, let’s just say that I’ve had lots of customers over the years who’ve called me in a panic to come and help them. I don’t want to brag, but I’m a very handy guy. And I’m discreet, too.”
He made a
zipping motion across his lips.
I’ll just bet you are.
“I never saw a mower take off on its own like that,” he said. “There’s supposed to be a safety switch to prevent accidents. You must have done something wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I insisted. “I barely touched the mower and, the next thing I knew, the darn thing took off. Maybe it’s defective.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Will said. Although he didn’t sound as if he believed it.
“I can’t make the yard look perfect, but at least I can pick up some of the debris and fix the picket fence. I’ll even haul away some of the branches. What do you say?”
I hesitated. Then he said two magic words.
“No charge.”
I was softening. And although I hated to admit it, I was desperate.
I knew that Phyllis and her husband Bill were the official cheapskates in our neighborhood, so if this guy worked for them, he must be good at his job. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes.
“Call me Will,” he said, offering me his hand one more time. “That’s what my friends call me. And I have a feeling we’re going to be really good friends.”
Our hands met and—wow—electric shock. Sizzle City. One of those unexplainable but undeniable immediate attractions that made me jerk my hand right away.
“Is that what Phyllis calls you?” I asked.
“Yes,” Will said. “And you know the old saying, where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Then he winked at me.
Well, my goodness. This guy was coming onto me. And my treacherous body had responded.
I could tell from the way Will looked at me that he realized it, too.
I glanced away, sure that my cheeks were flaming. And was confronted once again by the damage that darn mower had done to my previously beautiful yard.
“Can you really fix this?” I challenged Will. “My husband’s going to have a fit when he sees what happened out here.”
“Sure I can,” Will said. “In fact, I can probably make it look better than it did before the mower went berserk.” He frowned. “But the whole job will take some time. I might have to get more of my crew over here. And if you hire us, this job won’t be cheap. I won’t charge you for my own time, because you’re a neighbor of Phyllis and Bill’s. But I have a payroll to meet. I have to pay my crew. And I may need to rent equipment.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I asked. “We never hire anyone without a written estimate.”
Especially my super-thrifty, coupon-obsessed husband. I didn’t really say that last part, of course.
Will didn’t look happy about having to put together an estimate. I’m sure he figured his charm would get him the job, no problem.
Super salesperson that he was, though, he eyeballed the picket fence, part of which was face down in the dirt. “I’ll see what I can put together in the next few days and get something in writing over to you, Okay? I can fix that fence right away, though, if you want me to. Looks like you have dogs here. You’ll want to keep them safe. This is a pretty busy street.”
Lucy and Ethel! Oh, my gosh. What if they got loose and ran onto Old Fairport Turnpike. And got hit by a car. And died. And it would be all my fault.
How could I live with myself if that happened? Oh, God, how I’d miss them. In fact, I was missing them already, even though the rational side of my mind—the part I rarely use—told me that they were both safe in the house.
I’m an expert at fabricating worst possible scenarios. Maybe in my next life, I’ll become a fiction writer. Although I’m told that writing fiction is a lot harder than it seems. And doesn’t pay very well, either.
“You’re hired, Will,” I said, hoping he hadn’t noticed that my eyes had filled with tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell Jim, but I’ll think of something. Just, please, fix the fence so Lucy and Ethel will be safe.”
“Don’t worry,” Will said. “I’ll take care of it. I just have to get a few tools from my truck.” He gestured across the street. “That’s my rig. Finnegan’s Rakes.”
“I’ve seen that truck before,” I said. “All over town.”
“Well, I don’t want to brag,” Will said, “but we do a pretty good business. And we have lots of customers in your neighborhood.”
He reached out for my hand again and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”
Cue treacherous body again. Which snapped to attention when it heard a familiar voice.
“What the hell is going on out here?”
Chapter 5
We’re staying together for the sake of the dogs.
I jumped a foot. Only a slight exaggeration. I’d had no time to concoct my brilliant fictional account of the Great Yard Debacle.
My Beloved was out of bed and headed in our direction, sneezing and coughing. And wrapped in that horrible, pilly grey sweater that I’ve been trying to throw out for years.
Focus, Carol. Forget the sweater. How are you going to get yourself out of this mess? I wonder if you’re too old to be grounded.
But Jim wasn’t wearing his glasses. Eureka! Maybe I could come up with an inaccurate version of the truth after all. (Notice, I didn’t use the word “lie.”)
I’ve learned over the years that the best defense is a strong offense. So I went on the offensive.
“Jim, honey, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” I said, grabbing his arm and steering him back in the direction of the house. “I don’t want you to get sicker. What are you doing outside? It’s freezing, and you only have a sweater on. Let me help you back inside.”
Jim shook my arm off in a gesture of annoyance I know all too well.
“Forget it, Carol. I know something happened out here.” He turned and squinted at the fence. “How did this fall down? I didn’t hear any wind. Was there a storm? If there was, I must have slept through it.”
Every fiber of my being wanted to say, “Yes, Jim. That’s it. There was a wind storm. You must have been sound asleep and didn’t hear it. And it did a lot of other damage in the yard, too. It totaled the birdbath, and the gas grill.”
But I didn’t. And the fact that Will Finnegan was within earshot and could call me out had absolutely nothing to do with it.
“I have to tell you the truth, Jim.” Most of it, anyway.
“I started the riding mower, it got away from me, and knocked down part of the fence.” If he hadn’t noticed the rest of the carnage yet, well, why worry the guy when he was feeling sick?
So I skipped over some of the details, cutting right to the chase, as the saying goes. “And this nice young man came to my rescue. His name is Will Finnegan, and his landscaping company is called Finnegan’s Rakes. He’s kindly offered to fix the fence for free. Today. So we won’t have to worry about the possibility of Lucy and Ethel getting onto Old Fairport Turnpike and being hit by a car.”
I knew that would work. Jim is a real softie when it comes to the girls.
Jim aimed his squint at Will. “Don’t I know you? Aren’t you the guy who donated the money to build the new children’s playground down by the beach? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Will looked embarrassed. “I don’t want to take all the credit for that project. Lots of people pitched in and helped.”
“Don’t be so modest. You’re the one who got the ball rolling,” Jim said. “If it weren’t for you, nothing would have happened but idle talk. And I understand you donate a portion of your company’s profits to the local boys’ and girls’ club in town. I wish more people in Fairport were as community-minded as you obviously are.”
Jim turned to me. “You know, Carol, I was lying in bed thinking about what you said earlier. About how I can’t do some of the things around the house as much as I used to. And your offer to help.”
He
scowled. “Not that I’m letting you off the hook. I knew you couldn’t handle that riding mower. But noooo, you didn’t listen.”
I started to defend myself, but didn’t get the chance. Jim sneezed, reminding me that I really needed to hurry him back into the house.
“Anyway,” Jim continued, “I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time to turn over more of these jobs, like lawn care and show removal, to someone else. They’re getting to be too much for me to deal with on a regular basis.”
He fixed me with a look. “And I don’t mean you, Carol.
“So, I guess it was a lucky break that you happened by today, Mr. Finnegan. Maybe you and I can do some business.”
I tried not to look surprised. It was a real effort, let me tell you. This behavior was totally out of character for Jim.
But I wasn’t about to give him a chance to change his mind. Something My Beloved frequently does once he figures out that something he’s agreed to with great enthusiasm is going to cost him money.
I inserted myself into the now testosterone-dominated conversation with an added piece of information I hoped would really seal the deal. “He didn’t just happen by, Jim,” I said. “Will does the landscaping and lawn work for Phyllis and Bill Stevens. He was working at their place when the mower and I had our miscommunication problem.”
And you know how cheap Bill is. He makes you look like a rank amateur.
I didn’t really say that last part, of course.
“If you work for Bill Stevens, that’s all the reference I need,” Jim said. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to give you my cold. How soon can you start?”
Was it my imagination, or did I hear the faint strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” coming from the sky?
Nah. That must have been me.
I got a reluctant but still sneezing Jim back into bed and made him promise to stay there and take a much-needed nap. Which he only agreed to do after extracting a promise from me to stay out of trouble while he was dozing.
Funerals Can Be Murder (A Baby Boomer Mystery Book 5) Page 3
