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The silence of the neighborhood was broken by the sound of Ruben’s mower starting. He did the front yard, walking diagonally behind a push mower, per the owner’s preference. Alejandro used the stand-on mower to take care of both sides of the house, and he and Mario shared the jobs of raking, blowing, Weedwacking and edging.
Mila appreciated the relative silence of the backyard. After typing in the code to the gate, she shifted the trimmer so it didn’t damage the flowers on either side of the walkway and wished for a moment that the sun would disappear behind the clouds. Even the ball cap pulled low over her eyes couldn’t lessen the glare reflecting off the smooth surface of the pool.
Too bad she couldn’t take a dip in it. Even tepid water would feel good right now. At least it would wash away a few layers of grime and perspiration. But that would be a fireable offense. She wasn’t so skilled and personable that she could throw away a job, especially one that allowed her to work pretty much on her own. Her crew probably didn’t say twenty-five words a day to her, and that was the way she liked it.
Though, at the thought, something twinged inside her. Was that really the way she liked it? Or was it just the only way she knew?
Resolutely, she pushed the question away. A long time ago, she’d adopted her grandmother Jessica’s philosophy: it is what it is. You took what life gave you, and you made the best of it. That was exactly what they’d been doing for the last fifteen years.
Reaching the back corner of the house, she stopped and let her gaze slide slowly across the vista while contentment chased away the moment of discomfort. The house sat at the top of a hill, with a steep slope starting at the distant edge of the garden. Off to the east rose the slim spires of downtown Tulsa. Just beyond the lower hilltops to the northeast, the town of Cedar Creek sat, compact, a small space crammed with rooftops, power lines and the grid of neatly laid-out city blocks. The valley just past the garden was green with oaks, red cedars and hickories and dotted with gnarled deadfall that indicated too many years since the last cleansing wildfire.
It was a peaceful, quiet place. Until she noticed she wasn’t alone. The quiet remained, but the peace disappeared in an instant.
One of the half dozen lounges around the pool was occupied. From this angle, all she could see was tousled dark hair above the chair back. It wasn’t unusual to find some clients at home when they arrived, but she’d never seen this client before. His name was Carlyle. She’d taken care of his yard for three years, had planned and planted his garden, but she’d never met him or spoken to him. Like most of their well-heeled customers, he didn’t communicate directly with the help if he could avoid it.
Mila hesitated, then cleared her throat. He didn’t move. Rolling her eyes at her reluctance to leave her safe, unnoticed spot, she forced herself to put the equipment down, then crossed the stepping-stones to the patio. “Excuse me.”
No response.
“Lawn service, Mr. Carlyle.”
Still nothing. She rubbed her grubby palms on the legs of her jeans. The dampness of the denim reminded her that she’d started work at six this morning and hadn’t been dry since. She wasn’t in any condition to approach one of their wealthiest clients.
The deep breath she took was filled with the sweet fragrance of the flowers and a whiff of chlorine from the pool, both expected, plus something else. A tangy, bitter, familiar something that rose like a phantom from long-ago nightmares, that made her muscles go taut and a knot harden in her gut like stone.
The air was utterly still, without even a hint of a breeze to ruffle the dark hair. The oversize chair with its teak frame and plush cushions hid the rest of the person from view, but it couldn’t hide the puddle that had collected underneath the chaise. It was fresh and thick and so out of place on the imported rainbow stone, its vivid red hue an obscene contrast with the peaches, tans and purples.
As she stared, something plopped onto the surface of the blood. Her brain reacted to the ripples, making her aware of the humming of insects. Bees in the garden, she told herself, even as a fat fly lifted off the blood, circled a time or two, then landed again.
Her mind went blank. Her shoulders rounded, her chin drooping. A long time ago, she had believed that if she shrank into herself, if she physically made herself small enough, no one would see her, no one would notice her, but it had rarely actually worked. They had always seen her—her father, at least. Her mother, it seemed, had never noticed her.
