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Back in the bedroom, Michelle is surprised to find the clothes culled to the one pile, which is spilling onto the floor.
“Now,” I don’t say a word about the missing pile. “I want you to take each piece, and hold it in your hands, hold it up against yourself, look in the mirror.” Which I have cleared away the scarves for another project, another day. “I want you to answer three questions. Does this fit? Does it make me look good? Does it make me feel special?”
I lay out two towels and Michelle begins. This takes longer and more tears are shed, but we get through it. It’s ten o’clock when we finish.
“Alright. Good job.” I tell her. Every piece of clothing that she said yes to, I put back on a hanger and hang in her closet, categorized by what it is: blouse, skirt, pants, dress, jacket or sweater.
Cindy waits until I give her a signal with a nod to take the No pile into the spare bedroom. She removes the hangers and folds the articles neatly, placing them in the boxes she bought at the dollar store. I asked her to mark by size and tape them so it won’t be easy to get into them later when Michelle has second thoughts. They will be donated another day. If I had Kiley, I’d put these things in my trunk to eliminate the possibility of Michelle pulling them back out, but I don’t feel comfortable doing that to Kate’s Bronco, or having the stuff in my garage, so I decide to just let that be a project on another day with Michelle, and afterward, we’ll go eat ice cream… lots of ice cream!
“Look Michelle.” I gesture to her closet like Vanna White on the Wheel of Fortune. “Look at your lovely, organized closet.”
“Gosh. It’s beautiful.” Michelle weeps into her hands and hugs me with a sobbing, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You did really good this evening.” I pat her back. “Now, go take a nice hot bath, and tomorrow, after work, we’ll start again.”
I smile at Cindy who looks like she has drunk too much wine. “You’re spending the night, right?” I ask her.
“Yeah.” Cindy assures me.
“Good.” I lift my phone and text my ride. Guilt swamps my heart. I really need to find a mechanic and get Kiley running again. Then a feeling of loss fills my heart. I will truly miss seeing Crazy Kate every day, sometimes twice a day.
“Cindy,” I whisper. “Don’t let her in that spare bedroom at all, got it?”
Cindy nods. “I’ll sleep in the other bedroom.”
“Good.” I look at my phone. Kate has texted back. “I’ll be right there.”
I wonder if Blaze knows I’ve been paying Kate to take me around town? Would he arrest her… or me if he knew?
Chapter Four?
The whirling sound of a lawnmower catching in too-tall growth and lugging down, then firing back up, wakes me the next morning. I sit up with a growl. “Is it too much to ask to let me sleep when I want to?”
With a sigh, I swing my feet to the carpet, flop the covers back, and slide into my ultra fuzzy Easter bunny slippers. Glancing at my iWatch on the charger, I grunt. “What is Blaze doing, mowing at five o’clock in the morning?”
When I got home late last night, after phase one of Michelle’s declutter project, he was leaving, I presume for work. He is a detective after all, it only makes sense that he’d get called out at all hours of the day and night, which kind of makes sense for why he seemed to always be home in the daytime.
I stumble to the kitchen, pull a mug from the cabinet of identical mugs, plates, and bowls that Frank, or someone, had supplied for the house when it was his refuge, and poured coffee—
No coffee!
I’m up before the timer is set to release my heavenly brew. “Grr.” I push the brew button and look out the window.
“What? Is? He? Doing?” I scream at the glass panes.
Blaze is mowing on my property!
And he’s not wearing a shirt! Blue jeans with no shirt, God help me! He is so well defined, everywhere! I bite my lower lip. Then my anger shoves my libido aside like a bully on the playground. Why is he up so early, and why is he mowing my property? I’m perfectly capable of mowing myself or hiring a kid to do it. How dare he assume I am incompetent to maintain my own lawn.
I glance down at what I’m wearing. Men’s plaid boxers, an oversized Peter Frampton Final Tour t-shirt, and fuzzy bunny slippers— good enough. I stomp to the side door where there is a small deck, and yell, “HEY!”
He doesn’t hear me. Between the lawnmower and the white ear buds sticking out of his ears, he is drowning in sound. I step onto the little patio and wave my arms in the air. “HEY!”
“HEEEYYY!” I scream while rising onto my tiptoes.
He pulls an earbud out and looks my way. His skin glistens from a light sheen of sweat in the early morning glow. A grin flashes on his mouth. He kills the mower and gives me his full attention. His eyes run up and down my choice of pajamas, he says. “Morning.”
I tilt my head. “Morning? I was sleeping!”
