The cardboard box of kitchen towels was damp at the bottom where the rain had pooled on the driveway overnight. Sophie held the other end of the carton, her small fingers tucked under the wet flap.
“Keep it level, Soph,” I said.
I rubbed my right wrist, feeling the ridge where the bone had knitted together poorly in Germany twelve years ago. The old SUV was parked at an angle, the rear hatch gaping open to receive the last six boxes of our move to Oakridge.
A black Ford pickup truck rounded the corner of Elm Street, its engine humming with a heavy, aftermarket rumble. The tires did not slow down as they hit the wide puddle near our mailbox.
A sheet of brown water rose three feet off the asphalt and sprayed across the gravel.
Sophie jumped back, but the muddy spray soaked the canvas of her left shoe and left dark spots across her white socks. She stood very still, her fingers twisting the lower hem of her blue t-shirt into a tight knot.
Travis Caldwell leaned his head out of the driver’s window, his silver-rimmed sunglasses pushed up into his short hair. He bounced slightly in his seat, his broad shoulders shifting against the leather.
“Missed a spot on the lawn, Claire,” he yelled.
He did not wait for an answer, hitting the gas so the truck fishtailed slightly before pulling into the concrete driveway three doors down.
Sophie looked down at her wet shoe, then up at me. “Is he going to do that every day?”
“No,” I said, lifting the wet box from her hands and sliding it onto the rubber mat in the trunk. “He is just checking the perimeter.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means he wants to see who looks back at him,” I said.
I closed the heavy rear hatch of the vehicle, the latch clicking shut with a dry, metallic sound that echoed off the brick front of our new house.
The neighborhood was quiet again, except for the distant whir of a commercial lawn mower two streets over.At ten, the humidity was already rising from the grass, carrying the smell of wet earth and wild onions. I was sweeping the gray paint of the front porch when Arthur Palmer walked across the property line.
He wore a faded blue baseball cap with a postal union logo, and he adjusted the brim before he reached the first step. In his hands, he held a plastic container containing four large red tomatoes.
“Grown in the backyard,” Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly grunt. “No spray.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, taking the container. “These will go well with dinner.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the Caldwell house, then back at my broom. He adjusted his cap again.
“The young one in the black truck,” Arthur said. “Travis. He was asking me questions at the gas station yesterday.”
I set the broom against the railing. “What kind of questions?”
“Wanted to know if you were active duty or retired,” Arthur said. “He told me his dad was looking into the deed on your lot. Said they wanted to know what unit you were with overseas.”
My wrist twinged, and I rubbed the crooked bone without thinking. “I was an administrative clerk, Arthur. Logistics. I told Travis that when we met.”
“He didn’t seem to believe it,” Arthur said, looking down at his clean leather sneakers. “His dad, Grant, was with him. Grant kept his hands in his pockets and just smiled.”
“Grant is the developer,” I said.
“He owns most of the commercial strip on Route Seven,” Arthur said. “He likes to know who lives on his borders. He asked if you had any family coming to visit.”
“Just my sister, Natalie,” I said.
Arthur gave a single nod, then turned to walk back toward his yard, his steps slow and regular on the asphalt.At ten, the humidity was already rising from the grass, carrying the smell of wet earth and wild onions. I was sweeping the gray paint of the front porch when Arthur Palmer walked across the property line.
He wore a faded blue baseball cap with a postal union logo, and he adjusted the brim before he reached the first step. In his hands, he held a plastic container containing four large red tomatoes.
“Grown in the backyard,” Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly grunt. “No spray.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, taking the container. “These will go well with dinner.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the Caldwell house, then back at my broom. He adjusted his cap again.
“The young one in the black truck,” Arthur said. “Travis. He was asking me questions at the gas station yesterday.”
I set the broom against the railing. “What kind of questions?”
“Wanted to know if you were active duty or retired,” Arthur said. “He told me his dad was looking into the deed on your lot. Said they wanted to know what unit you were with overseas.”
My wrist twinged, and I rubbed the crooked bone without thinking. “I was an administrative clerk, Arthur. Logistics. I told Travis that when we met.”
“He didn’t seem to believe it,” Arthur said, looking down at his clean leather sneakers. “His dad, Grant, was with him. Grant kept his hands in his pockets and just smiled.”
“Grant is the developer,” I said.
“He owns most of the commercial strip on Route Seven,” Arthur said. “He likes to know who lives on his borders. He asked if you had any family coming to visit.”
“Just my sister, Natalie,” I said.
Arthur gave a single nod, then turned to walk back toward his yard, his steps slow and regular on the asphalt.
