Page 60 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Mike!”
No answer.
I tap him on the shoulder right before he quickly pivots and blasts me with the full force of the blower.
I cut his power, easy to do with the extension cord dangling behind him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m blowing your courtyard.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s Friday, Beatrice. This is the day I do the groundskeeping.”
“What?”
“Did you think the roses magically pruned themselves?”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Truthfully.
“Of course. Why would a fancy-pants lawyer and heiress stop to consider how the sand magically disappears from her daybed?”
“Bali bed,” I correct. It’s my latest splurge, and probably my last if I don’t figure out another hustle. FroggoDoggo goes only so far in La Jolla. Still, the bed was worth it. A bed outside is lots of fun. It’d be more fun with an ocean view, but at least I can hear the surf when I nap outside in the afternoons. “I thought you contracted the yard maintenance out.”
Mike inhales, slow and patient. “Of course you did.”
“I’ve never seen you out here.”
“You’ve never been home on a Friday morning before.”
It’s true. I’m usually out the door by eight on Fridays. “Yeah, well, it’s wedding season in La Jolla, and apparently dogs get invites to Mary Star of the Sea.”
“But not you.”
“I’m new.”
“Also incredibly obnoxious.”
“You traipse through my courtyard every Friday morning?”
“Regular, weekly groundskeeping—it’s in our contract. If I trusted you to keep after it, it’d all be dead and withered by now. Usually, I finish up a lot earlier. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“What else have you been doing on the regular that I don’t know about?”
“Oh, well, I help myself to your abundance of ginger ales—weird beverage to be obsessed with, by the way. Nap in your bed. Stuff seaweed under your pillows.”
Note to self: Move sonnets to drawer of nightstand ASAP.
“And count the hours until you return, and maybe, just maybe, I might see you darting across my front lawn.”
“What the freak?”
“Before you threaten me with any of your legalese, let me remind you that I only have the one recycle bin. Excuse me for noticing the inordinate number of ginger ale bottles.” Mike sets down the leaf blower and grabs a tote filled with clippings. “Have you seen a book?”
“I have. I’ve seen several. If you’re curious, I can crack one open and read it to you. I know those long words and pages without pictures can be hard.”
“Cute.” He pulls a pair of clippers from his back pocket and adds a couple more spent roses to the tote. “I misplaced a book when I moved into the front house.” He waves a hand behind him, but all I see is the white privacy fence.
“What sort of book?” I follow Mike as he carries the tote over to the green waste bin. Not because he asked me to hold open the lid (which I do), but because I want to hear him say that he reads poetry and marks up the pages like a journal. “Dr. Seuss?”
