Second Hand (Tucker Springs) (6 page)

“I’m thinking about coming to visit you in a couple of weeks. Your dad’s busy, but I could come.”

I found myself smiling. “There’s not really that much to see here.”

“You’re there, honey. That’s enough for me.”

I started on the yard that day. Mowing was easy, but there was tall grass around the base of Stacey’s sculptures that I couldn’t get to with the mower, and bushes and abandoned flower beds all around the base of the house. I pulled plants that I hoped were weeds and left ones that I hoped weren’t. It immediately became apparent that the mower and my hands were insufficient tools.

I went into the detached garage. It had been set up as Stacey’s studio, and a few pieces of scrap metal still lay on the floor. I could have put my car in the garage if I’d put a bit of effort into it, but so far, it hadn’t been necessary. I’d probably want to deal with it before winter came, though.

We’d lived in an apartment building back in Fort Collins and so hadn’t ever needed landscaping tools, but that was the type of thing tenants sometimes left behind, so I checked the corners of the garage. I did find the snow shovel that had died from the previous year’s epic snow, a plastic rake that was missing more tines than not, and one very rusty hoe, but that was it.

I got in my car, intending to hit the nearest hardware store, but El’s flashing “BUY - SELL - PAWN” sign caught my eye, and I looped around the block to find a parking space. I had no idea if people pawned gardening tools, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.

El was right where he’d been the last two times I’d been in the shop, reading a magazine with his feet up on the counter. He smiled at me and stood up as I came in.

“Tell me you’re not here to buy more jewelry for your girl.”

I tried to smile back, although it was harder than I would have liked. “No jewelry,” I said. “I’m actually looking for yard things.”

“‘Things’? We talking ‘things’ like gnomes and plastic Bambis?”

“I was thinking a little less tacky and a bit more utilitarian.”

He laughed. “Fair enough. What’d you have in mind?”

“I need one of those spinny weed-chopping things.”

He rubbed the short hair at the nape of his neck. “It so happens I have not one, but
two
of those ‘spinny weed-chopping things.’” He gestured toward the back corner of the shop. “You want gas-powered or electric?”

I hadn’t realized there were different types. “Whichever’s cheapest, I guess.”

He seemed to find that funny. He smiled and touched the rectangular bulge in his shirt pocket but didn’t pull the cigarettes out. “Not exactly aiming to make yourself my favorite customer, are you?” The way he said it wasn’t mean, though. His tone was light.

“Don’t take it personally,” I said. “I’m broke.”

He laughed. “You and everybody else who walks through that door.”

Twenty minutes later, I was home with my electric weed whacker. My neighbor Bill, a man only a few years older than me but missing most of his hair, stood watering his front yard by hand. I tried to look like I actually knew what I was doing with the tool and prayed I wouldn’t make a total fool of myself by chopping my own foot off.

The outlet in the garage didn’t work, but after hunting around in the bushes, I found one near the front porch that did, and after only a few minutes, I’d successfully spin-chopped the tall grass around Stacey’s sculptures and all along the base of the house. Unfortunately, when I stood back and examined my work, my heart sank. The grasses and weeds had been overgrown, but with them gone, the cement foundation of the house was left exposed. The barren flowerbeds looked even more pitiful than before.

“You should plant some flowers.”

I turned around to find a cartoon character come to life. A young woman who could have been Velma from the old
Scooby-Doo
shows was standing behind me, using her hand to block the sun from her spectacled eyes.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Irises would be perfect, but it’s not the right time of year. Maybe something tall like lilies or columbines. Sunflowers are nice, too.”

Flowers would help hide the gray foundation of the house, and the flier had said the judges would be on the lookout for yards that were well-kept, colorful, and inviting. Of course, flowers would also cost money. How much could I justify spending in an effort to win $500?

I glanced over at my neighbor, who stood watching me, his hose hanging forgotten in his hand. He was clearly hoping to win the money, too.

“That’s a good idea,” I said to Velma. “Thanks for the advice.”

She smiled at me. “You bet.”

Too bad the pawnshop didn’t sell flowers.

“So,” Denver said as he shoved his laundry into the washing machine next to El, “what’s up with Strawberry Shortcake?”

El laughed, less at Denver’s description of Paul than at the fact that El knew exactly who his friend meant. “Nothing.”

“Not like you to date, is it? Always thought you were more about quick and easy.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“It looked like one.”

Choosing not to answer, El finished loading the washer and put his money in.

“Not sure what I thought your type was,” Denver said, “but that skinny kid sure wasn’t it.”

His words annoyed El, but the fact that he was annoyed at all annoyed him even more. “Lay off, man.”

Denver leaned against his machine. “Don’t get touchy. Kinda got a thing for that type myself. Just not what I imagined you being into, that’s all.”

“That’s because I’m not,” El said, but there wasn’t much conviction behind it.

El couldn’t really say that he’d ever had a “type” the way Denver meant it. For him, real attraction had never been about age or size or the color of their hair. It was more complicated than that. It had to do with gentleness and vulnerability, and the truth was, Paul had both those things in spades. He was the only thing El had thought about for days. Something about his confused eyes and his freckled nose made El smile. The thought of his pale lips and the soft skin of his throat made El’s heart pound and his blood race for his groin.

“You’re smiling,” Denver said, interrupting El’s thoughts. “Cut it out. You’re giving me the creeps.”

“It’s not that unusual, is it?” El asked as they headed for the booth to wait out the wash cycle.

“It’s not that you’re smiling. It’s the way you’re doing it.”

That brought El up short. “What the fuck’s that mean?”

Denver sat down and regarded him across the mustard-yellow Formica of the table. “Nothing wrong with admitting you like him, you know.”

“I have an idea.” El turned to stretch his legs out along the length of the plastic bench. “Let’s talk about
your
love life.”

Instead of answering, Denver flipped him the bird. Which was exactly what El had expected. Denver Rogers was not the kind of guy who sat around laundromats chatting about his personal life.

“Fine,” Denver conceded. “Forget Strawberry Shortcake. Tell me the latest about your sister.”

“She’s in love. He’s wonderful. He’s the best thing that ever happened to her. For now.” El’s fingers itched for a cigarette but had to settle for drumming irritably against his thigh. “This one isn’t an ass to the kids, which is a nice change.”

“Maybe it will work out this time.”

El couldn’t decide if Denver was deliberately trying to rile him up or if he truly was that secretly romantic. With Denver, one never really knew. Threading his hands behind his neck, El regarded Denver. “So what about you? When you moved to town four months ago, you said you were passing through. You look like you’re settling in.”

Denver shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe. Jase’s still paying me, and I got plenty of ass on tap. What more is there?”

They’d had this conversation before, and El always got some version of that answer. Except it wasn’t entirely unlike watching Paul and thinking there was something more there, something that hadn’t woken up yet. Denver wasn’t exactly Sleeping Beauty. El did think, though, that he was looking for something, waiting for something.

Which was pretty normal. Everybody was, and nobody was ever going to find it.

“What there is, Mr. Rogers, is ten more minutes on my spin cycle, and I’m going to spend them smoking a cigarette. Care to join me?”

“Nah. I’ll just sit here and hope Mr. Right stumbles into my arms.”

El patted him on the shoulder as he rose. “Good luck with that.”

I went to a couple of local nurseries on Sunday in search of plants. After returning the necklace, I had a bit of cash, and I bought a few canisters of lilies and hostas. It seemed like a lot of plants until I got home and lined them up in front of my house. I had hoped to hide the cement foundation of the house, but the plants I had were barely enough to fill the gap next to the front porch.

Of course my next dilemma was how to plant them. The only shovel I owned was made for shoveling snow, not digging holes. I wondered if El had shovels at his shop and whether or not he was open on Sundays. Next door, Bill was using some kind of tool that looked like a spur on a stick to trim the edges of his lawn where the grass met the sidewalk. I considered asking him for a shovel, but it seemed a bit wrong to ask the competition for help. In the end, I drove to the hardware store and spent my last bit of cash on a shovel.

By the time I went to bed on Sunday, I was sunburned and sore, but the flowers were happily settled into the corner by the porch. They looked better than I’d expected them to.

Monday turned out to be a good day at the office. Nick’s veterinary technician, Brooke, called in sick, and on the third patient of the day, Nick asked me to help him examine a nervous shepherd mix named Samson.

“He’s a stray,” Nick said. “Going up for adoption soon, hopefully.” Nick did free exams for the local Humane Society, and we had several animals a week who had to be cleared physically before they could enter the adoption program. “He seems friendly enough, but he’s obviously scared to death, so I’d rather have some help. Do you know how to hold him?”

“Of course.” I remembered that much from veterinary school, at least. I wrapped one arm around him to hold his legs, and used my other arm to pull him tight against me, with my hand around his muzzle in case he tried to bite. I talked quietly to him while Nick checked him. “Such a good boy. You’re a good boy. Such a pretty dog, going to find a forever home soon, aren’t you? Because you’re so good, not fighting while the nice doctor checks you out.” Nick rolled his eyes at me, and I couldn’t exactly blame him, but Samson settled in against me, and his trembling eased a bit. I kept up my inane drone of words while Nick did the exam. “Good, good boy. We have treats for good dogs, too. Then you’ll go find a home, won’t you?”

Samson passed the exam with flying colors, and I hoped he really would find a home soon.

I helped with several examinations that morning: a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a surly gray rabbit, and two cats.

“You’re good at this,” Nick said at lunchtime. “You have a real knack with the animals.”

“I always have,” I admitted. “That’s why I went to vet school.” Too bad I hadn’t been able to finish.

After lunch, one of Nick’s regular clients came in with an entire litter of puppies to be checked. Nick didn’t necessarily need help with puppies, but there were six of them, and wrangling them gave me a perfectly good excuse to pet them all, and nuzzle them, and blow gently so they’d flap their tongues toward my face.