The Marriage Lie(69)

Still, my heart doesn’t quite settle.





24

The lawn mower sounds like it’s coming from just on the other side of my kitchen window. I twist around on the couch, catching a split-second glimpse of a tall, dark figure before he disappears around the corner of the house.

“What the...?”

I pop off the couch and run to the side window, peering through the glass at a shirtless and sweaty Corban. He’s got his head down, his shoulder muscles straining as he pushes a mower across a patch of grass that winds around from the side of the house into the back. Beyond him, neat strips of cut grass lie in perfect rows across half the yard. The other half is still wild and unruly, thanks to an unseasonably wet spring and rapidly rising temperatures.

Without thinking, I yank open the back door, and a siren slices through the air. Corban’s head jerks up in surprise, and his feet freeze on the lawn. I slam both palms over my ears. “Oh, shit!”

There’s no possible way he can hear me above the racket. He leans down and flips a switch on the side of the mower, as if that would help any.

“Hang on!” I take off down the hallway to the front of the house and punch in the code on the alarm pad. The screeching stops instantly, a second or two of blissful silence before the house phone rings.

I snatch the handheld from its stand on the kitchen counter on the way back to the yard, willing my heart to settle. On a bright note, at least I know the alarm works. Any intruder who isn’t halfway to Florida by now would have to either be deaf or dead on the floor from a heart attack.

“Hello?”

“We’ve received an alert for 4538 Ashland Avenue. Do you need us to send the authorities?”

“Oh, no, sorry. False alarm, and totally my fault. I’m still getting used to this thing, and I forgot to turn it off before I opened the door.”

“Can you please confirm the error?”

“I thought I just did.” I step into a slice of sunshine in the backyard, where Corban is standing, hands to his hips, at the edge of the terrace. I wave an everything’s okay hand, and he traipses back over to the mower.

“I need to hear the code word, ma’am.”

That’s right, the code word. The one Big Jim said they’d ask for each time I spoke to them on the phone, the one that lets them know everything is okay. “Rugby.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You have a nice day.”

I drop the phone onto a stone table and turn toward Corban with an apologetic wave. “What are you doing here?”

Corban looks pointedly behind him, at a strip of freshly mowed grass, then back to me. “I’m mowing your lawn.”

“I can see that, it’s just... My yard service is going to be really confused when they show up here Tuesday morning. They’re going to think I’m cheating on them.”

Corban gives me an oh well grin. “Best to keep those guys on their toes. Men work harder if they think they’ve got competition.”

Before I can respond, he yanks on the cord to start up the mower and gets back to work.

While he’s finishing up, I fetch two Heinekens from the kitchen and carry them out onto the terrace, falling into one of the chairs in a patch of late-afternoon sunshine. I inhale the scent of freshly cut grass and taste the tang of beer on my tongue, watching Corban push the lawn mower back and forth across my grass as if it weighed nothing.

He really is a fine specimen of a man. Lean and dark and slick with sweat, his muscles bulked up under his skin. Maybe that’s why Will didn’t introduce us, because he was afraid of the competition. He must have seen how girls fell all over themselves for Corban at the gym. Maybe Will was afraid I would do the same.

I think of my husband, and my heart gives a happy flutter at the same time the hurt comes flooding back, razor-sharp and every bit just as heavy as before. The reminder sweeps heat through my veins. Will chose money over me, over us. Good. Anger is good. Because hurt will make me cry, and once I start, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

Corban reaches the end of the lawn, flips a switch, and the backyard plunges into silence.

I pick up the second bottle, wag it in the air. “A beer for your troubles.”

“Thanks.” Corban pulls a T-shirt from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his face, walking across the newly cut grass. “There’s nothing better than a cold beer after mowing. Nothing.” He takes it from my hand with a grateful nod, taps the neck against mine. “Cheers.”

We both take a long pull from our bottles. Corban sinks into the chair next to me.

“So,” I say, “does mowing my lawn fall in the category of looking out for me?”

“Yup, and while I’m here, I might as well take care of anything else you need done. A room that needs painting, maybe, or a drain that’s stopped up. I can clean gutters, too. And when’s the last time you had the oil changed in your car?”

I feel a twinge at the memory of that rainy morning twelve days ago, when Will asked me the same thing as we spooned in bed, but I swallow everything down, along with another sip of beer. “You’re just the complete handyman package, aren’t you?”

A self-deprecating smile slides up one side of his face. “It’s one of the few pros of growing up with ADD. You learn to do a lot of things when you can’t sit still for longer than thirty seconds. Plus, my father wasn’t around to take care of things. I was the oldest of five kids, and Mom needed all the help she could get.”