“Was that Miss Ordelle?” Janelle asks.

“Of course it was. She loves interrupting me when I’m on the phone, you know that.”

“Does she have on her bandana?”

“Yes she does.”

“How many teeth does she have left?”

“Never mind, I love that woman, so shut up. Look. I was just calling to reach out and make a sisterly gesture. Between you and Charlotte, I swear. Lord only knows what our wonderful brother’s up to.”

“Well, all I know is Jamil called over here a few days ago for his address.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not. He wasn’t very communicative, but I gave it to him. And that was it.”

I hear the doorbell ring.

“Look, there’s my front door and it’s probably this landscaper I’ve been waiting for.”

“I thought your yard was already landscaped.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Anyway, this guy’s just going to look at it, throw some of his ideas out, and then go work on some plans and give me an idea how much it’ll cost to make it lush and pretty, although right now, to be honest, it seems really trite compared to what you guys are going through.”

“Don’t worry. Everything always works out. I didn’t get a chance to ask—how’re you doing?”

“I’m fine. I think I sold my cookbook, and I’ve been going bonkers waiting for my agent to call and let me know the deal.”

“That would be so cool, Paris. This is right up your alley. It took you long enough.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” I say, trying to peek around the corner, but can’t quite do it without being spotted.

The doorbell rings again.

“Just a minute! Be right there!”

“Okay, so go, and I’ll talk to you later.”

“Well, try not to make any decisions right now, okay, Janelle?”

“I won’t. Thanks, Paris.”

I hang up and look at myself in the glass to see if I look like a housewife without a husband. I do. I’m a mess. I have on gray sweats and a pink sweatshirt that has coffee stains on it from this morning. I can’t remember if I combed my hair or not. But who cares? This is the fucking gardener.

When I open the door it appears that the lump that had popped into my throat when I was talking to Janelle has come back. I can’t open my mouth to utter a single solitary word. This is the first black landscaper I’ve ever met, and they send me one who looks like he should be on one of those sexy black-men calendars? And in my condition? A woman who hasn’t so much as smelled a man this close in over a year, let alone touched one. I’ll be damned. All I’m thinking is: At least I’d have something pleasing to look at for a month, or however long it takes to do this. If this works out.

“Hello, Mrs. Price, I’m Randall. I finally made it,” he says, holding out his hand to shake mine. His nails are clean. His hands are full of thick veins, but they look like they get lotioned regularly, because his wedding band is dull.