She found a mug and made herself some tea. She stepped out and took her first good look at the garden. She needed to stretch, and she might as well pick a pretty place to do it.

Maggie hadn’t been overselling. The garden was lusciously verdant and beautifully kept, like the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. The roofs of other houses could be glimpsed through majestic trees and over weathered brick walls that presumably marked the boundary of the property. Where she was standing was a house-wide patio, with large flagstones nestling into dark green moss. A set of battered wicker chairs was grouped around a table where sections of the newspaper were still spread out. Abandoned coffee cups suggested a sudden noticing of the time, and Laura resolved to take them in and wash them. Might as well make herself useful.

She was still hot from her run, so she started stretching her ankles and wrists, moving her mug from hand to hand. When she’d left the house it was cloudy overhead, but already she could feel the heat of the day beginning to warm the stones. Good luck beating summer in New York, she thought, because unless you can recapture the smell of rotten milk and diapers that wafts through every apartment building on the Upper West Side, you’re not even trying.

There were low, wide steps down into the garden, and flagstones like the ones she stood on picked their way across the lawn to a large, fenced-in vegetable garden that abutted the brick wall that separated them from their nearest neighbor. It appeared to be a riot of growth, with tomatoes visible even at this distance tangled over bamboo teepee trellises. A tall ornamental arch stood at one end, overrun with pink and cream roses. It was beautiful, and Laura started to walk in that direction.

Something moved low behind the tomatoes and a man stood, wearing pajama pants and nothing else. No . . . he must have had earbuds in, because when Laura squeaked for absolutely no good reason whatsoever and whirled around to go into the house so fast she spilled hot tea on her feet, he didn’t look up. Laura made it to her room in record time and gingerly peeped through the curtains at the garden and the guy.

What on earth is wrong with you? You’re allowed to be here. You’re not twelve.

The man walked along the row of tomatoes and then turned away to crouch and look at whatever was growing in the next raised bed.

Laura was forced to admit the guy did nice crouching work, with a very pleasing set of muscles and adorable pajama pants that were wearing a little thin over the butt. Christmas pajamas, Laura noted, Snoopy and Woodstock with holiday lights, a timeless classic. When he stood again and turned to walk back into the house, she found herself reluctant to look at his face.

But she did.