The earliest we were supposed to show up at a client’s house was eight a.m., and I was going to push that a little with Mrs. Boone, so as to head off the wrath of Rick. I was out of the house way before seven, while Aaron was still sleeping. I took the back roads this time. They were prettier, you just had to not be in too much of a hurry, especially since there was still fog in the valleys and along the reservoir, and not much out here except cattle if, say, your truck sprang an actual oil leak and you needed help. Aaron had a point about all the driving I did for work.

I went over White’s Hill and on into Fairfax and found Mrs. Boone’s road without too much trouble. When I reached her gate it was shut, and I had one of those oh shit moments when I saw all my cleverness coming apart, and I’d have to call Rick and tell him how I screwed up so he could call Mrs. Boone to give me access. But the gate wasn’t latched from the inside, and so I opened it and pulled up in the same spot as yesterday and closed the gate behind me.

My plan was to sneak around to the back, ninja quiet, get the rest of the plantings in, water, etc., then ease my way out again. I was careful with the tools so as not to drop or bang anything together, even though from what I could tell of the house, I wasn’t close to any bedroom windows.

I started in and worked as fast as I could. In my mind I was already done and on my way to the job in Corte Madera where Rick was probably even now using my name as a swear word. Then a man walked around the edge of the house, the same way I’d come. He stopped short on seeing me, held up one finger of one hand, and I think the word I’m looking for is declaimed:

I heard an old religious man

But yesternight declare

That he had found a text to prove

That only God, my dear,

Could love you for yourself alone

And not your yellow hair

He stopped and gave me an expectant look. I mean, WTF. “My hair’s not yellow,” I said, just to be saying something. I’d left my hat in the truck. Mistake.

He shrugged this off. “It’s close enough.” He was about fifty, I guessed, with a fleshy, sagging face, a high forehead, and long, droopy hair. He had one of those big chests and big bellies supported on skinny legs. I’ve had to deal with obnoxious men before, who hasn’t? A couple of times on the job, and once I had to use the electric hedge clipper to get a guy to back off.