Michael and Ann rode their bikes to the Shaws’ house on Michael’s first full day of working on their lawn. Michael was nervous, because Jason had made such a big deal of the Shaws’ yard (he called the Shaws’ home “the Shaw Mahal”). He had a key to the house. Jason had showed him where he’d hung the keys for all his clients. In summer, he worked on their lawns, and in winter he checked in on their empty houses, leaving tire prints and footmarks in the snow to ward off possible intruders.

Jason told him he’d meet him at the Shaws’ with the Gravely and some tools, and detailed instructions about how to mow exactly the way Shaw liked. “You can’t fuck up,” Jason said. “I need him.”

Ann seemed excited that Michael would be at the house with her, and it made him happy that she felt that way. They snapped on their bike helmets, although as soon as they turned on LeCount Hollow Road, beyond Ed and Connie’s view, Ann stopped to take hers off and hung it on her handlebars. “I don’t want helmet hair,” she said, which seemed strange, like a lot of things lately. She dressed up to babysit, and took a long time in the bathroom before she left, emerging with mascara and lipstick. Her hair was usually wavy. Michael loved the way it looked when it was a bit messy, but before she went to the Shaws’ house she ironed it with a flatiron. “Let’s take the long way,” she said.

They biked along Ocean View Drive, stopping at White Crest Beach to look down the bluff at the ocean, where a group of surfers paddled around in the water waiting for waves. Then they passed Long Pond. The water was so clear he could almost see to the bottom at the deepest part. Here, away from the back shore and the cove, the air smelled like pine and oak, a scent Michael found intoxicating.

By the time he got to the Shaws’ house on the bay side, that scent was diluted. The haze was beginning to burn off. Michael looked at the big brown house. It was too big. Too brown. The rolling lawn that surrounded it was too lush, too green. It was a yard that looked unnatural, a boob job of a yard.

The house was surrounded by healthy bushes bursting with pompons of big, blue hydrangeas. “Cape Cod clichés” was what Jason called them. Light pink roses bloomed on the trellis. Earlier that week Jason had taught Michael how to prune, a task he enjoyed from the start. “For roses,” he said, “you have to hack the shit out of it. Take it down hard. Don’t be kind. I’ll know you did a good job if they look ugly.”