“That’s him,” Ann said, propping her bike up against the garage. “Hi, Anthony!” She stood on her toes and waved, a shy smile on her lips. What was with the wave and the smile?

Mr. Shaw waved back, but not before looking her up and down.

Ann seemed nervous and excited, her face red from biking up the hill, her breathing deep and heavy. “I’ll see you later,” she said. “Have fun.” She straightened her shirt and ran into the house, leaving Michael with a funny feeling, like he’d walked into a party he hadn’t been invited to.

Mr. Shaw stood with his hands on his hips, staring off into the distance, his expression serious.

Here he was, Anthony, the real deal, live and in person. Michael walked to where he stood. He stuck his hand out to offer a handshake, but instead of accepting it, Mr. Shaw pulled up the hem of his sweat-stained Penn T-shirt and wiped off his damp forehead.

“I just got back from a long run,” he said, as if this should impress Michael. It didn’t. This Anthony guy was fit, sure, but he didn’t have a runner’s body. He was a bulldog of a man, squat and strong. Michael could outpace him no problem.

Anthony eyed his property as if he thought Michael was there to take it from him. He seemed like the kind of person who believed everyone wanted what he had.

“Is there something wrong?” Michael felt like he’d already done something to piss the guy off and he hadn’t even started work.

It seemed everyone on the Cape was good-natured. They were on vacation, so why shouldn’t they be? But this guy’s expression was dark and brooding, like he’d never had a good time in his life. He gave Michael the feeling he was about to whip a knife out of his pocket.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Anthony said. He gazed out at the vast expanse of emerald-green grass in front of him, and the twinkling bay in the distance. “My lawn looks like hell.”

“Looks nice to me,” Michael said.

“Then you should go home. If this looks nice to you, you aren’t the right person for this job. I need someone with standards.”

Michael actually did have standards. He appreciated the Gordons’ long-neglected lawn (was it even a lawn?) on the cove, even though it was mottled with patches of fusarium, creeping Charlie, prickly pears, and bayberries. The vegetation gave it color and interest. It looked natural, like it belonged there. The Shaws’ lawn might as well have been a putting green. The smell of lush grass was almost strong enough to make Michael forget he was next to an ocean, surrounded by bogs and marshes. It made him glad he wasn’t back in Milwaukee, where it seemed everyone wanted a boring lawn like the Shaws’.