granddaughterâs out for a visit. Weâve just come from the airport. Lily, this is Ben Thales. Best neighbor money can buy.â There was weight and glint to that smile, an invitation. Or maybe not. He had been handy with jumper cables a month back. He was useless at reading these things. Decades since heâd had to.
âHi.â The girl in the passenger seat raised a hand. Dozens of thin bracelets clattered. Sadie in her prime, perhaps: eyes blue and enormous when she raised her sunglasses, skin clear and smooth, long dark hair, long fine neck, cleavage he should not be looking at. She smiled, andâproof he really, really should not be lookingâher teeth were heavy with orthodontia.
âGood to meet you, Lily.â Tara shouldâve been Lilyâs kind of sixteen. The thought hurt.
âBen used to be a veterinarian,â Sadie said. âLily wants to be one, too.â Again, that tone he couldnât quite get a read on. Marvin Baum, one of his Tuesday golf buddies, liked to remind Ben: Men die younger; itâs a question of odds. But beat those odds and the odds are in your favor, and you know Iâm not talking actuarially. Marvin was right. There were six houses on Daylily Crescent: three couples, two widows, and his solitary self.
âI used to want to be a vet,â Lily said. âIâm going to do something in fashion now.â She gave her grandmother a quick, conciliatory smile. âI still want lots of pets though.â There were boys out there, and plenty of them, who were going to wind up with ill-advised lily tattoos thanks to this girl. Her sunglasses slotted back into place, turning the girl inscrutable.
Sadie let the car idle as Ben drove off, and he wondered if she was watching him. He wondered if Veronica had started seeing people, if sheâd tell him if she had. He passed the sixth hole and then the fifth, its water hazard glinting like a disco-ball in the sun. He trundled past Main Street, its far end dominated by the achingly pristine Hacienda Central. He crossed a series of artificial creeks, skirted the lap pool and the gym, then turned through a gate and onto the brown and shriveled expanse of nothing that up until the housing freefall had been slated to be The Commonsâ Phase Four. Then he floored it. Call him a big dumb lug, but you were never too old for a lead-foot love affair with the accelerator. He passed hundreds of surveyorsâ stakes marking out lots that were no longer for sale. He passed the remains of an adolescent bonfire and a midden of broken bottles and burger wrappers. The path turned sharply and dipped down, tunneling toward the shopping center, and Ben held his breath like a child until he came out on the other side.
He parked on the lotâs outer margin, because it never hurt to build a bit more exercise into your day (dogs helped on that front, but Ronnie had kept Musetta). Ben walked each morning and always caddied for himself. He was sixty-eight and trim, firmer in his chest and shoulders than his own son, whose first deskbound years of legal practice were taking their toll. Before the divorce, he hadnât bought pants in decadesânew pairs appeared in his closet at whatever intervals Ronnie deemed appropriateâbut heâd been pleased to discover the tags were right and that a thirty-inch waistband fit him fine. Ben did the crossword every day and hadnât written a shopping list because he didnât need one; his mind wasnât going anywhere, thanks. Letâs see. He wanted eggs and butter spray to cook them with. Bread. Oranges. Orange juice, too, now that he was thinking of it, the fortified kind. Chicken and that Cajun rub if they had any.
It was nice and cool in the store. Say what you like about these big-box places, but this one had a real neighborhood feel. Always someone he knew. See? Mona RoskoâDaylily Crescentâs other widowâwaited in line for customer
âHi.â The girl in the passenger seat raised a hand. Dozens of thin bracelets clattered. Sadie in her prime, perhaps: eyes blue and enormous when she raised her sunglasses, skin clear and smooth, long dark hair, long fine neck, cleavage he should not be looking at. She smiled, andâproof he really, really should not be lookingâher teeth were heavy with orthodontia.
âGood to meet you, Lily.â Tara shouldâve been Lilyâs kind of sixteen. The thought hurt.
âBen used to be a veterinarian,â Sadie said. âLily wants to be one, too.â Again, that tone he couldnât quite get a read on. Marvin Baum, one of his Tuesday golf buddies, liked to remind Ben: Men die younger; itâs a question of odds. But beat those odds and the odds are in your favor, and you know Iâm not talking actuarially. Marvin was right. There were six houses on Daylily Crescent: three couples, two widows, and his solitary self.
âI used to want to be a vet,â Lily said. âIâm going to do something in fashion now.â She gave her grandmother a quick, conciliatory smile. âI still want lots of pets though.â There were boys out there, and plenty of them, who were going to wind up with ill-advised lily tattoos thanks to this girl. Her sunglasses slotted back into place, turning the girl inscrutable.
Sadie let the car idle as Ben drove off, and he wondered if she was watching him. He wondered if Veronica had started seeing people, if sheâd tell him if she had. He passed the sixth hole and then the fifth, its water hazard glinting like a disco-ball in the sun. He trundled past Main Street, its far end dominated by the achingly pristine Hacienda Central. He crossed a series of artificial creeks, skirted the lap pool and the gym, then turned through a gate and onto the brown and shriveled expanse of nothing that up until the housing freefall had been slated to be The Commonsâ Phase Four. Then he floored it. Call him a big dumb lug, but you were never too old for a lead-foot love affair with the accelerator. He passed hundreds of surveyorsâ stakes marking out lots that were no longer for sale. He passed the remains of an adolescent bonfire and a midden of broken bottles and burger wrappers. The path turned sharply and dipped down, tunneling toward the shopping center, and Ben held his breath like a child until he came out on the other side.
He parked on the lotâs outer margin, because it never hurt to build a bit more exercise into your day (dogs helped on that front, but Ronnie had kept Musetta). Ben walked each morning and always caddied for himself. He was sixty-eight and trim, firmer in his chest and shoulders than his own son, whose first deskbound years of legal practice were taking their toll. Before the divorce, he hadnât bought pants in decadesânew pairs appeared in his closet at whatever intervals Ronnie deemed appropriateâbut heâd been pleased to discover the tags were right and that a thirty-inch waistband fit him fine. Ben did the crossword every day and hadnât written a shopping list because he didnât need one; his mind wasnât going anywhere, thanks. Letâs see. He wanted eggs and butter spray to cook them with. Bread. Oranges. Orange juice, too, now that he was thinking of it, the fortified kind. Chicken and that Cajun rub if they had any.
It was nice and cool in the store. Say what you like about these big-box places, but this one had a real neighborhood feel. Always someone he knew. See? Mona RoskoâDaylily Crescentâs other widowâwaited in line for customer