At ten, the humidity was already rising from the grass, carrying the smell of wet earth and wild onions. I was sweeping the gray paint of the front porch when Arthur Palmer walked across the property line.
He wore a faded blue baseball cap with a postal union logo, and he adjusted the brim before he reached the first step. In his hands, he held a plastic container containing four large red tomatoes.
“Grown in the backyard,” Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly grunt. “No spray.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” I said, taking the container. “These will go well with dinner.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the Caldwell house, then back at my broom. He adjusted his cap again.
“The young one in the black truck,” Arthur said. “Travis. He was asking me questions at the gas station yesterday.”
I set the broom against the railing. “What kind of questions?”
“Wanted to know if you were active duty or retired,” Arthur said. “He told me his dad was looking into the deed on your lot. Said they wanted to know what unit you were with overseas.”
My wrist twinged, and I rubbed the crooked bone without thinking. “I was an administrative clerk, Arthur. Logistics. I told Travis that when we met.”
“He didn’t seem to believe it,” Arthur said, looking down at his clean leather sneakers. “His dad, Grant, was with him. Grant kept his hands in his pockets and just smiled.”
“Grant is the developer,” I said.
“He owns most of the commercial strip on Route Seven,” Arthur said. “He likes to know who lives on his borders. He asked if you had any family coming to visit.”
“Just my sister, Natalie,” I said.
Arthur gave a single nod, then turned to walk back toward his yard, his steps slow and regular on the asphalt.
