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“Right back at you. Are you the straightforward guy from outside, or this jealous one?”
“You—” I purse my lips.
“We all have shades. We’re just starting to see some of the variations.”
“Did you mean it? About your yard?”
“Not exactly.” He thinks for a moment. “At first it was . . .”
“To look good in front of Robin?”
A small laugh. He lifts his eyes to mine. “But thinking about it . . . I would like your help.”
“Why?”
He sighs and stares out into Robin’s garden. “I was really shitty that day.”
“It’s out of guilt?”
Again his eyes hit mine and stay there. “Yes.”
“Forget about it.”
“I don’t want to. I want to atone.”
“Your atonement makes me uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“It feels like I’d be using you. Robbing you.”
“Rob me. I’m letting you.”
“You’re a strange guy.”
He chuckles softly and winks.
“Least you’re upfront about it.” I eye him, and grimace. “I’ll rob you then.”
“You’re talking about the yard, I hope?”
I flash him a toothy smile.
He pulls out his phone and light hits the grin on his face. “What’s your full name?”
“Jason Kress.” Friends call me Jase. Yeah, I’m leaving that bit out.
“Number?”
I give it to him and glance towards the back door. How long does it take to grab a beer? “How long have you known Robin?”
“I hooked him up with some intermediate-school swimmers who wanted to learn to ride the waves a few years back, and we sort of hit it off. He helped me improve my surf skills.”
I snort, and say teasingly, “You do more than read books and play computer games?”
He shoves my arm with a scowl and lips that twitch. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
I don’t even hear the back door close. Suddenly Robin’s warmth is beside me as he sits and passes me a fresh beer. “Did I hear surfing? Lyle’s like a pro now.”
He’s looking at me as he says it, and I hear the plea behind it. If I’d just open myself up to be taught . . .
His thigh touches mine, ever-so-slightly, as he leans forward to rub Tool’s head. He gets a wet dog-kiss for his trouble, and I chuckle before taking a good pull of beer. I murmur, more to the bottle than to Robin, “I’m sure Lyle had the best instructor.”
“I did,” Lyle says, waggling his brows over at Robin and receiving a grin in return.
I hold back a scowl and excuse myself to stretch my legs. I drift over to the Douglas fir and crouch to whisper a truth that should definitely make it grow. “This is going to be more complicated than I thought.”
The fir grows.
I go home to bed after the beer runs out and Robin starts yawning. Technically, I go home once I see Lyle walk down the street and around the corner.
Thank bloody God for that! I refrain from pulling Robin closer as he hugs me goodbye and give him a tight smile and nod when he asks what I think of Lyle. Then I leave, stumbling down from his porch still high from his touch.
I don’t return until the dead of night.
I sneak down the side of his house, hefting a bucket and a duffel bag, slipping Tool treats from my pocket to keep him quiet all the way to the fir in the backyard. I lay down the bucket and bag and give Tool’s ears a quick tousle. I crouch and we both stare at the fir. Well, I stare. Tool dribbles as he munches on another dog biscuit.
There’s little light back here; I rummage in the bag for a torch and set it to lantern form so it can rest on the ground. I whisper, “I do feel like a criminal,” as I take out a trowel, glad the tree’s spot is far back in the yard. Tool cocks his head and then lies down, panting as he watches me. It’s like he’s giving me the okay, like he knows the plan and he’s all for it.
“Right, let’s make magic.”
I remove the tiny first fir and replace it with another, exactly one centimetre taller and a touch bushier, still in its plastic pot for easy removal.
I press the soil in place over the pot and fill the hole, then give the new tree some water from the large bottle I’ve brought. Then I spread fresh bark around the base. The bark had been Mr Cole’s wise suggestion when I’d told him my plan. This way, the freshly-turned soil that would otherwise give me away will be disguised, and added bonus, it’ll help the soil stay rich and acidic.
Tool shuffles closer as I work; in the frosty small hours of morning, his warmth is welcome.
“Looking good?”
He rests his head on my lap.
I take it for a yes.
Chapter Five
Robin not noticing the ‘growing’ fir is what I want. The transformation has to be so gradual that he doesn’t notice until, come Christmas, he’s staring at an eight-foot fir and marvelling how it could possibly have happened.
