Page 44 of Wayward

“There’s four of them,” I pointed out. Not to be an ass but just for correctness in case she couldn’t see them or hadn’t noticed the others.

“Yes, but I don’t normally discuss matters to do with the homestead with Beverly and Gwen. They’re much more interested in the weather and that lovely Deputy Chief Malloy.”

I too was interested in Deputy Chief Malloy.

“They really want to pop into his yard and eat the grass and his flowers, but he keeps that gate shut all the time.”

“Gotcha.”

“Very private, very closed-off young man.”

“Young?”

“Well, younger than me, dear.”

“Okay.”

“How are we coming along back there?”

I’d pulled out all the twigs and leaves, and there was just a bit of grass left. “I think you’re good,” I said, and she turned to face me. “Oh my, yes, they are lovely, aren’t they?”

“Pardon?” I noted she didn’t immediately pass Misha back to me, and unlike when other people at the vet clinic had held him, he wasn’t squirming to get away. He looked pretty content, actually.

“You have the most beautiful dark eyes I’ve ever seen.”

What was I supposed to say to that? “Thank you.”

“And who, might I ask, is this handsome creature?”

“That’s Misha.”

“What a charming name you have.” She petted my dog, holding him gently as she started walking away, back toward the drive.

“Ma’am, I’m Maks Gorev, your new renter,” I said, darting after her.

“And caretaker, yes, I understand.”

“Caretaker?”

“Well, yes,” she said, still walking, and I realized it wasn’t toward her front yard, but toward my Jeep. “That’s what it said in the ad I placed. I need someone to coordinate all the different people needed for the upkeep of the grounds and, of course, the renovations on the house”—she looked at me then, and I had the weirdest feeling that she was looking right through me, pinning me with her gaze—“but only if you think there should be renovations. I might be wrong. Perhaps it’s fine, but there is a me-shaped hole in the living room ceiling that I fell through last Tuesday. Or Wednesday. I get the days confused when there’s no party. I used to have so many, but then Oscar hasn’t been here to throw any more, you know?” She was looking at me expectantly.

“It’s hard when the event organizer isn’t around,” was all I could think of to say.

“Yes, it really is,” she agreed. “Now, I don’t want to tell you your job, but—wait, are you an event planner by any chance?”

She was so earnest with all her questions and the way she looked at me each time, really looking for these ridiculous answers, like the pirate one, I understood why Dr. Coleman thought there was something actually wrong with her. But the thing was, she reminded me a bit of my mother. People had always thought she was a bit scattered, like topics didn’t always stick in her head and she flitted from one to another. I had always loved it. So had my brother. The conversation was never dull. I was out of practice with the jumping around, but I was thinking I could pick it right back up being around this woman whom I already liked.

“I’m not, no,” I said softly.

“That’s too bad. But do you have lots of friends?”

“I don’t. I do want to make some, though.”

“It’s always good to have friends,” she said kindly. “And you know, there’s a fund for the upkeep that’s been growing since our last caretaker left. So if you do see things that need to be fixed, then you should do that.”

The topic changes were going to give me whiplash until I learned to pivot again. I cleared my throat. “When did your caretaker leave?”

“What year is this now?”