I told myself it was just a fence. That was all. A broken fence, a woman who needed help, and a man who knew how to use a level. Nothing dangerous, nothing complicated, nothing that should have made me change shirts twice before driving over. Diane's house sat at the end of a quiet street lined with old trees and lawns people took personally.
I had been there dozens of times when Lauren and I were together. Cookouts, birthdays, Christmas Eve once when Lauren forgot to tell me her entire family dressed nicely and I showed up in jeans. Diane had saved me that night by saying, "At least one man here looks useful." I remembered that, too. When I pulled into the driveway, the first thing I saw was the fence leaning behind the house. one section pulled loose from the post, the gate sagging like it had given up on citizenship. The second thing I saw was Diane.
She stood near the back porch in a pale blue blouse, jeans, and gardening gloves, her brown hair pinned loosely at the back of her neck. She was in her late 40s, maybe 50, though she carried age the way some women carry perfume. Quietly with confidence, not asking permission to still be beautiful. I got out of the truck and immediately hated that I had noticed. Caleb, she said, Mrs. Whitaker, her mouth tilted.
You can call me Diane. I think after all the shelves you installed in this house, we've earned first names. Diane, I corrected. The name felt different in my mouth. She looked away first toward the fence.
Good. The fence was safer. I grabbed my tool bag from the truck and followed her around back. The yard smelled like wet cedar and cut grass. A windchime moved softly near the porch.
Two coffee mugs sat on the small outdoor table, though only one had been used. "I tried to brace it," she said, pointing to a board she had wedged near the post. I crouched beside it. "This actually helped. You don't have to sound surprised." "I'm not surprised.
I'm impressed." She folded her arms. "That may be worse." I smiled before I could stop myself. For a second, it was too easy. That was the problem. Diane didn't make the air feel like a test.
With Lauren, I had always been trying to become interesting enough, ambitious enough, spontaneous enough, less predictable, less quiet, less myself. With Diane, the quiet didn't feel like failure. It just felt like quiet. I worked for half an hour while she cleaned up branches near the garden. Every few minutes, she brought me something I didn't ask for.
A towel, a bottle of water, a better extension cord. Not hovering, not fussing, just noticing. At one point, I caught her watching me tighten the hinge bolts. She looked away quickly. I pretended not to see.
That was the decent thing, or maybe the cowardly thing. Hard to tell sometimes. "You've been well?" she asked. I kept my eyes on the latch mostly. "That means no.
That means mostly. She laughed softly. I looked up. Bad idea. She was standing close enough now that I could see the faint sunlines near her eyes, the flower colored smudge of dried paint on one wrist.
The way her expression softened when she wasn't guarding it. I heard Lauren moved, I said, because apparently I wanted to ruin my own afternoon. Diane's face changed just a little. Yes, Atlanta. How's she doing?