Chapter One
The summer sun felt like a red-hot flame searing Tim’s neck with such intensity, he knew his skin would more-than-likely be burned by the end of the day. The term “red-neck” was clearly àpropos in his line of work. Pulling his dirty gloves on over his slick hands was another challenge. He rubbed his bearded face with the back of his wrist and squinted, focused on the leaning crepe myrtle branch that hung over the small backyard pool. Taking his gardening shears, he lopped off the flowery limb that was dropping bright fuchsia flowers into the water every time the wind blew. A chest high child-protection fence surrounded the entire pool, and he had to maneuver his large body through the tiny opening. Vaguely aware several children lived here, he remembered to close it when he was finished. Walking along the edge of the inviting body of water, he swiped his glove across his sweaty brow and sighed. Once upon a time, he had enjoyed the luxury of his own pool, often swimming laps as part of his rigorous work-outs. His former life was nothing but a distant memory, his current situation one of serving the upper-class communities in northeast Atlanta. He was their gardener, tending to their perfect yards that were often only outward displays of wealth and not enjoyed.
Throwing the branch back over the fence, he looked across the expansive manicured golf course beyond the property line. There wasn’t a soul in sight. No one in their right mind would be playing golf in this heat today. He slowly eased his six foot-five-frame to his knees and pulled off his gloves. Using his hands to scoop up the bright flowers floating in the water, he relished the coolness on his skin. Giving the property a second glance, he leaned toward the pool and splashed some water on his face, the relief instant. He sighed, adjusting the Atlanta Falcons ball cap over his hair that was tied up in a man-bun. His hairy face and head were intentional; a disguise of sorts to remain incognito in the suburban Southern landscape.
The chlorine-scented water dripped from his long whiskers as he hoisted himself back up, ready to move on to the next home in the gated neighborhood. Clicking the child-safety latch behind him, he was about to grab the wayward branch when an outdoor patio speaker suddenly came on, startling him in his tracks. The music was loud; the volume jacked up to the max. Licking his parched lips, Tim focused on the sliding back doors of the home, assuming someone would come out. After several seconds, he scowled and walked toward the door. Peering in through the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, he could barely make out several little girls playing and jumping off the over-stuffed furniture inside. He stood there with his hands on his hips and watched them as the cranked up overture of a familiar Disney movie made him want to cover his ears.
Walk away.
His subconscious warned him not to get involved. He never got involved. Gardening was a lone sport for him, and he never intentionally tried to get to know any of his clients. They were polite, for the most part. But the narrowed eyes and judgmental comments never went unnoticed when they approached as if trying to figure him out in a millisecond. So what—he was a gardener. His contentment was now found putting in a full day of real, back-breaking, good old-fashioned hard work. Lines were drawn in the prominent Southern communities a long time ago. No one messed with the blue-collar workers in the fields. There was common respect between the two classes, one he was now more than well aware of. Also, because he was so large, no one ever messed with him, the occasional condescending remarks regarding his lot in life something he shrugged off with indifference. If they only knew.
He rapped his knuckles on the glass and waited. A few seconds later, the door slid open, and a tiny blonde-headed girl peeked her head out and looked up at him with wide blue eyes. Tim crouched to her level and offered a sincere, non-menacing smile. “Did you know the music is on really loud outside?”
The little girl’s cheeks flushed, and she rolled her eyes. “I can’t find the button to turn the sound on inside. We’re trying to watchBeauty and the Beast.”
He was astonished at how well-composed the child was, not a hint of fear in her eyes while she spoke with an adorable Southern accent to a long-haired, bearded, sweaty stranger. This perplexed him. “Well, where’s your mommy? Can you ask her to help you find the right button?”
She sighed. “Mama’s in a time-out and said we could watch the movie. Can you help?” She stood on one leg, using her opposite foot to scratch at her bare calf, her confident innocence beguiling. Two other blonde heads peeked from around the little girl.
Tim swallowed hard, not sure how to navigate the situation. He was treading on dangerous ground. If he entered the home filled with little girls without their mother’s consent, he could get into some serious trouble. “Can you ask your mommy if it’s okay if I help with the button?” he asked calmly.
“Sure.” She turned to the youngest child and shouted over the music. “Go ask Mama if he can turn off the button.” The child eagerly nodded and scampered off. Within seconds, she was back, nodding her head vigorously.
“Mama said ‘okay.’”
With a quick nod, Tim pulled off his work boots before he entered the home, the air-conditioning a welcome relief. The older girl handed him a remote, and it took him no time to get the sound under control. He gave the remote back to her.
“It’s the middle button there. Keep it on zone one, and you shouldn’t have that problem again.” He watched as the two smaller girls snuggled on the couch next to each other, intent on watching the movie, oblivious to the strange man in their home. The middle girl put her thumb into her mouth, mesmerized at the giant screen in front of her.
“What’s your name?” he asked the older girl who was distracted trying to watch the movie.
“I’m Jennifer Kaufman.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jennifer. I’m Tim.” He paused, acutely aware of the cluttered great room. Toys were scattered everywhere. Next to an ottoman, a giant laundry basket was filled with an assortment of clothing and towels as if waiting to be folded. The kitchen counters overflowed with stacks of dirty dishes and fast-food bags that needed to be thrown away. Tim frowned. “Can you tell me where your mama is?”
Jennifer was engrossed in the movie and quickly pointed to a door in the kitchen. “She’s in there.”
“Thanks.” With the girls preoccupied by Disney’s Belle singing about her poor provincial town, he strolled toward the door and knocked twice. “Hello? Mrs. Kaufman? It’s Tim McGill, your yard guy. Is everything all right?”
His question was met with silence. He knocked again. “Mrs. Kaufman? I’d like to speak with you please.” More silence. A pang of worry shot to his heart as he glanced over his shoulder at the quiet little girls engrossed in the movie. “Mrs. Kaufman? I’m coming in.”
Without hesitation, he turned the knob and swung the door open, confusion making him waver. This wasn’t a room in the house—it was the pantry. And Mrs. Kaufman was sitting on the floor with a package of Oreo cookies in her lap, tears streaming down her face. Tim was taken aback. She looked incredibly young dressed in running shorts and a tank top that accentuated her ample bosom. Her blonde hair was thrown up into a messy bun, and there wasn’t a stitch of makeup on her tanned face. He couldn’t help but notice her toenails matched the hot-pink tank. She was not your typical upper-class woman living in the swanky neighborhood, and there was no way she was the mother of all those little girls.
“I’m just fine,” she managed to utter in-between her hiccup-sobbing. “I needed a moment to contain myself. Thank you very much for helping the girls with the sound button.” In a way, her Southern drawl was comforting as her blue eyes glistened with big, fat tears.
Without really thinking it through, Tim closed the door and carefully eased his giant body to the wooden floor. It was awkward in the small space chock full of canned and boxed goods, various sizes of colorful jars and large warehouse stockpiles of paper products. Among the sundries, Mrs. Kaufman looked small and pitiful, her upper lip traced with black cookie crumbs. He bit his lip to stifle a small smile.
“You’re welcome. May I ask why you’re in a time out?” He gazed at her vivid blue eyes pooled with tears and waited for a response.
She swiped at her face with the back of her hand and shook her head. “I…can’t…talk about it yet.” The forlorn look she gave him made him scowl.
“Hmmm.” He nodded, trying to figure out how to console the woman. The sound of a baby wailing came through a monitor he hadn’t noticed sitting on one of the shelves. He watched the woman slump and close her eyes tightly, causing the tears to trickle down her cheeks. Whatever she was going through, she apparently needed help.
“How many kids do you have Mrs. Kaufman?”
She grimaced. “Please, call me Jessica.”
He smiled. “Okay, Jessica. I’m Tim.” He shoved his large hand toward her, trying to divert her attention from her angst. When she placed her limp hand in his, it was minuscule in comparison.
