I’m near the top of the hill when I slow to a walk and notice the man standing in his backyard.
I tug my shades down and zip up my hoodie. He’s harmless, I’m sure, but he’s always out there in a pair of faded overalls, tending to something in the garden, a pair of binoculars slung across his bulging belly. His name’s Harold; I think he mentioned that the first time we spoke.
“These are for birding,” he had chortled, clapping the binoculars with his pudgy hands. “And my wife’s just got me this iPhone for Christmas, so now I can take pictures of the little guys.” He brandished the new phone from his front pocket, and passed it to me so I could examine it.
He was friendly enough, but something about him that day seemed a bit off. He’s one of those types who never breaks eye contact while talking to you, and his eyes had lingered over my chest a beat too long. Since then, when I pass by, I instinctively throw my guard up and just give him the briefest of waves.
Today I don’t even do that. I pull out my phone and fidget with it, pretending to be absorbed in a text message. But I feel the pull of his stare, and sure enough, when I’ve walked a good way down the hill, I glance over my shoulder and his binoculars are trained in mydirection.
5
Thursday, March 15, 2018
IT’S MORNING. I’Msitting in my office, sipping a latte and gazing out the window while my laptop powers up. It rained last night and everything in our backyard is lush and green. I watch a red hummingbird dart in and out of the blossoms of our trumpet vine, their silky petals coral and tipped with golden yellow.
—
TODAY IS MAID’Sday. Not at our house, of course. At Margot’s—5 Kensington Drive. In the gilded and gated neighborhood Kensington Place.
I know this because two months ago on a frosty winter morning, I was parked outside the gates, and a weathered minivan, wheezing puffs of exhaust, had trundled to the entrance of the neighborhood. That’s how bored I’d become in this small town. The driver, a middle-aged woman with frazzled hair, lowered her window and stabbed the keypad. The gates swung open and I trailed the minivan inside.
I had sat, idling, outside the gates a few times before, hoping to get a glimpse of Margot’s house, but never had the courage to follow in, say, agleaming Jaguar, or a Mercedes. But I somehow felt inconspicuous drifting behind the minivan in my five-year-old Toyota Highlander.
I already knew the address (another perk of small-town life: phone books still get dropped at your doorstep, and sure enough, all Margot’s contact information was reliably listed under Banks), and I shadowed the van as it coasted through the parklike neighborhood. Immaculate, curving streets with bleach-white sidewalks.
Golf course–green lawns the size of small estates rolling out from enormous, newly built mansions with rooms fanning out like accordions. A glittering pond anchoring the center of the neighborhood, rimmed with willow trees combing the wind, and a fountain in the center of the pond shooting water orgasmically toward the sky.
—
THE MINIVAN PARKEDat the lip of the curb just outside Margot’s house, and I slowed my SUV and found a spot under a giant sycamore across the street a little ways up.
The woman lumbered out with cleaning supplies and scuttled toward the house. Margot opened the hulking wooden front door and they disappeared inside.
I had seen both an aerial and a street view on Google Earth, but somehow, the house was even more magnificent in person. A sprawling, Mediterranean-style villa. The stucco painted a creamy white and trimmed in reds and yellows. Climbing fig hugged the exterior, and a pair of black Mercedes as sleek as seals rested in the drive.
I sat with the heater roaring, the seat warmers toasting my ass for a few moments before I drove off.
Today, I don’t have to do that. I hook up my phone to the computer, and while my photos are uploading, I head to Facebook, to Margot’s profile.
I know I shouldn’t. I should be working on my blog first thing in the morning but I’m having a hard time getting motivated with it lately. I don’t have aton of traffic yet, or followers on Instagram, so sometimes it feels like I’m slinging posts out into the abyss.
Unlike in the magazine world, there’s no real gratification, say, from a published article or finished edition. Also, there are no deadlines to meet, no one to answer to.
Just five minutes, I tell myself. And then I’ll get to work.
Margot’s made it easy for me; she even has an album titled “Our Home” and I click through the photos and look through acres of rooms with gleaming floors and glittering chandeliers. Breathtaking, yet chilly. Even the children’s bedrooms are too magazine-shoot perfect—not a toy on the floor nor a doll out of place. The boy’s room looks ripped from a Ralph Lauren catalog, and I can see the trail of his future mapped out in the navy-blue-and-white-plaid color scheme: private school, Ivy League, Wall Street next, or perhaps law school.
Next up, the master bedroom. Creamy whites and taupes. Sensual. The king-size bed is dolled up with satiny throws and looks like a sumptuous gift waiting to be unwrapped.
I close out of her photos and go to my feed.
The first post that pops up is from Erin. A cute pic of Mattie playing in the creek. I click the heart button, leave a comment:
Adorable!
Another post from Erin:
Don’t forget, tomorrow the food bank will be accepting canned goods.
