“Right,” she nodded. “But not even a loan. He’s, ah . . . well . . . here’s the thing, Mr. Valicielo,” she said, studying the angle of her sideview mirror intently. “The long and short of it is, he has sort of cut me off.”
She peeked at him. Even in the dim glow of her porch light, she could see the color drain from his face. He looked at the tree, put his hands on his bony hips (sort of—his jacket was far too big), and turned a pretty hellacious glare on her. “I don’t know if I can be any plainer, Miss Lear,” he said, going all formal on her. “Your tree is ruining my fence. If you don’t have it removed, I am prepared to take you to small claims court!”
“What?” She had visions of Judge Judy and cameras and a rooting section filled with dozens of Valicielo clones. “Mr. Valicielo!” she cried. “Please don’t do that. I promise I’m saving money as fast as I can to have it removed. You just have to give me a little time.”
Now he tried to fold his arms in that huge parka, but could only manage to grab each elbow as he shifted his weight, still glaring at her from beneath his stupid fishing hat. “I’m sorry, Miss Lear, but you are running out of time! I have tried to be patient, I have tried to give you time, but the fact is, you have made no effort to dispose of that tree, and it is ruining my fence.” He pivoted about, marching back into the dark and toward his house.
“Miserable old coot,” she muttered.
“I can hear you!” he shouted from the edge of darkness.
Rachel quickly got in her car and drove off.
This was the last thing she needed, but for the moment, she was refusing to let Mr. Valicielo ruin her good spirits. She had Mr. Gregory to worry about after all, and besides, SHE HAD A DATE THIS WEEK. Like some stupid tree was going to mess that up.
But a teeny-tiny voice kept whispering small claims court in the back of her mind.
Rachel found Mr. Gregory’s house easily enough. It was in Mount Pleasant, an older, established neighborhood where neat bungalows and cottages lined the streets. A porch light was on, but there was no light coming from the windows, save a sliver that peeked out between a crack in the curtains.
Rachel hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, walked up the old steps and across the wooden porch, and rapped sharply on the door. She heard a floor creak somewhere, then footsteps, steady and slow. The footfall stopped just on the other side of the door, and although she couldn’t see anyone, she smiled and waved at the peephole.
One lock bolt slid open. Then a deadbolt. Then two more bolts and maybe even a chain lock before the door creaked open a couple of inches. “Rachel?” Mr. Gregory said.
“Hi, Mr. Gregory.” He did not open the door farther, nor did he speak. “I, ah . . . I got your message,” she said uncertainly, “and I came to see if I could do anything for you.”
He said nothing.
“In Texas, when someone suffers a loss, everyone comes over to pay their respects and help where they can.”
“You’re an instructor, not a friend or neighbor,” he informed her.
“Right. Okay. Well . . . I guess I’ll just go,” she said, gesturing lamely toward her car.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said sternly. “Of course you should come in now that you’ve come all this way,” he said, pushing the screen door open.
She was having some serious second thoughts, and very reluctantly stepped inside the dark interior. She was immediately hit with the strong smell of antiseptic spray and had the very morbid thought that maybe his wife died days ago, and he’d kept her here until he could come to terms with it. But one glance at Mr. Gregory and she changed her mind. He looked a lot like Mr. Rogers in his button-up sweater and his house slippers as he led her through a very narrow and dark hallway and into a small kitchen that was spotless. Rachel expected lots of different dishes to be lying around, mail and phone messages—something to indicate his life had been turned upside down. But it looked like no one had eaten or cooked in that kitchen in years.
Mr. Gregory shuffled toward the refrigerator.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your wife, Mr. Gregory,” Rachel said as he opened the fridge and looked inside.
“Don’t be.” He bent over, peered into the empty racks. The man had no groceries at all—unless you called a tub of butter and a half pint of buttermilk groceries. “She was sick for a long, long time,” he said, straightening up again. “Bedridden and lacking most of her faculties. She’s in a much better place now,” he added, and carefully shut the door. “I’d offer you something, but I haven’t been able to get to the market. I’ll bury Clara Wednesday.”
The look on his face belied his casual tone, and Rachel’s heart wrenched. “Do you have any family? Children?”
Mr. Gregory shook his head.