She nods enthusiastically. “I’ve been practicing.”
My smile brightens because Margery has a lot of talent and takes her studies seriously. I started giving her private art lessons about three months ago when it was clear she was heads and shoulders above my other students at Schoodic Middle School. After I talked with her parents, they gladly sent her to me for a weekly private lesson. I was more than happy to supplement my teacher’s income with the lessons, even though I also taught art at the junior and high schools as well. Our school district was so small that I had to teach at three schools, and I was still struggling to make ends meet. The private art lessons were the perfect way for me to have some breathing room, so I wouldn’t have to work at The Lobster Cage with Miranda.
Margery shrugs her lightweight coat off and starts to tug at the hoodie she has on underneath. While it might get up into the sixties today, it’s still a bit brisk.
“Keep your hoodie on,” I tell her.
Her head tilts to the side in question.
“We’re going to sit outside on my front porch,” I tell her, hoping I’m not going to go to hell for using this time to continue to ogle my neighbor. “We’ll work on a watercolor of Gray Birch Lighthouse today.”
“Cool,” she says in response.
I turn toward my studio, which is nothing more than my spare bedroom converted into a place I can work on my own stuff when I have time. “Come help me get all the materials, and we’ll get set up.”
And maybe… just maybe, if my neighbor sees us sitting out front painting the lighthouse, he might be inclined to come over and thank me for those muffins I left him.
CHAPTER 3
Kyle
I rest the tip of the shovel into the ground, put my boot on the edge, and punch it down into the soil. Pushing on the wooden handle, I pop up a chunk of earth, lift it up, and turn it over to dump it back down again. I repeat this process down the entire flower bed that runs the length of my back porch, and when I’m done with that, I use the shovel to break up the clods of dirt.
Standing up straight when that’s finished, I wipe the back of my gloved hand over my forehead and huff out a breath of frustration.
This fucking sucks.
While I didn’t expect there’d be anything glamorous about hiding out from my enemies, I really didn’t envision a life that consisted of gardening. And yes, while I knew the parameters of the job Joe had found for me, I guess I didn’t realize just how much I’d hate some of the domestic shit I’ve had to do around this place. I mean, it was one thing to pressure wash and paint the light tower last week because that’s a manly job, but come on… planting a flower bed was not on my bucket list of things I wanted to try out.
I knew fuck about gardening, but because making the lighthouse grounds pretty and inviting to tourists was part of the job description, I had to man up and learn how to do it. I spent a few days watching YouTube videos because I didn’t want to go to the local library to check out how-to books, and then I made a quick trip to a local gardening center and nursery that Gus recommended to me last night when I stopped in for a drink.
And here I am, fucking gardening, and the only thing that would make me look more ridiculous was if I were wearing overalls and maybe a straw hat.
Snickering to myself, I imagine what any one of my Mayhem brothers would do if they could see me now. Well, the obvious answer is they’d kill me since I was an undercover agent, but, outside of that, they’d probably stomp the ever-loving shit out of me to know that one of their tough, badass brothers was gardening.
What really blows about the work I’m doing is that, in a few weeks, the town of Misty Harbor is going to open up my home to tourists who want to see the lighthouse. It’s only on Saturdays from ten to four, and I don’t have to be here because one of the members of the town’s historical society will give the tours, but still… this is my home and it’s been my sanctuary. The thought of strangers trampling through pisses me off like nothing has in a very long time. On those Saturdays, I figure I’ll be spending my time getting shit faced at The Lobster Cage.
My phone starts vibrating in my back pocket, so I shove the spade into the ground to free my hands. I don’t even bother glancing at the caller ID because there’s only one person who has my number, and he’ll be calling me from a burner phone anyway.
My handler… Joe Kizner.
“What’s up?” I ask as I connect the call.
“Just checking in,” he says cordially. “Case has been set for trial to start on September ninth.”
That’s a little over three months away. Hopefully then, I get my life back.
“What’s the scoop on Latner?” I ask as my eyes drift past the back of my cottage to the Atlantic Ocean that’s as smooth as glass today.