Before I could retort, a voice drifted across the property line.
“Quite a yield this season.”
Our neighbor Monica stood on her side, peering through the foliage. At fifty, she was impeccably polished even when ostensibly gardening. She had known Daniel long before our paths crossed, having shared a social circle and gone on a few dates in their youth. Daniel had mentioned it casually years ago when she inherited her family’s dilapidated estate and moved in next door. I had never minded; ancient history held no power over us.
A moment later, a delivery van pulled into Monica’s driveway, and a young man hopped out carrying a toolbox. He had frequented her home all summer.
“Your plumber is back,” I noted.
Monica glanced over her shoulder. “Old houses. Always something breaking down.”
The young man glanced up and offered a wave. Daniel returned the greeting, then lingered, his gaze narrowing for a beat too long.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Daniel rubbed his jawline. “He just reminds me of somebody.”
“Who?”
