branches.
She was around fifty and somehow always looked perfectly dressed, even while gardening.
Monica had known Daniel long before I had.
They’d grown up around the same people and had apparently dated briefly when they were young.
Daniel told me about it years ago when Monica inherited her parents’ house next door and moved back into the neighborhood.
I had never cared.
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Whatever happened between them had been ancient history.
A few minutes later, a white van pulled into Monica’s driveway.
A young man got out carrying a toolbox.
He had visited several times that summer.
“Your plumber is back,” I said.
Monica glanced toward him.
“That’s what happens with old houses. Something is always breaking.”
The young man noticed us and waved.
Daniel waved back.
But then he stared at the man for another moment.
“What?” I asked.
Daniel rubbed his jaw.
“He reminds me of
