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“No,” I said, brushing back some hair with the back of my hand, “I'm just mad.”

He produced his own brush and an empty coffee can. “Uhoh. Who at?”

“Myself!”

“Oh, that's a tough one. Did you do poorly on a test?”

“No! I …” I turned to him and said, “How did you fall in love with your wife?”

He poured some Navajo White into his can and smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Boy problems.”

“I do not have boy problems!”

He hesitated but didn't argue. Instead, he said, “I fell in love with her by mistake.”

“By mistake? What do you mean?”

“I didn't intend to. At the time I was engaged to somebody else, and in no position to fall in

love. Fortunately for me I saw how blind I'd been before

it was too late.”

“Blind?”

“Yes. My fiancée was very beautiful. She had the most magnificent brown eyes, and skin like

an angel. And for a time all I could see was her

beauty. But then … well, let's just say I discovered she wasn't a fraction of the person Renée

was.” He dipped his brush in the coffee can and

stroked a picket with paint. “It's easy to look back and see it, and it's easy to give the advice,

but the sad fact is, most people don't look beneath the

surface until it's too late.”

We were quiet a minute, but I could see Chet thinking. And from the furrow in his brow, I

knew it had nothing to do with my problems. “I'm … I'm

sorry I brought up your wife,” I said.

“Oh, don't be, that's all right.” He shook his head and tried on a smile. “Besides, I wasn't

thinking of Renée. I was thinking of someone else.

Someone who's never been able to look beneath the surface. At this point I don't suppose I

even want her to.”

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Who was he talking about? I wanted to know! But I felt it would be crossing some line to ask,

so we painted pickets in silence. At last he turned to

me and said, “Get beyond his eyes and his smile and the sheen of his hair—look at what's

really there.”

The way he said it sent a chill through me. It was as though he knew. And suddenly I felt

defensive. Was he telling me his grandson wasn't worth

it?

When it was time to go in for dinner, I still didn't feel right, but at least the tornado was gone.

Mom said Dad was working late, and since the boys

were off with their friends, it was just the two of us. She told me that she and Dad had talked

about it and that they both felt a little strange having

Chet come over like he was. Maybe, she said, they should find a way to pay him for his help.

I told her I thought Chet would find that insulting, but the next day she went ahead and

insulted him anyway. Chet said, “No, Mrs. Baker. It's been

my pleasure to help out your daughter on this project,” and wouldn't hear another word about

it.

The week ended with my dad loading the back of his truck with all the clippings and scraps

before he set off for work on Saturday morning. Then

Chet and I spent the rest of the day hoeing up weeds and raking and readying the dirt for

seeding.

It was on this last day that Chet asked, “Your family's not moving, are you?”

“Moving? Why do you say that?”

“Oh, my daughter brought up the possibility at the dinner table last night. She thought that

maybe you're fixing up the house because you're getting

ready to sell it.”

Even though Chet and I had talked about a lot of things while we were working, I probably

wouldn't have told him about Mr. Finnegan or Uncle

David or why the yard was such a mess if he hadn't asked me about moving. But since he

had, well, I wound up telling him everything. And it felt

good to talk about it. Especially about Uncle David. It felt like blowing a dandelion into the

wind and watching all the little seeds float off, up and

away. I was proud of my parents, and looking around the front yard, I was proud of me, too.

Just wait until I got my hands on the backyard!