Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Listen, universe. I get you’re supposed to be all knowing, but I think you’ve gotten it wrong this time,” I say, tossing my phone aside in disgust after reading my horoscope.
There’s only one person I’ve had a recent conflict with, and the stars have one thing very wrong. I’m not itching to do anything with him, least of all apologize.
I’ll deal with that little bit of advice later. For now, I’m surprisingly eager to get back to yesterday’s home project advice.
Refilling my coffee, I grab my tape measure and head out to the front patio to take a few extra measurements for the greenhouse. My conversation with the mysterious Archer last night aside, I have no intention of abandoning the greenhouse project for a rooftop fence.
The fact that yet another plant has been nibbled on, its flowers all but decimated, renews my commitment.
Lillian’s yard—my yard for the next several months—is spacious by townhouse standards. There’s both a paved patio and small grassy area. Even still, there’s not exactly a ton of room to work with. Most of the space extends outward in a walkway leading toward the cute little gate marking the entrance to her property. And what little space is available off to the side she’s set up as an outdoor dining area.
I’ve considered putting the patio furniture in storage, and since we’re nearing the end of “dining alfresco” season, using that space for the greenhouse instead. But then I had another idea, one I like better…
A vertical greenhouse.
I read an article not long ago about the growing popularity of vertical farming, so I figure it can’t be that hard to implement that same approach on a smaller scale.
Currently Lillian’s plants are in a bunch of mismatched pots lined up against a wall of ivy on the right side of the property. I’ve never given much thought to what’s on the other side of the ivy. But now I know what, and who, lives there. And even as I take all of my measurements to determine the optimal footprint for my vertical greenhouse, my gaze keeps cutting to that ivy wall.
Finally, curiosity gets the best of me and I let the tape measure release with a snap. I walk over to the ivy wall and gently wiggle a finger beneath the leaves, only to find it’s not a wall at all. Instead of hitting a firm layer—brick, perhaps—my finger pokes through to the other side—
Someone flicks my finger, and not particularly gently.
“Ow!”
“Morning, Randy.” Archer’s voice sounds just as impassive in the morning as it does in the evening, as though he can just muster the bare amount of energy for a social interaction. “Sleep well?”
“Not particularly,” I say to the wall of ivy. “My usually peaceful nighttime routine was knocked askew by a surly interloper.”
“Hmm.” He makes a bored humming noise. “I can relate. I have a noisy new neighbor.”
“Noisy!” I exclaim. “I have never been accused of being noisy in my life!”
“You’re yelling, Randy.”
I narrow my eyes, inhaling for patience as my thumb flicks repeatedly at the metal tab at the end of the tape measure.
Unfortunately, Gemini Miranda has very clear marching orders for the day, and they do not involve strangling annoying artists with said tool.
… Take the first step by mending fences with someone you’ve had a recent conflict with… Their role in your life is not what it first seemed…
“Ugh. Fine,” I mutter.
I head toward the front gate at the front of the yard. The wooden gate was probably once white, but most of the paint has chipped off, and the latch dangles uselessly, one strong breeze away from falling off completely.
Perhaps that should have been my home project; it’s a good deal easier than my vertical greenhouse ambitions.
I walk the few feet to Archer’s gate. In all the times I’ve visited Lillian over the years, I’ve never given much thought to the neighbors. I’ve gotten the sense she’s on good terms with them, but she’s never mentioned names. Certainly not his name.
His gate is in slightly better condition than Lillian’s, but not much. I let myself in without invitation. His front yard is a mirror of Lillian’s in terms of layout, though more bare bones—I doubt any red fairies live here. There are no friendly flowers or whimsical gnomes, just a few uninspired green plants, and…
Him.
I stop when I get my first non-blurry glimpse of Archer in the daylight, because he is nothing like he is supposed to look.
Something about his low, unhurried way of speaking made me think he’d be older, but he’s only in his thirties. I can’t tell exactly where in his thirties, though, probably because the bottom half of his face is covered in dark scruff that is more “couldn’t be bothered to shave” than it is “look at my beard.” His dark hair is wavy, a little too messy, maybe a little too long, curling down over his ears. It gives the same message as his facial hair: