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anthrax?
    Why hadn’t she returned his call?
    Only two things had slowed the swarming gnats of anxiety in the
past two weeks: Tilly’s garden and Tilly’s smile. And he needed to see both.
    * * *
    James glanced at the fogged-up shower and tried not to
think about previous tenants, about the dead skin cells they’d sloughed off,
about the dirt they’d tracked in. He hadn’t lived in rented accommodations since
he was a student. And then he’d been too fucked-up to think about anything. He
rubbed condensation from the mirror and tossed the damp bath sheet into the
shower. The laundry would have to wait. He tried to hold on to that thought, but
it slipped away and doubt crept back in, roaming his gut, searching for a hold,
second-guessing the decision he had made ten minutes earlier.
    Decision-making was exhausting, a haze of uncertainty entwining
one consequence around another. And there would be consequences for what he was
about to do, but it was a risk worth taking. Tilly could help him—he knew it.
And if the thought of seeing her again gave him a hit of pure desire, that was
an inconvenience he could overcome.
    The psychologist in Chicago had told him obsessions and
compulsions were like wild mushrooms popping up constantly. That he needed to
stay vigilant, always mindful of situations that could trigger his OCD, which
didn’t help when he was attracted to a woman who lived her life in dirt. A woman
who didn’t seem to care that the flatbed of her truck resembled a bag lady’s
shopping cart. If Tilly agreed to work for him, would she let him clean out her
truck?
    James admired the small tattoo of a coiled, black snake on his
right hip, his constant reminder that when it came to snakes, he was
phobia-free. Possibly even brave. And he was lucky— might as
well monopolize on this good mood —that his body had aged well. On the
other hand, that wasn’t so much luck as a freakish amount of exercise. Was fear
behind that, too, a determination to control his body if not his mind?
    James stretched and enjoyed the air caressing his skin. Naked,
he was released from fabrics that itched and scratched. Labels were the worst
offenders. But then again, none of his clothes had labels for long. He amputated
every one.
    If he didn’t know better, he might say he was relaxed, which
was not an adjective he ever used to describe himself. James didn’t do relaxed. Volted-up was how Sam, his best friend of
forty-two years, described James. He liked that analogy. Besides, nervous energy
had its uses. No to-do list was a match for James.
    He leaned forward, the edge of the vanity cutting into his
stomach. Retirement was playing havoc with his grooming. His hair hadn’t been
this long since grad school and the beard still threw him. He barely recognized
the face staring back. Or was that the point. If he changed the outside, would
the inside follow?
    Humming “Straight to Hell” by The Clash, James walked into the
bedroom and slid open the closet door with his elbow. He reached into a rack of
black, long-sleeved shirts and pulled his lucky Vivienne Westwood off its cedar
hanger. Why not? He had nothing to lose except his pride, and that had never
stopped him when a woman was concerned.

Chapter 5
    You had to admire a middle-aged woman, even one as
invasive as evening primrose, who accentuated her large breasts and rolls of
stomach flesh with Lycra. No hiding behind plus-size smocks for Sari. Although
her puce wedgies, adorned with large plastic flowers that flapped like dying
lunar moths, pushed the limits of taste.
    Bucking through a sneeze, Sari tripped over an exposed tree
root. “Gesundheit,” she said.
    What, she doesn’t trust me to bless
her? Tilly continued marching toward the greenhouse.
    “Time to fix the driveway, hon.” Sari trotted to keep up.
    If you didn’t barrel down my driveway five
mornings a week, screeching a duet with Bruce Springsteen and kicking up
gravel, it wouldn’t need fixing. Tilly bit back