Gayle Roper - See No Evil

A nna Volente, keep your mind on your work.

How many times in the past had I heard those words from my dad or mom or one of my teachers? Even from Glenn, now that I thought about it, though I tried to think of him as little as possible. Of course I knew I should be concentrating on the project at hand, the hanging of the window treatment I held.

But how could I ignore the strange man skulking in the backyard of the unfinished house kitty-corner from the backyard of the completed model home I was working in?

He wasnt one of the construction workers. I was certain of that. They had all gone home a couple of hours ago, lunchboxes and thermoses in hand, leaving me alone to finish my work in the warm, sultry August evening. The prowling man wasnt dressed right for building anything either. He wore khakis and a red short-sleeved polo shirt hanging outside his slacks. I couldnt tell from this distance if the dark mark he had over his heart was an alligator or a pony or a spot of dried gravy from his dinner.

I studied him. His clothes might be ordinary, but there was something not quite right about him, though I couldnt decide what it was with the lowering sun shining so brightly in my eyes. I raised my hand to shield my eyes.

Was he just moving awkwardly, like someone who had a sprained ankle, or was he really skulking? Either way, as far as I knew, at this time of day no one should be anywhere near any of the houses in this very new, very upscale development. I excluded myself, of course.

From high on my ladder at the tall back window of the living room which ran the depth of the model house, I eyed the interloper. If Id been hanging one of the front or side windows, I wouldnt have seen him. If Id been standing on the floor, I wouldnt have seen him. The fence across the backyard and the plantings artistically fronting it, especially the weeping cherry, would have blocked him from view.

I frowned. Should I tell someone about him? Call someone?

Oh, Mr. or Ms. 911 Person, theres a man walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedoms Chase.

And what is this man doing?

Walking around in the backyard of one of the houses in Freedoms Chase.

Thats it? Call me back when he does something illegal, okay?

But isnt trespassing illegal?

Then again, what if he was just looking around with the idea of buying a house here?

How much longer will you be?

The question, asked from behind me in a very male, rather abrupt voice, startled me, and I almost lost my precarious footing. I put a hand out and caught the upper sash to steady myself. With my sudden movement and less firm grip on the material, the heavy window treatment I held began to slip from my grasp. The slick silk flowed south with determination, a fabric Mississippi heading for the wooden Gulf of Mexico.

No! I couldnt let that wonderful fabric get all wrinkled, maybe even damaged, not after all the hours Id put in working on it. I lunged for it, the man outside forgotten, the man inside ignored.

Then the curtain was forgotten too as I belatedly realized that you cant lunge when high on a stepladder. Maybe, I thought desperately as I flailed my arms, I could sort of step backwards and find the floor without falling flat on my back or stepping on the precious material. Of course that would be quite a step; the floor was several feet down.

Watch it! Youre going to fall! the man behind me yelled helpfully.

Tell me something I dont know!

I scrunched my eyes shut as I felt myself plummet in a graceful sort of slow motion, at least until gravity got hold of me. Then it became full speed ahead.

Lord, dont let it hurt too much!

How would I ever finish my decorating job if I broke my legor broke anything, for that matter? And then there was school, which started Monday. How could an art teacher ever manage one hundred and fifty-plus intermediate school kids and all the supplies for their various projects while on crutches? I could barely hold my own on two feet.

Suddenly strong hands grabbed me none too gently about the middle. The man they belonged to staggered under my weight, not the most complimentary thing that ever happened to me, but he didnt go down. Thanks to him, neither did I. No broken legs after all. Just wounded vanity.

He set me unceremoniously on my feet. Yards of glorious Scalamandr fabric billowed about us. I watched as it settled on the floor, burying my sneakers and his dirty workboots.

Be careful, I cried. Dont move. Dont get that fabric dirty! It costs a fortune.

He snorted. Tell me about it. I got the bill yesterday.

I carefully lifted the drapery off his boots, laying it over one of the plaid slipper chairs. I examined it minutely and couldnt see any dirt on the pale-cream background. Relief washed over me.

I turned to my rescuer. Now that I could spare him a glance, I saw he was what Dad always called a mans man: big, physically fit, ruggedly handsome with dark eyes and wavy dark hair that needed a haircut. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, and he had a phone clipped to his belt and a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck of his T-shirt.

All in all, very impressive, but Id given impressive men a wide berth since Glenn. Once burned was more than enough.

A pad of lined paper filled with notations and a black leather carrying case holding what I assumed was a laptop lay on the floor where hed dropped them when he grabbed me.

That would have been a nasty fall, he said, picking up his tablet and case.