The Neighbors by Ania Ahlborn

dirty toilets at a fast-food joint.
    “Are you serious?”
    “Absolutely,” Red said. “Harlow seems to like you as well, so why not?”
    “As long as you don’t need me to work on your car,” Drew said. “Because, honestly...” He lifted his hands from the steering wheel, shaking his head. Red laughed.
    “We’ll start tomorrow morning,” Red told him. “Eight o’clock.” He extended his hand.
    “Awesome, yeah,” Drew replied, shaking just a little too eagerly, not even bothering to ask what Red was going to pay him. The idea of working for Harlow was so alluring that at that moment, money was the last thing on his mind. “Really, thank you. This is great.”
    Red waved at Drew as if to say it was nothing. “Nonsense; thank
you
,” he told him. “See you tomorrow.” And then he turned and walked away.

    From behind the curtain, Harlow smiled.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    A few blocks north of Magnolia, Drew found himself standing in the dirt parking lot of the local farmers’ market. The market was in full swing despite the storm the night before, regardless of the fact that it would more than likely roll in again. The place was dotted with little booths and hand-painted signs: strawberries, three dollars a pint; freshly baked loaves of bread, two for five dollars. A little girl and her mother sold lemonade while others hawked their watermelons and organically grown zucchini.
    Overwhelmed with gratitude, Drew was determined to give the Wards a proper thank-you for all that they’d done. Sitting in his just-fixed pickup, he was no longer unemployed, and while he barely had enough cash to scrape by, he owed a debt, and he planned on paying it.
    An older woman occupied the booth closest to him. Her carefully painted sign assured anyone who was looking for a unique gift that yes, she had cellophane and would arrange the purchase into an attractive gift basket, perfect for that special someone. Drew didn’t know the Wards very well, but a fruit basket was a classic gift. Anytime someone greeted a new neighboron television, they presented a big basket full of fresh produce. He thought he remembered the ritual signifying bounty, or that the recipient would never know hunger. Whatever the meaning, he was sure Harlow would appreciate the retro touch.
    “Do I buy the basket first and come back to have it arranged?” Drew asked the woman behind the precarious wall of wicker. She sat on a collapsible fishing chair, her hands busy with two aluminum knitting needles looping through the air like twin conductor’s staffs. She nodded at him with a smile.
    “For someone special?” she asked.
    He picked up on her tone. Someone special, in her eyes, should have been a pretty young lady in a free-flowing summer dress—a beautiful girl with an easy smile and hair that rode upon the wind. Once upon a time, that girl had been Emily, but Emily was gone. And while Harlow may have not been Andrew’s age, she was still beautiful, still pure and elegant and utterly sophisticated. Drew offered the woman a smile.
    “For a neighbor,” he answered. He flushed when he realized he had almost said “a friend.”
    “Sweet child,” she said. “Neighbors are important too. Just don’t forget Robert Frost.”
    “Sorry?”
    “Frost, dear,” the woman repeated. “The poet. Don’t tell me you haven’t read him.”
    He knew the name, and he was sure he’d read an obligatory poem or two in his senior English class, but nothing specific came to mind.
    The woman rose from her chair, put her knitting aside, and picked out a basket from the pile.
    “Good fences make good neighbors, dear. But a pretty basket never hurt anyone.”
    She handed the basket over with a smile. Drew reached into his back pocket for his wallet, but she waved the notion away.
    “Pay later,” she told him with a wink.
    Drew blinked at her refusal. “Are you sure?”
    “Well, are you going to run off with my basket without coming back?” she asked with a teasing