To Love, Honor, and Frame
A Brio AU Story

July

It took Beth six hours to start having doubts about her brand new marriage, six days to realize she had made a mistake, six weeks to figure out that her husband was already cheating on her, six months to give up on her marriage, and six years to finally and definitely do something about it.

!

"Do you actually live on Wisteria Lane?," Annie yelled her question from Beth's living room. Despite the fact that the house was quiet - hell, the neighborhood was quiet, Annie still felt the need to be loud. She and Ruby could hear her perfectly well from where they were gathered around the island in the kitchen, but that wasn't the point. Not with Annie.

Not pausing in the task at hand - while Ruby unpacked the food she had brought, Beth retrieved whatever dishes and silverware they would need to eat it, she responded. "I don't know, Annie. Do you see any wisteria," knowing full well that her little sister had no idea what wisteria was and exactly what… or, more precisely, who… Annie was referencing with her inquiry.

Walking towards them, Annie said, "well, I mean, can you ever really know for sure?"

"Of course," Beth answered succinctly. Then, to tease her sister further, she continued, "you could plant it yourself, you could ask someone else who you know would recognize it, or you could use one of those field guides… like for the leaf project in tenth grade bio."

"Wait, so wisteria is a plant?!"

"A flowering vine, actually." By the tone of Annie's voice, you would have thought Beth had informed her of an alien species, not flora. "Why? What did you think it was?"

Annie shrugged, uncaring that she was wrong and unconcerned about how foolish she might sound when answering. Beth had always admired that about her sister. "I thought it was this cool combination of wise and mysterious… you know, one of those portmanteau words that just skipped packing all of its junk in that steamer trunk." Taking a seat at the island, Annie suddenly let loose a raucous crow of laughter. "And, dude, the tenth grade leaf project? Do you seriously believe I even cracked that field guide? I'm pretty sure whatever pimply tool now uses my old locker probably is just the latest horndog to inherit my copy."

That made Beth pause. She had a plate in her hand, one that was meant for Annie, but she pulled it back quickly before her sister could take it. That didn't stop Annie from making grabby hands, though. From between them, Ruby just watched on silently, her eyes darting back and forth like their verbal repartee was the women's final at Wimbledon. The fact that Ruby found Beth and Annie that entertaining was just one of the many reasons why Beth loved her best friend. "So, wait. If you didn't use your field guide, how did you complete the project?"

Leaning back on her stool so she could swing her feet, Annie replied, "I just used yours." Like it was so obvious, like Beth should have known that already. And this was Annie, so maybe she should have, but the thought had never once even entered her mind. She always did her own work, so her go-to assumption was that everyone else did, too. "Like… I pared down some of your embellishments, and I misidentified one of the leaves… you know, to stay on the Annie Marks message. After all, I had a rep to protect. But Dolores ate that shit up. I'm pretty sure she gave me, like, a 95 on that project? It kept my grade afloat for an entire semester."

Like high school was only yesterday, like she wasn't a married woman and Annie a divorced, single mother, Beth felt heat suffuse her face. "But… but I actually did the work, identified all of my leaves correctly, and I only received a 90!" Without pausing to allow Annie to respond, she added, "plus, I find it hard to believe that Ms. Seligman" - or Dolores… as Annie, apparently, called her - "would just happen to assign you the very same leaves that she assigned me!"

"When you had her, Dot's husband was still alive, and she was all LGBTQ repressed. A decade later,…"

"I'm eight years older than you, Annie," Beth yelled, interrupting her sister. "Eight years. Not a decade."

Annie just smirked. "... she was out, and I'm pretty sure she already had one foot in her lesbian only retirement commune. She was super chill. We're talking, like, quaaludes chill. She still handed out those assigned lists of leaves, but she didn't actually check them or care."

"Apparently," Beth grumbled. And maybe she should have been glad that Annie had scored such a high grade on her project all those years before, because at that point, Beth was already responsible for Annie, and the 95 had guaranteed one less progress report she'd had to deal with, but it still stung. It stung because, as minor and irrelevant as a leaf project was, Beth couldn't even have that. She had nothing that was just her own.

"So, now that we've all gone on this fun journey back in time," Ruby broke through both Beth's thoughts and the weird tension that had gathered between the three women. "Why don't you tell us what you were really referring to with your Wisteria Lane comment… now that we know it definitely wasn't the flower?"

"Beth's been holding out on us," Annie remarked, swiveling in her chair to directly face Ruby. While she talked, Beth returned to laying out their place settings, preemptively avoiding their gazes. "The 'burb has its very own Hottie Hispanic Horticulturist."

"No," Ruby gasped. Somehow, she managed to both mock Annie and sound eager all in the same word. "I'mma need to see this for myself."

The two of them scurried from the kitchen, leaving Beth alone for a few blessed moments. She needed to gather herself, to somehow strike the perfect balance between dispassionate appreciation and dismissal. Because she might not know his name, but she knew him - the Hottie…. And nope. She wasn't going to do that; she wasn't going to call him by Annie's ridiculous nickname. Her sister wasn't responsible for the stereotype she was playing into by calling him that, but it still made Beth uncomfortable. Or maybe she was unsettled because, in a way, she had been holding out on Annie and Ruby, keeping the knowledge of the gardener that some of her neighbors employed to herself. She was attracted to him, and her attraction made her feel guilty - not because she was married but because, while she would always take notice of him when he was working, he didn't even know that she existed.

With Annie and Ruby in the living room - she could hear the buzzing of their playful, hushed whispers but none of the actual words, Beth dished out everyone's dinner and poured drinks. Every dealership was open late at least one night of the week, and that night for Boland Motors was Monday. So, Dean didn't come home until sometimes midnight or later, claiming paperwork. Beth really didn't care what - or who - occupied her husband into the early morning hours once a week; she just took advantage of it. So, every Monday night, Ruby brought food, and Annie brought the party (her words and her own designation on what she should contribute), and Beth provided the place, the drinks, and the television. They watched whatever iteration of The Bachelor series was airing during that particular time of the year, and they drafted the contestants like it was a sport. Hell, it kind of was. It wasn't Housewives, but it was still fun and Dean-free.

"I don't know if that boy is brave, naive, or just plain stupid," Ruby lamented as she reentered the kitchen.

She and Annie both immediately took their seats. Beth, however, remained standing, confused. Of all the reactions she might have expected from her best friend, it wasn't that. "What do you mean," she questioned.

"Look, Sweetie, I love you, but your neighborhood is really white. Sometimes, I get nervous just driving down your street. I always end up freaking out a little bit, because how fast should I drive so no one notices the black woman behind the wheel? Should I stick exactly to the speed limit? But that almost seems suspicious in itself. Who really does that besides someone who is intentionally not trying to be noticed? Too fast just seems like an invitation to be pulled over, but if I drive too slow, will someone think I'm casing the block?"

Up until that point, Beth had been fiddling with one of the serving spoons - just moving around some of the extra casserole distractedly, but as soon as Ruby said the word 'case,' she snapped to attention. Luckily, Annie was too busy already eating, and Ruby was too involved in making her point. "As soon as someone around here breaks even just a nail, it'll be that man's fault." To emphasize who she was talking about… not that there was any doubt, Ruby hooked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the street outside and the yard across it in which the gardener was working that early evening. "And those tattoos don't help him blend or fit in around here either."

Beth didn't know what to say in response.

Luckily, before she needed to say something, Annie was sputtering her drink back into her glass, dramatically wiping first her lips and then her tongue with her hand, and gagging. "Ugh, what even is that?!"

"It's called wine," Beth responded. "I realize that you've only just recently started drinking it legally, but the name is still the same as it was when you used to steal bottles from all of your friends' parents during high school."

"The only way that is wine is if the MDC gave up on license plates and is now bottling and selling inmates' toilet bowl hooch!"

"It can't be that bad," Beth refuted. Only… she knew that it was. It was cheap, grocery store wine that she got on sale, no less. When she and Dean first married, he started giving her an allowance - a play right out of the Kenneth Boland marital playbook. Too bad Dean was evidently unaware of inflation, because Beth was pretty sure her allowance was the same amount as Judith's when Dean's parents wed in 1979. While Dean would cover all of their bills and any household expenses… or at least those he approved of, Beth's allowance was to pay for her things: her clothes, shoes, gifts for her friends and family, toiletries and cosmetics, craft supplies, and any of her other hobbies and interests, including whatever she contributed to any sans-Dean social events. This arrangement got old, fast.

Wanting some independence, wanting her own agency, Beth had floated the idea of getting a job - maybe just something part time, something close, nothing that would prevent her from still maintaining their home to her usual standard. At first, Dean had feigned interest in the idea, but then 'I hate to burst your bubble, and I really don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but one of us needs to be realistic, and as the man of the house, that responsibility falls on me.' In order for Beth to have a job, she'd need a way to get there and back. She didn't own a car, and he, of course, needed to use his to get to the dealership - their family business. 'And let's be real, Bethie. There's no job that you could get that would pay you enough to afford a car payment, insurance, maintenance, and gas… let alone make it worth the sacrifice of having my wife not at home.' Dean had tried to suggest, if she were to get pregnant and they started a family, then he could see buying her a car, but Beth had quickly shut down that line of thought.

Beth wasn't sure if Dean was just a misogynist or if he could sense her dissatisfaction, her restlessness. Perhaps it was both. But whatever the reason, Beth didn't get a job, and with every day that went by, she felt more and more trapped in her mistake of a marriage. While her paltry allowance had never stretched far enough, it was even thinner now, because Beth had decided to set aside as much of it as she could possibly afford. It might take her years, but she was determined to get out. It would be extra sweet to know that the allowance Dean had oh so generously provided her with had also been the means by which she was able to secure her freedom from him.

But Annie and Ruby knew none of that. Beth wasn't sure why she didn't tell them, why she couldn't. It had nothing to do with making it real, with being afraid that they would try to offer her help that they could not afford, with wanting to prove to them and herself that she could do something so important on her own. She wasn't embarrassed either. Not only would her sister and best friend not judge her for wanting to leave Dean - the opposite, in fact, but Beth had been young when she married - too young, obviously, she now knew, and it was a common mistake. Maybe she simply needed to take this particular stand by herself before she would be ready for them to stand by her side.

Pulling her from her musings, Annie shoved the wine in Beth's face. "Here. You try it." Beth had barely managed to pluck the glass out of the air before Annie was jumping off her stool and stomping her way out of the kitchen. "Deansie might have, like, zero redeeming qualities, but if that baby boomer douchebag stuck in a doughy Millennial body does one thing well, it's cliches." As she moved towards the office, her voice became louder and louder. "He has to have some good booze hidden in here somewhere." Beth then heard a snort, a harrumph, a few… colorful curses, what sounded like banging, suspicious silence, and then a triumphant, "aha!," followed quickly by a squeaked, "oh, shit!"

Beth exchanged a 'what the hell' glance and shrug with Ruby before they both retraced Annie's steps, grabbing all three plates on their way.

Standing in the doorway, Beth quickly took in the entire scene before her. The bottom, locked drawer of Dean's desk was open, and Annie had in fact found a bottle of what Beth believed to be scotch, but she had set it aside, unopened. Instead, she was holding and paging through a small notepad, wincing. "So, the bad news is that Deansie has a little black book." The only part of that reveal that Beth found shocking was that her philandering husband was actually capable of being organized with something. Unfortunately, that something was his efforts to keep track of his various mistresses. "The good news is that, evidently, he doesn't actually understand how telephone numbers work."

"Let me see that," Ruby demanded, putting her plate down while grabbing the notebook out of Annie's hands. Annie didn't fight her, though, electing to plop down on the floor and continue digging through Dean's usually locked drawer. "I can't believe these words are about to pass my lips, but she doesn't seem to be wrong? I'm so sorry, Honey Bee."

Ruby was looking at Beth with so much sympathy, with so much regret, and Beth just… sat down and continued to eat her food. In her defense, Ruby's macaroni and cheese was Beth's favorite ever. Oh, and then there was also the fact that she had known of her husband's infidelity for years at that point.

"Immie, Jayce, Gwenith, Christalina, Florella, Rozlyn," Ruby started to read off names. "Harlo, Agnese, Henrietta, Casper."

Annie gasped. "No. No way. Deansie wishes he was cool enough to swing both ways. But he's not!"

Ruby ignored the interruption. Turning towards Beth, she asked, "do you recognize any of them? There are more, but…." In her own mind, Beth filled in the rest. But do you really want to hear the rest? Besides, these are some unique and memorable names. Beth just continued to chew, shaking her head in denial. Ruby returned to the notebook. After several minutes of studying, she suggested, "I guess the numbers could be just the last four digits of a phone number… if all the women are local? But then what's the alpha-numerical entry after each name?"

Annie's head popped up. Perched at Ruby's elbow, she supplied, "apartment numbers?"

"So, are we saying that Dean only has affairs with women who live in apartments? And, besides, if he can't remember who lives in which apartment, how does he remember the building's address?"

"Maybe that's what the four digits are," Annie thought out loud.

"Yeah, but there are no street names, so, again, Dean's memory."

Knowing that they'd never watch The Bachelorette… let alone leave Dean's office… if they couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for his cheating cheat code, Beth instructed, "read me an entry in its entirety."

"Zadi. 34B. 9843," Ruby did as requested.

"Another?"

"Parker. 32C. 1506."

Putting her empty plate down, Beth stretched out so that she could pluck Dean's behemoth of a laptop off of the desk. Settling in on her thighs, she booted it up and then waited for it to go through its start process. It took several minutes. While they waited, Annie returned to the drawer, and Ruby absentmindedly picked at her plate. Without explaining what she was doing, Beth opened a browser and just… entered as many of the names that Ruby had read to her that she could remember, hitting search. Her results were both maddening and completely predictable.

"They're not names. I mean they are," Beth rushed to clarify, already anticipating Annie's arguments and Ruby's confusion. "I just mean that they're not the names of the women he's sleeping with; they're the names of expensive lingerie collections. So, the alphanumeric combination is bra size, not apartment numbers."

Annie snorted. "Too bad I'm pretty sure you were born with at least a D cup." Beth rolled her eyes. "And how expensive are we talking: is it that unforthcoming Victoria or…?"

"Agent Provocateur."

"Well, that helps explain our next bombshell of the evening." With a flourish only Annie could provide, she slammed a manilla folder onto the desk, papers scattering everywhere. "I might not be a financial expert…"

"Understatement of the century," Ruby muttered underneath her breath.

While Beth quirked a smile for her best friend's good-natured ribbing, Annie just ignored her. "But even I can read the red writing on the wall."

"What does that even mean, Annie?"

"It means: ya broke," Ruby summarized.

"Frankly, your credit card debt is astounding and inspiring," Annie faux toasted her, having forgotten about the booze. Beth didn't even have a credit card. "The dealership is bleeding money like it's a high school gym, and Carrie is on its stage, totally oblivious, wearing her crown and holding her flowers. And you are… further behind on your mortgage than I am on my car payment, so I guess there's hope for me yet."

"What mortgage," Beth desperately wanted to know. The other women, the lingerie? That was… whatever. The details were new, but the basic plot she had been aware of all along. But the debt, the financial ruin? Michigan was an equitable distribution state. While normally, one would assume that applied to assets, would it also pertain to debt as well… even if one half of the couple accrued it all, while the other half was obliviously somehow subsisting on their pre-Reaganomics allowance? "Dean's parents bought us this house for our wedding present!"

Not only had they bought it, but they had also picked it out. Beth had wanted to live somewhere in the city. When… if… kids came into the picture, then the suburbs would make sense, but she and Dean married when they were twenty-three and twenty-five, respectively. They should have been living young while they still were young instead of emulating Ward and June Cleaver… if Ward had been a two-timing cad with horrible money management skills.

Living in the city would have meant Beth being closer to Annie and Sadie, to Ruby and eventually Sara, too. It would have meant public transportation, and fresh markets, and a chance for her life to be more. But Dean said he couldn't sleep with all that inner city noise, and 'I'd worry about you, Bethie, when I wasn't home to keep you safe.' Kenneth hadn't liked the idea of them just 'throwing away good money like that,' while Judith couldn't bear the idea of being so far away from her only child, her beloved son. Without a job, without a dime to go towards paying for their home, Beth had felt like she had no right to voice an opinion.

"Like… a really bad one, Bee," Ruby gently but worriedly told her. "The average mortgage rate right now is around 5%, but Dean's paying almost double that."

In that moment, Beth had both a million thoughts - casing the block, those four digit codes, Dean's deceptions, her tiny savings… especially in comparison to the massive debt that, legally speaking, might be half hers, the neighborhood gardener, expensive lingerie - and just one. "Put it all back," she calmly stated. With gaping mouths, Ruby and Annie stared at her while she erased her search history, powered down the laptop, stood, and replaced it exactly on Dean's desk. Smoothing down her old summer dress, Beth said, "The Bachelorette starts soon, and I think it's going to be a good points night for me."

Without waiting for a response from her sister or her best friend, Beth turned and left the office.

!

Really, it took so little time for Beth to figure out the four digit codes that she wasn't sure if she should be impressed by her own intellect or dismayed by Dean's sheer lack. All she had needed was quiet - for Annie and Ruby to go home, so she could hear her own thoughts rather than her sister's snarky comments and her best friend's pitying sympathy - and some visualization.

For whatever it said about her, Dean was a… simple man. In all ways. Beth certainly hadn't married him for his intelligence, after all. He liked muscle cars and football, meat and potatoes, the missionary position… or, well, at least that had seemed like all he was capable of with her back when they were still having sex. There was absolutely no way that he would need to write down his mistresses' cup size but be able to remember all of their addresses. So, the only logical conclusion was that he didn't need to find where they lived, because he was already there. And, if that was the case, what other piece of knowledge would he need in order to enjoy the lingerie he bought for them?

Putting herself in Dean's shoes, Beth mentally went through her husband's day. By the time she, in her mind, opened up the dealership, Beth knew exactly what those four number sequences were: they were security codes. When all of their neighbors - one by one, up and down the street - put in security systems, Dean had argued that their house didn't need one. They didn't live extravagantly, and he would keep Beth safe. He was her husband; that was his responsibility. However, the dealership on the other hand? Well, that was a whole different matter, and Dean jumped at the chance to protect his business, his father's legacy, his inheritance, his pride and joy, and Dean felt superior to their neighbors, because, while they were too timid to defend their own homes, he was securing his empire.

Now, Beth didn't work at Boland Motors. Even if she had suggested such an idea - it would be a way for her to have a job but not require her own car, contributing to their family's livelihood rather than being seen as a drain on it, Dean would have found some way to deny her and belittle the idea, perhaps even mock it. His ego wouldn't have been able to handle it if Beth proved herself better at selling cars than him, and she knew that he liked the image he presented: big man on campus while the little wifey labored away at home, cleaning and cooking for him. It had been that way since they had first started dating. The roles might have been slightly different - senior quarterback rather than dealership owner, nobody sophomore rather than housewife, but the dynamics were still the same.

However, just because Beth didn't work at Boland Motors didn't mean that she wasn't aware of its security code. Not only did Dean use the same four digits for everything - to lock his phone; the pin to their ATM card; at the end of every random password he created, forgot, and then asked Beth to recover for him, but he had also put pen to paper as soon as the security system company had set it up, that sticky note still front and center on his office desk blotter.

1963.

It was for his favorite Corvette model - the 1963 Corvette Stingray Split Model Coupe.

He didn't even invert or mix up the numbers.

Once the security codes fell into place for her, she went to bed already feeling refreshed and slept better than she had in years. One would have thought that finding tangible proof that not only was her husband screwing around on her with half of their neighbors but he was bankrupting them in order to get his rocks off would have caused Beth some anxiety. But it didn't. Instead, it was the impetus she needed to act. She had already decided that she was leaving Dean. Now, with evidence of his infidelity and financial irresponsibility, Beth believed she had the means to do so. But she was going to need help; she was going to need a partner.

And she had just the person in mind.

In fact, thanks to an offhand comment that Ruby had made, she was pretty sure that he was already of a like mind. She would just need to convince him that he shouldn't do it on his own, that he needed her… just as much as she needed him.

The sticking point for Beth was how the hell was she supposed to broach the topic? She couldn't just… spring it on him - accuse him of casing his lawn care customers' homes with the intention of robbing them blind at the end at the end of summer and then ask to be a part of it. But this also wasn't something that she could just hint at, suggest, or speak in metaphor about. Any miscommunication at all would have disastrous results, and Beth wasn't exactly looking to trade one metaphorical jail sentence - being married to Dean - for a literal one.

So, she debated for weeks. While she worked in her own yard, she practiced the conversation in her head. When she was scrubbing the downstairs shower, washing dishes, and vacuuming, she tried to imagine any and all of the gardener's possible reactions so as to prepare herself with the best possible rejoinders. And she continued to watch him, studying his body language, his mannerisms, his habits, craving the reassurance that she wasn't wrong about him. It took Beth weeks to build up the confidence to approach him… only for everything she planned, everything she practiced to just disappear.

"Hi," she nervously squeaked, averting her gaze as soon as he started to turn around. Lifting a hand to tuck some stray strands of hair - its natural curl making it particularly unruly under the July humidity - behind her ear, Beth could feel the heat of her own blazing cheeks. Their fieriness had nothing to do with the sun hanging high in the sky either. Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched as he seemed to take her all in - starting with her painted toes, traveling up her bare legs, clocking her denim short clad hips, pausing at where her tank top strained against her chest, and then landing on her face. Beth felt measured.

Rather than say anything in return, though, the gardener just… licked his full, slightly pouty bottom lip, dragging his teeth over it afterwards as he tilted his head to the side.

Flustered, she found herself greeting him again. "Um, yes, hello."

"S'up." This was accompanied by the jutting of his chin, the movement making it seem like the bird of prey tattooed on his neck was taking flight, and Beth started scrambling.

She desperately wanted something to do with her hands, something productive that she could do to distract her from his… everything and help her to refocus, to find her purpose and her place in her prepared speech once again. But the only thing Beth could see within touching distance was him. It was like everything else in Mrs. Karpinsky's yard had been eclipsed. So, she just twisted her fingers together, hoping that he wouldn't notice the nervous habit but knowing he would anyway. He was observant. It was one of the many things about him that she admired… and that supported her hypothesis that he was a thief.

"I'm Beth… Beth Boland." She couldn't look directly at his face, yet she couldn't look away from him either. Hooking a thumb over her shoulder, she pointed in the general vicinity of her house. "I live across the street."

"Yeah, I know." He said it shortly, like the words were bit out, distasteful. "With your husband. Dean Boland. Of Boland Motors."

"No." At the quick jump of his brows, Beth amended, "I mean, well, yes. Technically." Quite frankly, she didn't want to explain that, to embarrass herself without some kind of guarantee that it would be worth it, so she rushed to keep talking, not wanting to give him the chance to ask what she meant. "Anyway, I was hoping that we could talk."

"We ain't conversin' now?"

Untangling her fingers and smoothing down her shirt, Beth emphasized, "privately." He started to leer. It was cold and bitter, and it didn't feel genuine, but she still hurried to clarify, "not like that!," holding up her hands in a pose of denial, like she was warding off his erroneous conclusions. "I… I have a business proposition for you."

Smirking, he taunted, "let me guess: you want me to water your garden?"

"No!" Well, yes, but that was irrelevant and made her feel no better than Dean, no better than the other women in the neighborhood who she just knew only saw him as nothing more than the cliche Hottie Hispanic Horticulturist. "Can you just… five minutes, please?" Beth requested. She could hear the sound of desperation in her own voice, and she tried to regain her calm, her composure, her confidence. "Surely, you're allowed to take a break. I have homemade lemonade in the fridge, and I could make you a sandwich. Or something. While we talk."

"You know, Mrs. K. is a sweet lady and all." She knew her face screwed up at that, giving away yet another of her thoughts. But Mrs. Karpinsky - sweet?! "I'd feel real bad if I took advantage of that and just… wandered off with you for a quick… snack."

And, really, Beth didn't know what to say to that, so she just… gave up. She spun around on the heels of her flip flops and started to stomp back towards her own house, intent upon regrouping to try again another day, only to realize that, despite his protests - and maybe he had just been messing with her - teasing… or pushing her to see how far she would bend, he was following after her. Beth didn't say another word to him until they were inside of the house, the door shut securely behind them, and the two of them standing across from each other at the kitchen island… almost like they were facing off.

After a moment, Beth started moving once again. While the gardener looked around her home… and not in an objective way but with curiosity - his interest feeling more personal than professional, she poured them both glasses of lemonade, sliding one closer to him after bumping the fridge closed with her hip. Those common, domestic noises brought the near stranger - she didn't even know his name - back to the moment, his dark daze dropping towards his drink before quickly flicking back up to her. "Wait, this is really about a sandwich? I thought you was speakin' in code or somethin'."

Nervously, Beth tittered, "you know, it's funny that you should mention codes." He knocked his head to the side, and he narrowed his gaze, but he said nothing to help her move their discussion forward. "I suddenly find myself in possession of many of my neighbors'."

"Yeah?" Still, he wouldn't give her anything.

"And I would be willing to… share them. For a price. For a cut. For a percentage."

Although he was completely cool and collected, the tone of his voice dropped, became little more than a rasp. "That's not how any of this works, Elizabeth." Briefly, she found herself wondering if it was Mrs. Karpinsky who told him her full name, or if he had researched her right along with everyone else in their neighborhood, and if it was the latter, just how much did he know about her. "I don't need security codes to your neighbors' houses to mow their lawns, and you don't come to me, thinkin' you can set terms. If this is you makin' an offer, consider this me refusin'."

He was turning to leave when Beth blurted out, "I know about your little notebook. I've watched you write in it."

He paused, reached into his back pocket. Although he didn't leave, he didn't pivot back around to face her either, apparently wanting Beth to come around the island and to him… which she did. "What, this notebook?" When she attempted to grab it, he snatched it away from her, holding it too high for her to reach. "What exactly do you believe is in this thing that makes you think I'd be interested in anythin' you have to offer me?"

Folding her arms over her chest, Beth started to list, "points of entry, lists of valuables, schedules, locations of spare keys."

"Maybe I'm just layin' down verses, you know? They say that the rapper is the modern day poet." Despite this explanation, he lowered his arm and handed her the notebook.

Beth immediately took it from him, shuffling through the pages only to find lawn care information. It told her that Mr. Erickson wanted his grass mowed to 3 ¼ inches rather than the traditional 3 inches that the rest of the community had agreed upon for summer; that Mrs. Carmicheal would prune and water her own rose bushes, though he should deadhead any other flowers; and that the Deitrichs and the Trotters were fighting over who was responsible for the cost of maintaining the crabapple trees that separated their two properties. "This is a fake," Beth exclaimed, slamming it shut and then slamming it against the gardener's chest. "You carry this around so that, if someone figured you out - and I did!, then you'd have something to show them to throw them off your scent. Well, you can just consider me not thrown!"

She could see that he was fighting amusement and that, more than anything else, convinced Beth that she was right. It also annoyed the hell out of her, because what he was planning and what she wanted in on was no laughing matter. It would be one thing if they were both in on the joke, but at the moment, Beth felt like the butt of it. After years of humiliation, of being made to feel less than, it was just one indignity too many.

Backing away from her, he took a seat - not in one of the several stools positioned around her island but on top of it, hopping up so that his legs were dangling in the air and he could lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees and plopping his chin in a cupped hand. "Why don't you tell me exactly why I'm here. No more games, Sweetheart. I don't have time to be readin' between your lines, yeah?"

"I don't think you're really a gardener," Beth started, tilting her chin up with conviction. With every word she spoke, her voice became bolder, her words less questions and more statements of fact. "Oh, you do a perfectly adequate job. I'm not saying you're incompetent. You couldn't be if you wanted to be employed long enough to see through your actual plan. You probably mowed lawns as a teenager, maybe helped out in your mother or your grandmother's garden either as punishment or a sense of duty. But you're too observant, too interested in what is happening around you rather than the lawn in front of you when you're working. You're quiet, respectful, even deferential when someone is rude or even racist towards you, yet I've spent ten minutes with you, and I know that you're anything but. Your lawn care business is nothing but a front, a cover, to get you into this neighborhood, to give you access. You're casing the properties, and you're going to rob them when the season is over."

"You accuse your neighbors of being racist, yet you see a brown man mowin' grass and automatically assume he's a criminal mastermind?"

"My conclusion has nothing to do with your race and everything to do with your actions. You're the one who employed a stereotype here, not me. And, besides," Beth further defended herself, walking forward to force him into sitting up straight so as to maintain their eye contact. "I'm not threatening to accuse you or turn you in; I want to join you."

"Let's say, hypothetically speakin', you're right… about everything: the notebook, the con. It sounds like, accordin' to you, I already know what I'm doin'. So, why would I want some bored, lonely, sad suburban bitch complicatin' my shit? Why would I need you?"

"You can't just hit all of your customers! You're already going to be the prime suspect simply because you're…"

"... a Mexican," he supplied, smirking at her frown.

"... an outsider," Beth corrected. Though, at the same time, he wasn't wrong either. "You don't need to make it obvious for them."

"See, that's assumin' that all my customers have stuff worth stealin'." Looking pointedly around her own home, he stated, "you, of all people, should know that ain't necessarily true."

She ignored him. He wasn't wrong, but she wasn't offended either. There was a small part of Beth that wondered what he thought of her in connection with her home. For most people, their house was a reflection of them - their taste, their personality, their likes and dislikes. But Beth hadn't selected her own house; Dean's parents did. And she hadn't really decorated it either, allowing Judith to redecorate her own home and then accepting all of the Boland Seniors' hand me downs. And that was just the first floor. The second? It was essentially a boxed shrine to Dean's high school and collegiate athletic endeavors - all tarnished trophies, frayed ribbons, framed team photos, and letterman jackets. The upstairs bedrooms were supposed to be for the children they were to have, but Beth was perfectly content leaving them both empty of adornment and of babies.

"But you also don't want to pick your targets at random or simply based upon what kind of car they drive, hoping it's an indication of their material possessions. Instead, you need to be intentional with your selections, using them to set up a patsy."

"In this scenario you're spinnin'," he started, startling her by jumping down and roaming around the kitchen. While he talked, he randomly opened a cabinet, adjusted her dish soap container, and ran his hands over her backsplash, "you're given' me my list of houses to hit based on security codes that you have, so wouldn't that make you the patsy?"

"No," Beth answered succinctly. "Because I just happened upon them; they were given to someone else, and that person would be your patsy."

"If you think you gonna use me to set up your cleanin' lady for some imagined, bullshit infraction, then you got…"

"I don't have a cleaning lady," Beth cut him off, rolling her eyes. "I can barely afford the supplies to clean my own house, let alone hire someone to do it for me." Appearing surprised at her admission, he paused in his explorations to observe her more closely, and Beth took that opportunity to reveal the last part of her plan, of her offer. "No, if you let me in, then I'll give you everything you need to frame my husband as your fall guy."

He let loose a loud, genuine burst of laughter, head tilting back and eyes closing… like he simply needed to fully appreciate the hilarity. "Oh man, that's cold, Darlin'." Snapping his head down and his gaze back onto her, he asked, taunting, "what, did hubby forget your anniversary or somethin'?"

All she would tell him was, "it doesn't require the security system codes to a dozen of my neighbor's houses to forget to buy me a present, nor does it require eighteen sets of expensive lingerie in the wrong size to fail to mark such an occasion."

He just hummed, nodding his head once before approaching her. As he walked, he asked, "and what requires you to need a piece of this hypothetical score of mine?"

"Divorce isn't cheap. Neither are fresh starts."

Once he reached her, though, he didn't comment. Instead, he grabbed for his glass of lemonade, drained it, and then lifted his shirt to oh so casually wipe off his face. It was only once the thin cotton had fallen back into place, the gardener having caught Beth looking a little too long and a little too pointedly at his bared and toned midsection, that he sighed in appreciation, seemingly for the cool beverage. "I need to get back, yeah, but you somethin' else, Elizabeth; you spin a good yarn. If you ever feel like keepin' me company, I'm thinkin' I could find work for you. As you said, I'm observant, so I know that you, not your husband, take care of your yard, and you do a perfectly adequate job as well."

"Well, if you're going to be my employer, don't you think that I should at least know your name?"

"Why, what've you been callin' me in that head of yours, Mami?" Beth just blushed, refusing to answer. The first thing she thought of was Annie's name for him. It might have been wrong, and Beth had told her sister as much, but it was memorable, too. When he noticed her embarrassment, he just chuckled. This time, though, his amusement was soft, warm. He wasn't mocking her but… almost appreciating her? Earlier, he had made Beth feel measured. Now, he made her feel seen.

"Name's Rio." He went to step around her, walk by her, and, in doing so, he reached out and cupped her far hip, making it so that his right arm briefly rested against her belly as he leaned down, whispering in her ear, "talk soon, yeah?"

It wasn't until Beth heard the door close behind him after he left that she allowed herself to smile.

She was in.