It wouldn’t have been such a leap, truth be told. She’d been seeing things through men’s eyes for years. Her entire career, men had informed her what was good and what wasn’t. And she’d always assumed they were right. Even if an ad was meant to speak to women like her, a male creative director would decide if it was worthy of airtime. They’d listen to her opinion, but the final call was theirs. After a decision was made, you either drank the Kool-Aid—or you found yourself another job.
What made them so confident in their vision, Harriett wondered? And what had kept her from insisting on her own? She’d always hated Chase’s design for the garden. Every spring, she’d ask if they could try something different. And every fucking year, Chase’s vision would prevail.
“I introduced half of the plants to this garden,” Harriett said. “The other half showed up on their own.”
“That’s an odd way to grow a garden, don’t you think? No wonder it’s out of control.”
“It’s nature,” Harriett said.
“It’s hideous,” Clarke countered.
Harriett smiled and cocked her head. Suddenly, everything seemed clear. “Mr. Clarke, do you find my garden offensive because you can’t control it?”
“Gardens are where nature is trained and domesticated. You’ve let it run rampant. Do you want your neighbors to consider your property an eyesore?”
Harriett nodded. At last she understood why he’d come. He didn’t want to look at her garden; therefore, it shouldn’t exist. He’d landed on a solution he believed would suit everyone. Chase would have his house. The town would have its monument to good taste. And Harriett and her garden would be back under control.
“Tell me, Mr. Clarke—is there a reason I should care what you think?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m genuinely curious.” She crossed one leg over the other so he could get a good look at how furry it was. “Can you give me one good reason?”
“I’m not the only one who’s concerned, Harriett.”
“Ms. Osborne.”
“Ms. Osborne. Most of your neighbors share my view.”
“Perhaps, but I’m an adult, and this is my house. I can grow what I like in my garden. Wear what I choose. What difference does it make what you or anyone else thinks is normal? Why the fuck should I care if you approve?”
“I’m merely concerned—”
Harriett stopped him. Her smile spread like sunshine across her face. She hadn’t felt this good in ages. “You’re concerned? How sweet of you. Are we related in some way? Are we friends? Have I been over to your house for dinner? Are any of your children named after me?”
“No,” he admitted. “But you are my client.”
“Yes, and I believe you’ve been well compensated, am I right? Have I failed to pay any of your bills?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not sure what your cause for concern might be. Do your male clients receive this level of service?”
“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood—”
“No,” Harriett snapped, cutting him off. “I haven’t. You came here to run me out of the neighborhood. I’ve been paying you by the hour to settle my divorce, and now you’re here wasting both my time and my money. You’ve been feeding on me a little too long, Mr. Clarke. The house is mine. As soon as you leave, I’ll find a new attorney. And don’t you dare send me a bill for this visit.”
“Ms. Osborne—” Clarke stopped and reached up to the skin on the left side of his neck, where there was a sizable black nub just above his collar. Moments earlier, it had been a mere speck. She could see it growing, its body ballooning with blood as the lawyer’s faced turned white. “Oh my God, it’s a tick!”