After a warm shower, wearing my favourite long floral skirt and a mauve bell-sleeved top, my hair blow-dried and brushed, I'm ready to face Ron and his rudeness. 

I do not find him anywhere in the front yard or in the backyard. A spade dug into the ground three trees into the fourth row of the orchard tells me that he had definitely been working there.

In a clearing near the orchard is a heap of weeds in a large hole dug in the ground, probably left there, ready to be burned. No sign of Ron, though. If he decided to come into the house for something, perhaps to take a look at the clocks, it would probably be better if he wasn't met by my dirty footprints. 

Heading back into the house, I retrieve the bucket and the mop to, once again, clear up all the evidence of my nighttime adventures. I hate doing housework, and Luna is really providing me with way too much of it.

At least my last trip didn't take me through the entire house again while my feet were still wet; there are only footprints in the basement, the kitchen, the hallway and the tiny bedroom next to the kitchen. Still, I'm getting a little tired of cleaning up after Luna. She should really do this herself.

Well... she did make me one awesome painting... I'll forgive her... a little bit.

I'm pouring the dirty water down the drain in the kitchen when I see movement through the ivy strangling the kitchen window.

I smell smoke.

It is not easy to see much through the dense foliage, but it seems that Ron is in the clearing next to the orchard, probably burning the weeds.

"Right, I need his help." 

Showing my irritation with him is not going to expedite my quest. Time for a fresh start. I need to catch a big fly with some big honey. Well, if honey can be juice... I put the mop and bucket in the pantry and pour a large glass of cold orange juice. Taking a deep breath, I make my way outside.

He is standing with his back to me, slightly bent over. Old jeans, a faded loose shirt that might at some point have had a design in blue and black, work boots and a red rag hanging from his back pocket. Even from this strange angle, it is clear that Ron is pretty well-built.

He didn't sound pretty well-built over the phone; he sounded like a crotchety old man.

I'm suddenly uncertain about my approach; what if I scare him, and he falls over into the fire he's tending? I stop. I need to think about this.

Some of the rotting fruit and vegetables that welcomed me on my arrival are lying in a heap on the ground; he is probably going to use them as compost. He is burning the rest of it, along with the eroded bags they were in and the weeds. 

Awesome, he didn't mean that I was supposed to clean out the utility room!

I'm still shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to think of the best way to make my presence known without startling him. He looks bigger than I'd imagined. He doesn't seem old, frail and senile. Not that I can tell anything about his mental capacity from behind, especially not when he is bent over like this.

If he's startled and swings around, he could potentially launch me to the moon. If he's as grouchy in person as over the phone, he'd probably enjoy doing so.

He must sense my presence because I see him stiffen. I prepare my best smile and take a step forward, holding the glass out as an offering, when I see him start to turn. If he's going to strike at something, it will be better if it's the glass and not me.

"Hi, I thought you might like some juice since it is so hot outside and you seem to be working hard..." is what I plan to say. What I do say is:

"Hi... uuuuuuuuuuh..." And then I almost throw the glass at him in the momentum of my stumble. He drops the stick he'd been holding and grabs the glass with his left hand and me with his right arm. Very impressive! He doesn't even spill a drop.

"Are you okay?"

His voice is like warm honey. I swear it is. I can feel it trickling all over me, making my skin break out in goosebumps. He is looking at me with such sincere concern; I almost don't feel embarrassed. Almost... I hear myself say: "Pretty..." and now I am completely embarrassed.

And the worst part is, I meant him. That was not why I'd stumbled, though; for a split second when he turned, I'd thought he was the man from the painting, and the shock made my legs go numb, and my brain go dull.

It isn't the painting man, though. It is someone quite different. Someone with warm dark eyes and thick, equally dark hair, short but longer towards the top and completely messed up by soot and sweat and dust. 

He flashes me a smile. It is like lightning, there and gone, turning his face from serious to sparkling and back to serious in one sharp second. I've never seen a smile quite like that before. It does the weirdest things to my entrails.

"I'm... dream... thought... you... man..."

Apparently, I now have some kind of brain damage concentrated in the area that controls my speech.

"Sorry, what?"

"Juice... You..." I say, reluctantly removing myself from his arm. Great! Hopefully, he thinks I'm a non-English-speaking foreigner... and not dense... I think I might be the latter.

He gets the message, and smiling that smile again, he thanks me and downs the contents of the glass without coming up for air. I stare; I admit it. I watch his throat muscles work, vaguely thinking that I'd choke on the juice if someone stared at me like this, but I cannot help myself.

Dirty and sweaty as he is, he is still the most beautiful creature I've ever laid my eyes on, and that includes horses and tigers and dolphins. I mean it! The shirt is open in the front, and under it, a stained, white, sleeveless t-shirt is sculpted over his chest muscles. 

Oh, my soul!

To hell with painting in my sleep; I'm feeling a strong urge to do some more portraits right now, and not necessarily on one of the canvasses upstairs. I'm having visions of using the human kind. I could change my career plans and become a tattoo artist instead. Yes, definitely a viable idea. I hear someone giggling like a friggin' schoolgirl. 

Oh, please don't let it be... me...

He hands the glass back to me, smiling again. He is looking a little befuddled. I would too. He is probably trying to determine my species.

"Ron?" I croak. My voice is not working with me right now.

"Oh! No," he pulls off his dirty work gloves and sticks out his right hand. I take it reflexively and almost giggle again. He really is all sunshine, lightly tanned skin and warmth. "I'm David Stirling; I'm renovating the garden."

"Oh!" That explains a lot. "I'm... sleep deprived." 

What the hell am I saying?!

His smile dissolves, and he's suddenly looking serious again, repentant even.

"I'm sorry! Did I wake you? I tried not to come too early and to be quiet. I'm sorry... My grandfather told me he has someone renting. I guess the noise is more than you thought it would be?"

Grandfather? 

I remember the letter mentioning appreciation for my giving my consent for the renovations on the grounds to be continued and assurance that I can retract the consent at any moment should I find it to be too distracting. The letter was signed by one Richard Stirling.

For the record, it had been Craig who'd given my consent... I'm glad he did... So pretty...

"No! No! Not you! The clocks."

Oh, great, yes, lead with that, why don't you?

"Clocks?" he looks rightfully confused.

"They go off at random... wake me up at night..." I complete my story miserably. Why, oh, why am I being so dumb? Way to make a first impression, act like an infatuated schoolgirl and then start talking about broken clocks with minds of their own.

"You mean the ones in the house?"

I nod my head. No point in using more words. I'll just brace myself for the "are you sure" and the "are you drunk" that are going to follow now. He might even sniff me for traces of marijuana. And I don't even blame him; I'm acting more than a little high.

"I've never heard them chime before. Actually, I haven't even heard them tick before. Would you mind if I take a look at them? Maybe I can unset them for you or... something."

"Yes, I'm sure. No, I'm not drunk..." Oh, my soul! I should just wrap it up and go back to bed or grab his shovel and bury myself in the orchard. "What?"

His lips are twisted in a half smile. To his credit, he is really trying not to laugh at me. His eyes are sparkling with mirth, and a less tactful person would now really ask me: "Are you sure?"

"Oh! Yes, of course. Please."

After making sure that no sparks can escape from the hole, David pulls the rag from his back pocket, wipes his face with it and sticks it back in place. Mesmerized by his simple work actions, I don't realise immediately that he is watching me expectantly. Blushing, I nod my head, turn and lead the way to the kitchen door.

"Uhm... Should I bring this in for you or..."

I hear him ask when I reach the door and am about to open it. I turn to see him standing next to the clothesline, my lacy panties between his fingers. Tiny bits of dirt on it is making it obvious that it had fallen from the line. Of course, this will happen... why on Earth not? I should've brought the clothes in yesterday.

"Are they wet?" Oh my soul, did I just ask a stranger if my undies are wet?

He shakes his head, glancing away from me, really suppressing his laughter now.

I cross to the clothesline, grab the panties dangling from his fingers and pull the other garments from the line as well, talking up a storm to hide my embarrassment.

"I forgot these out here yesterday. Good thing the storm last night didn't blow them clean away! Thank you for picking it up for me..." I go on and on, and then we're finally inside the house.

David stops at the door to drop his gloves on a cabinet and remove his work boots while I put the glass on the island and dump the washing in the pantry. I'll deal with it later. I currently feel that the shorts, t-shirt and undies have caused me nothing but misery. 

I might add them to the burn pile outside.

"They're ticking," David says, his face filled with disbelief, or perhaps it is awe.

☼☼☼