Whether it was the slight Southern lilt I detected in her voice or the fact that she had sent her garden to a slow death, I disliked the woman at first. But when you’re in business for yourself, you need a darn good reason for turning away a paying client, and my feelings about her didn’t qualify.
WHITE OAKS BY JULIE ZUCKERMAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 12
The Burkette’s yard was a mangled mess of spruce trees, half-dead Broadmoor junipers, and white oaks that hadn’t had a haircut in a decade. A “pssshhh” sound escaped my lips, and I had to stop myself from glowering before I turned around and faced Mrs Burkette. She stood back a few paces, her pale hands fumbling nervously at the sides of her skirt, waiting for me to react.
“When’s the last time you-all had a gardener out here?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. My gut was telling me not to take the job, but my brain was reminding me that college bills were right around the corner.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe six months or so,” sh…