Cassie jumped up, irritated by the mocking sound of the pendulum clock in the entry. Where are they? He said noon.

Resuming the worn path she’d paced for three days as she waited for Bud to return her kids, she stomped through the kitchen, into the family room, and over to the sliding glass patio doors. One glance beyond the pool her worthless ex had been so proud of and she stopped in her tracks. Matt Riley, her neighbor, stood in the rain wielding a power trimmer on the scraggly gap in the hedge. Her hedge.

Why is he trimming my hedge?

She slid the door open and stormed across the patio, down the gentle slope unmindful of the light mist that was falling. “Mr. Riley? What on earth are you doing?”

          He looked up and smiled. “Oh hi, Mrs. Sizemore. Nice rain, isn’t it?”

          “Well it’s wet and we can use the moisture I suppose. But why are you trimming my hedge?”

          “Your hedge?” He frowned. “The realtor told me it was mine when I bought the house last fall.”

          “The realtor told you wrong. It’s always been mine.” She wasn’t sure why she was so adamant. She didn’t even like the damned hedge but neither did she like being questioned. This guy had just gone over the line.

          Riley asked, “Are you sure?”

          “Of course I’m sure. Bud and I planted it ten years ago when we put in our pool.” 

“But my survey shows clearly the hedge is within the hundred fifty foot depth of my lot.”

“Survey, schmurvey. My house was the first one built in this subdivision, by my own husband. The hedge is mine.”

          Riley’s dark eyes turned smoky. “I think not.”

          “Well, I don’t care what you think, mister. It’s mine.”

          “Is that right? Well, I’ll tell you what, lady, let’s step it off. I’ll show you it’s my hedge.” He stomped around the side of his house, not waiting for her reply.

          The mist had let up but she was already as soaked as her obstinate adversary. She muttered about know-it-alls and trudged after him. It worried her that Riley was her daughter Candy’s favorite teacher.

          When Riley got to the curb, he said, “Now, count paces with me. Each pace is three feet.”

He marched deliberately as she counted loudly in her snarkiest voice, “One...two…three…”

Ignoring her irreverent tone, he reached the outer branches of the hedge and stopped. “How many paces to here?”

          “Forty-eight,” she spat out.

          “Correct. Surely you can see that if I could walk through the hedge there’d be two more paces.”

          “Duh. Even dumb little old me can see that. So?”

          “So, forty-eight and two is fifty. Fifty paces at three feet each is how much, Mrs. Sizemore?”

          The condescending challenge in his voice was just too much. “One hundred fifty, but you can’t fool me Mister Riley. You took big steps to make it stretch this far.”

          “I did no such thing. I sometimes referee football games and I assure you I’m perfectly capable of stepping off one yard at a time.”

          Hands on hips, damp hair stringing around her face, she snarled, “Oh, yeah? So, what penalty are you calling on me, ref? Ten fifteen-yarders?”

          “No.” His eyes flashed angry sparks. “But I just might flag you for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

          “Personal foul!” she screamed, and took off on the run for her patio. When she looked back, Riley stared back at her, unbelieving. She shook her head and headed upstairs to change into dry clothes.

          After toweling her hair, she blew it dry and tried to restore it to a semblance of style.

Crazy man! At least he has short hair, probably already dry.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized Riley was probably right about the stupid lot line. It would have been just like that damn Bud to plant the hedge beyond the boundary.