He was lifting a blue plastic cooler from the back seat, his movements quick and efficient.

“Tyler,” I said, stopping at the edge of the asphalt.

“Joan, hey,” he said, shutting the car door with his elbow.

He wore a golf shirt with a small logo on the chest, and his pockets jangled with the sound of loose coins.

“Fabulous evening, isn’t it?

I was just getting some things ready for the weekend.”

“I wanted to talk to you about the fence,” I said, holding out the yellow notepad where I had written Carl’s measurements.

“The surveyor was out this morning.”