Next To You (3 page)

Fifteen minutes later, laundry done, music off, he was ready to ride. With his black leather jacket zipped up, he headed out the door, a black helmet in his hand.

He ran into Carlo, the furniture delivery guy he’d met earlier. ‘You two were pretty quick with all that,’ Will said.

Carlo nodded. ‘She didn’t have much, just a couple of big pieces and a lamp. So, you got a bike, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What kind?’

‘A Harley Fat Boy.’

‘You don’t dress like a Harley Guy.’

‘I’m a little more safety conscious than your average middle-aged, bearded Hog rider.’

‘Hey, can I ask you somepin’?’

Here it comes
, Will thought. It usually happened shortly after the pointing fingers. ‘Shoot.’

‘Are you …?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, how come you don’t got pink eyes?’

Automatically, Will settled in to educator mode and waited for Carlo’s eyes to glaze over. ‘Most of us have blue or bluish eyes,’ he said. ‘Some have a pink or a pale violet color, and some have brown eyes like yours. It all depends on what category you fall into, oculocutaneous or ocular, and there’re various subdivisions, like Hermansky-Pudlak Syndrome, which is pretty rare, but mo—’

‘Those are some big words and I don’t got no doctor’s dictionary at my fingertips.’

‘Sorry about that. You have to bear in mind that fiction and Hollywood get it wrong. Silas from
The Da Vinci Code
is pretty much bullshit.’

***

The monstrous roar of a motorcycle leaving the garage sent Batman into a barking frenzy on the terrace. As the bike moved into the alleyway the dog whined, and scratched at the paned glass, wanting to be let in. Caroline hated shutting him outside, but he could get a little aggressive and overprotective, especially when unfamiliar men were around. She didn’t want him snapping or biting the deliverymen from Schildkraut’s.

After the thunderous clatter of the motorcycle took off up the street, Caroline let Batman in. He trotted into the kitchen with a raggedy piece of yellow towel in his mouth.

Well, shit.
‘Where did you get that?’

He played, tossing his head, shaking the rag rat gripped in his teeth.

She looked out to the damp terrace. Another section of torn fabric lay on the terracotta tiles, right next to an old wrought iron table. Gusty wind had accompanied the heavy rain that had fallen about an hour ago. She guessed the cloth had blown onto the terrace from the neighboring apartment.

Outside, she peeked through the ivy-covered lattice that divided her terrace from the one next door. Pillowcases, blue striped pajamas, and towels hung beneath a metal-framed clothesline under the cover of a small, sloping roof like she had.

Caroline bit her thumbnail. Then she took the remains of the towel inside and composed a note to her neighbor.

***

Four minutes into the twelve-minute trip to Quincy’s place, rain pelted down. Will was hot, damp, and annoyed his ride had been washed out again. His irritation faded when he arrived at his friend’s house. Erika took his helmet, kissed his cheek, and led him to the comfortable rumpus room where a group of people shouted, ‘Surprise!’

Will looked down at himself. His leather jacket was open over his red t-shirt. His black leather pants were beaded with rain and unzipped around the ankles of scuffed black boots. He knew his hair was probably plastered to his scalp, and helmet head was not his best look. Despite it all, he ruffled up his hair and laughed. ‘You got me. You got me. “Stop in and look at this contract.” I can’t believe I fell for that, but you knew I would. Well, there better be cake.’

‘Did you think I’d forget, Murph?’ Quincy grinned. ‘I admit I probably would have if Erika didn’t pester me about it for the last two weeks. If you hadn’t already guessed, there is no contract for you to peruse. Happy birthday, my big white Irish friend.’ Quincy inhaled, his hands poised in mid-air as if he were about to start conducting.

Will interrupted, giving his best friend a back-slapping bear hug, saying, ‘Thanks. Thank you for this, but I beg of you. Please, don’t sing. Howzabout you make that my birthday present?’

Nodding, Quincy began a very loud, out of pitch, tone-deaf version of ‘Happy Birthday to You.’

Guests cried out, some with their hands over their ears, ‘What the hell!’

‘He swore he wasn’t going to do that!’

‘Erika, do something!’

‘Erika, make it stop!’

Making a face, Erika kissed her husband to shut him up. The nine people in the room cheered.

Two hours later, Will went home in a taxi, nicely toasted, with a shopping bag of birthday gifts. He tipped the driver twenty bucks for a twelve-minute ride and climbed out of the cab on slightly tipsy legs. Like this morning, there was a deliveryman at front of the building. The US Postal Service still made Saturday deliveries and the postal worker stood beside the bank of doorbells. Sweat made a wet long line on the back of his shirt.

Oh, yeah, another present for the birthday kid!
‘Who’s that for?’ Will asked.

The postman whirled around, startled. ‘Mrs. Jones, apartment E. Please say you’re Mr. Jones?’

‘Nope, but Mrs. Jones is my neighbor.’

‘Would you mind taking it up for me? I rang the bell already. I mean, if you’re going that direction, can you please save me the trip up the stairs and sign this?’

‘Okey-dokey.’ Hoping he didn’t smell too much like gin or red wine, Will signed the electronic doodad the postman thrust under his nose.

‘Thanks.’

‘You bet,’ he said, taking the yellow, letter-sized envelope he was offered. He went inside, turning the item over in his hand, reading the address scrawled across the center.
Mrs. Caroline Jones, Apt E 3770 West Chase Avenue
.

The odor hit him as he reached the landing on the second floor. Someone had burned popcorn in the microwave. A smoke alarm was emitting a shrill, insistent tweet on the next level. The strident noise came from the apartment of Mrs. Caroline Jones and it was supplemented by the howling of her dog.

He reached her door, put his shopping bag against the wall, and rapped with one knuckle. He heard vociferous swearing above the racket. ‘Shut up you damn screeching
bastardwhoreofathing
!’ She strung the oath together, like one long German word, and it amused him. He knocked again and heard her let out a strangled, frustrated cry. The little dog stopped howling and went back to barking.

She opened the door. The flat-screen TV in the living room behind her showed Glenn Ford and Rita Hayworth oozing sexual tension. Mrs. Caroline Jones was watching
Gilda
—or had been before the popcorn caught fire. The smoke alarm carried on peeping shrilly. She had five bucks in her hand. She licked her bottom lip to say something, and then the little dog he’d met earlier leapt forward across the threshold. Hair fell into her eyes as she made a mad grab for the little guy. The sleeve of her bathrobe snagged on the doorjamb and the cloth jerked halfway off her shoulder, exposing the nightgown she wore beneath.

‘Hi,’ Will said.

Twisting, she caught hold of the dog sniffing at his boots and scooped him away. She tucked the animal on her hip, thrusting the crumpled bill into Will’s hand. ‘Here, take this. I’ve got to turn off this damn alarm before my neighbors decide to kill me.’

‘Just pull the battery out.’ With a grin, Will held out the envelope and took in her figure. A little on the lean side, but she still managed to have the right kind of softness that gave her an hourglass shape in a thin, pink cotton nightgown spotted with tiny pink rosebuds. He liked how the matching bathrobe hung off one shoulder, how the hair she’d pinned up kept falling over her eye.

She grabbed the envelope and, squirming dog beneath her elbow, kicked the bottom of the door, blurting out, ‘Thank you!’

‘Just pull the battery …’ the door shut with a bang before he finished, ‘… out.’ Chuckling, Will looked at the rumpled money she’d shoved into his hand and it dawned on him. Mrs. Caroline Jones, his new neighbor, was the woman from the diner this morning.

With a shrug, he picked up his bag of birthday presents, crossed the landing to his apartment. A folded dishtowel was draped over his doorknob. There was a note too.

            
Dear Mr. Murphy
,

            
It seems my dog got a hold of some of your laundry. I apologize and hope this towel is a suitable replacement for the one he chewed to bits.

            
Your crappy new neighbor,

            
Caroline Jones

Will smiled. He went into his place as the strident peeping stopped.

***

Glenn Ford eyed Rita Hayworth with passionate contempt on the TV screen. Caroline sat on her new sofa and eyed the TV. Contempt wasn’t exactly what she felt as she reread the letter from her uncle. She leaned more toward bewilderment—absolute, incomprehensible bewilderment.

At first, she’d expected an absurdly generous gift certificate, or a notification of a donation made to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Drew’s name. What she found instead was the contract she’d signed to pay back the loan he’d given her. He’d scribbled
void
across it in green felt pen. And it was notarized. For a moment she forgot to breathe.

That sneaky devil
. When she went to buy a new bed, he insisted she needed a new couch as well and paid for that too. Now he’d done this.

He’d made such a point of mentioning his trip to Las Vegas, and apologized because he wouldn’t be able to help her move. She’d offered to take him to the airport and look after his girls, but he said his pal Marco was caring for them. She’d suspected he’d planned this Vegas trip as part of a carefully laid out ruse to guarantee she’d move back to town. He’d finessed her so brilliantly, and he’d been smart to leave town, because if she’d wanted to thank him, or berate him, she’d have to wait until he got back—Monday afternoon.

Caroline switched off the TV and gave up watching
Gilda
. Her popcorn dinner was burned and unpacking was more important than Rita Hayworth. Boxes sat in every room of the apartment. An hour ago, still looking for the coffeepot, she’d found the DVDs in a box full of kitchen utensils. She quit unpacking when a cardboard carton labeled
Intimates
turned out to be full of jeans and slacks, instead of bags of neatly folded underwear, hosiery and socks.

It had become apparent earlier in the day that nothing inside the boxes matched the label on the outside. Shoes were in a box marked
Dishes
, dishes were in a box marked
Sweaters
, and the only set of pajamas she had managed to find to for this evening—a thin, cotton nightgown—had been in the box marked
Jeans and Slacks
.

She had to sort out the mess of mismarked boxes. She had to find the stupid old mood ring. She had to find the coffee maker. She had to sort out her clothing because, even though September was just the start of autumn, autumn called for richer, deeper colors, and she was determined not to go to work Monday with a caffeine-withdrawal headache, wearing a bud-green cotton twin-set meant for summer.

Chapter 2

The tines of the fork speared a blood-red cherry. Alex raised the bite to his mouth and chewed. He waited for an infusion of sweetness, for a smooth, buttery melt to spread on his tongue. Yet the pie he’d baked with his own hands, and delivered to his café, tasted of nothing. He stared down at the plate and the pie looked beautiful. It was beautiful because he took pride in his food and painstaking care to ensure his cuisine was always exceptional, always perfect. The piecrust, he knew, was flaky, had substance without being chewy and, even though he couldn’t taste it, a buttery flavor balanced by sweet and salty that complemented the tart-sweet Ferrovia cherries. In the span of three days, life had lost its flavor and he’d lost whatever had been left of his good sense.

The employees at Jonesing had noticed a difference in their boss too. He’d overheard their whispers. They all knew his story. He’d been stuck on a slope of glumness. Of course they’d known. Three years ago, he’d withdrawn from being a social animal schmoozing with clients and city big wigs. His gregarious nature had shrunk as his beard sprouted and his auburn hair grew down his back. Unlike Samson drawing strength from his locks, the longer Alex’s hair got, the more his energy was sapped, the more sullen, quiet, and withdrawn he became.

But his business had never suffered a descent into the heavy blues like he did. The employees working alongside him, those apprentices preparing trays of finger food, the pastry chefs baking delectable cakes, pies and strudels, and the kitchen hands who lugged fresh produce from the wholesaler, had grown used to the time they spent with their morose boss. Slowly, he’d begun to turn that all around. There’d been glimpses of old Alexander Jones, the fun pastry chef and caterer. When he laughed, which had been seldom, his entire body laughed too, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide, slapping his thighs while his eyes watered.

Then the weekend happened. Alex arrived at work and the weak, full-maned anti-Samson was no more. Depression had vanished from that man. A snarling, sarcastic, wool-faced pirate had replaced him, and word quickly got around the kitchen he did not have a rapier wit. Over a weekend, after four successful, lucrative and perfectly executed events downtown, Alex walked into the Jonesing kitchen a vicious, insufferable man.

And he knew it.

By Wednesday, the staff that had once loved him, or felt pity for the misery in his life, began to hate him. Alex knew this too. He knew he’d moved from being the life of every party to the guy who sulked in the corner, and now to glowering hellion.

His mother had noticed yesterday. When she asked him to explain, he’d answered. He told her how he’d stumbled across Caroline at the Wellington Diner. Bethany had taken a seat, smoked an entire pack of Marlboros, and started on a second. Alex had sat across from her at the large French country table in her French country kitchen and cried.

‘I knew she was trouble the minute she walked into this house,’ his mother had said, ‘but nobody wanted to listen to me. Gus kept telling me it wasn’t my place.’