The Neighbors (7 page)

“Really?”

Mrs. Ward smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Of course,” she said. “Come in.”

Harlow led Andrew inside with a smile, a hand pressed against the center of his back to keep him moving as he gazed at pastel-colored walls and antique photo frames. The inside of the Wards’ house matched its faultless exterior. He marveled at the fact that he had been right, it
did
smell like home cooking, and the delicate scent of cut grass drifted through the open windows. Sheer white curtains shivered in the breeze, drawing drifting shadows across a meticulously vacuumed carpet, as white and perfect as an undisturbed blanket of snow. The place was a museum, and while Andrew was overwhelmed, he also found himself enchanted by its freshness.

Placing the plate on the kitchen counter, Harlow turned to face Andrew with a warm smile. “Since I have you here, perhaps you could help me with something?” she asked.

Drew looked away from a rack of spices, each bottle carefully hand-labeled, and gave her a nod.

“I need a bookshelf moved,” she told him. “Follow me.”

Directing him to what looked like a home office, the gentle pressure of her hand was at the small of his back. It was the kind of room that looked like it came out of a magazine: deep mahogany-toned furniture, a green glass banker’s lamp sitting next to a leather desk blotter. “There’s the culprit,” she said, motioning to a large bookshelf, a thing that looked to weigh a good two or
three hundred pounds empty. “I’d move it myself, but the last time I tried to move furniture on my own I just about killed myself.

“Do you think you can manage it?” she asked. “I hope we don’t have to take everything off it. That would just cause a mess-load of work, don’t you think?”

Drew blinked at her impossible suggestion. The shelves were heavy with entire collections—Stephen King, Dean Koontz, a thick volume of Poe’s complete works. And yet he found himself considering it, contemplating how he could make this hopeless task happen.

“You like horror?” he asked, casting a sidelong glance at the gorgeous woman beside him. Her classic look implied literary tastes running to the likes of Mark Twain, Emerson, and Thoreau; it was thrilling to think that she cozied up with the likes of
The Shining
, fantastic to imagine her curling up on the couch to indulge in old horror movies Andrew held dear:
Dracula
,
The Haunting
,
Night of the Living Dead
.

“It’s more my husband than me,” she said. “He’s a bookworm. I would have asked that fellow you live with...what’s his name?”

“Mickey.”

“But since he wasn’t home...” She paused, taking a moment to consider her words. “Honestly, I’m a bit relieved. I wasn’t too keen on inviting him over without anyone home.”

Andrew gave her a questioning look.

“Oh, you know how it is,” she continued, offering the conversation a dismissive wave of the hand. “Word gets around, small town like this. You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

Harlow cleared her throat, a manicured hand gingerly touching the back of her neck. “I really shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “Anyway.” Her smile returned. “Shall we?”

She stood beside Drew, scoping out the bookcase ahead of them while that tiny seed of suspicion about Mickey dug itself deep into the soft tissue of his brain.

“Mrs. Ward...”

“Harlow,” she said. “Please.”

Drew shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He considered mentioning the uncertainty he’d been feeling around Mickey. It seemed like, from what Harlow had just mentioned, he was right in having reservations. But he didn’t want to seem petty; he didn’t want her to think of him as a gossip, as someone who, like Mickey, should be kept at arm’s length. Instead, he decided to focus on the task at hand.

“Harlow,” he said, feeling both odd and exhilarated at being allowed to use her first name. “I really want to help.” He met her gaze, his heart fluttering when their eyes locked. Had she been a brunette rather than a blonde, she would have looked like vintage Elizabeth Taylor. He imagined that her looks had intimidated thousands of boys—had made them weak in the knees but kept them at bay, because who could possibly be good enough for a girl like her? “But I think I might lose a limb if I try to move this thing myself.”

Harlow offered the piece of furniture a perplexed look before exhaling a quiet laugh, as if just then realizing how impossible her request had been.

“I’m sorry.” She chuckled with a shake of her head, loose curls sweeping across her cheeks. “I really am an idiot, aren’t I?” She rested her hand on his arm, her smile lighting up her face. “Well, you’re already here,” she resolved. “I’ll make you something to eat. What do you say? Eggs, hash browns, the works; I make the best breakfast in all of Kansas.”

As if on cue, Drew’s stomach let out a loud growl. He pictured himself sitting at a breakfast table, sunlight filtering in through crisp white curtains, sunshine glinting off a fresh pitcher of orange juice just like it would in the commercials.

“I really couldn’t.” It was the first thing to tumble out of his mouth—one of those things you kick yourself for saying but say it anyway. He was starving. After days of living off fast food, he’d
have killed for a homemade meal. “Honestly, I haven’t been here more than five minutes. There’s no reason—”

“Nonsense,” Harlow cut in. “It’s the least I can do.”

He shifted his weight uncomfortably, afraid to overstay his welcome. She noticed his uneasiness and shook her head with a glossy grin.

“What is it, afraid I’m going to bite?”

Stepping behind him, she placed both hands on his shoulders and gave him a steady push out of the room and toward the kitchen.

She hadn’t exaggerated. She
did
make the best breakfast in all of Kansas. Drew gorged himself on crisp bacon and homemade bread. Even Harlow’s eggs were just right—sunny-side up, bright orange yolks perfectly centered and runny, just the way Andrew liked them. Harlow sat across from him with a wistful smile. She kept his juice glass full and gave him a second helping of bacon without him needing to ask. Andrew gave her a satisfied grin as he ate, his cheeks stuffed with the best-tasting food he’d had in forever. By the time he was finished eating, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fit out the front door.

“Goodness,” she said. “You
were
hungry. Had I known, I would have invited you over sooner.”

Drew raised a bashful shoulder in a shrug, nearly apologetic of his appetite.

“The cookies were awesome too,” he confessed. “Thanks for those.”

“That roommate of yours didn’t eat them all?” She raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but Drew shook his head no.

“Said he was on a diet.” A moment passed between them—Andrew and Harlow staring at each other—before they both shared a laugh at Mickey’s expense.

“Well,” she said, rising from her seat, only to pluck Drew’s breakfast plate from the table. “That’s good to know. Now I won’t hesitate to bake more.”

Drew couldn’t help himself. He beamed.

Walking him out to the front porch, Harlow offered him a thoughtful smile. “Come over anytime,” she insisted. “My door is always open.”

When she reached a hand out to brush a strand of hair from Andrew’s forehead, he nearly recoiled at how strange it felt, nearly leaned into her touch with how much he craved the contact. He was sure that she had noticed him tense, but she didn’t relent. Rather than pulling her hand away, she let her fingertips whisper against his skin. It was only when Andrew relaxed that she let her hand fall away.

“And, Andy,” she said, stopping him as he descended the front porch steps. “Be careful, OK?” She nodded toward the wreck of a house next door, wordlessly implying Mickey with the tilt of her head.

Andy
. His mom used to call him that—Sandy Andy, after a long day of playing out in the yard.

“I will,” Drew promised.

When he unlatched the front gate and stepped onto the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but to shoot a parting look over his shoulder. But Harlow was already gone, and Andrew already missed her.

Andrew needed to find a job. He was already low on money, and there was no way he’d be able to make next month’s rent if he didn’t get some cash coming in. The last thing he needed was for Mick to feel that Drew wasn’t living up to his end of their bargain. Mickey would at least have a good reason to shoot disapproving glances Andrew’s way.

Not like his mother. Even as he felt guilty for leaving her, he hated her for it. Leaving home was what kids were
supposed
to do—grow up, get out, start a life. The mortification he’d feel if
he couldn’t make rent, if he ended up having to go back home, would be enough to kill him.

He grabbed his keys off his mattress, took a Capri Sun for the road, and stepped out of the house and to the curb.

As the Chevy rambled down the road, Drew couldn’t help but be struck by his shift in perception. Once upon a time, getting a job had meant keeping the lights on until he could escape Kansas completely. But now Andrew wanted nothing to do with leaving Kansas at all. His sole motivation was to find work and pay his rent, anything to keep himself on Magnolia Lane.

Sitting at a stoplight a few blocks from home, Mickey watched Andrew’s pickup roll through a yellow light toward the center of town. He watched the Chevy grow smaller by the second before his eyes snapped to his rearview mirror. A silver Taurus was honking for him to move, the guy behind the wheel shaking his hands in muted frustration. His mouth moved soundlessly, silenced by the windshield, but Mickey could read his lips.

Slowly raising his right hand, he casually extended his middle finger and watched the guy’s temper flare. He let the driver stew for a few more seconds, then stepped on the gas, smirking. Sometimes he wondered about his own set of scruples. He allowed Harlow Ward to do what she did without interfering, yet he couldn’t climb out of his TransAm and pop a son of a bitch like the Taurus guy in the mouth.

“You’re fucked up,” he muttered beneath the roar of his V8. “You’ll burn in hell for the shit you’ve done.”

The music was an instrumental version of Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young.” It was terrible, but Drew was a captive
audience. He found himself tapping his sneaker on scuffed linoleum, singing the lyrics under his breath. The door to the office at the back of the Thriftway finally swung open, and a guy in a pale yellow polo stepped in with a too enthusiastic hello.

“Hi there. Andrew, is it?”

Drew stood and extended his hand with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Andrew Morrison.”

“Nice to meet you, guy. Please...” A motion to the chair Drew had just occupied. “Have a seat.”

The pale yellow polo took a seat behind his desk, upon which a nameplate read, S
TEVEN
C
RYER
, S
TORE
M
ANAGER
. Getting back into the grocery store business turned Drew’s stomach—it felt like he was falling backward rather than moving on to bigger and better things—but this was his best shot at an immediate hire. He had experience—and no time to waste. Scoring a job here would allow him to look for something different between shifts.