The House Next Door Read online

  At two fifteen, everything is cooked, cooling, coming to room temperature, or marinating. I go upstairs to get dressed. Then there’s another text from Vince: Positive you don’t need anything?

  Other than a Xanax, no.

  Darcy and her husband, Jake, are the first to arrive. She shows up carrying a hand-stenciled basket filled with flowers from her garden.

  “So where’s the guest of honor?” she asks.

  “He’ll be here,” I say.

  Darcy smiles and says, “I’m sure he will.”

  Coach Mike arrives next, carrying a case of Coors. Mike has been divorced for years. Should I have asked him if he wanted to bring a plus-one? Well, too late now.

  Mike shakes hands with Jake and Darcy. He hasn’t seen them since their son, Alex, graduated a few years ago.

  “He likes Stanford?” Mike asks.

  “Loves it,” says Darcy.

  Then I hear the gate open again. I take a deep breath.

  Vinny runs onto the deck first. “Where’s Ben?” he asks. I direct him down to the basement, where Ben and his video games are.

  Then Vince appears. He looks like he just got out of the shower. His hair is wet and slicked back. He’s wearing the typical suburban dad uniform: a yellow J. Crew tee, jeans, and Docksides. He’s carrying a shopping bag.

  “Everybody—this is Vince,” I say. “Vince, this is Darcy and Jake, your neighbors on the other side. Mike: meet the man behind all those great snacks. And that’s Ned over there—the guy bent over the grill.” Ned waves.

  “You’re the lady who left those delicious brownies,” Vince says to Darcy. “So sorry. I meant to send you a thank-you note but…”

  “No worries,” she says, with a ladylike brush of her hand. “I’m sure you’ve had enough to do. How are you liking it here in our neck of the woods?”

  They begin a conversation about real estate, shopping, traffic, kids, sports, Vinny, and schools. Ned is busy at the grill, and everybody seems nice and civil to everybody else. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m about to excuse myself to go into the kitchen when Vince pulls something out of the shopping bag he’s holding.

  “Almost forgot,” he says. He hands me two bottles of Médoc. “I brought you some of that wine you like.”

  My eyes dart over to Ned, hunched over the grill. Has he heard this? For a moment I imagine him outraged, incensed, seething with jealousy.

  But no. Ned is happily fanning the barbecue fire, stirring the charcoal, and not paying attention to any of us.

  Okay, I dodged one bullet. I excuse myself and go into the kitchen again to check on the pies. I’m there just a moment when I sense someone behind me. I turn around. It’s Vince.

  “I need a corkscrew,” he says, waving one of the bottles. I turn away, furious at myself for blushing at the word “screw.” I point to the drawer where the silverware is kept. “Ned seems like a great guy,” he says. Why does he say that? All Ned did was wave.

  “Yes, he is,” I say. I don’t know what else to add. Having him here in my kitchen is making me nervous. Fortunately, he seems to sense this. He heads back out, corkscrew in hand.

  As I go outside with a second platter of hors d’oeuvres—sliced salami wrapped around cream cheese and chives, toasted mushroom puffs, a wedge of brie—I see the conversation has gotten around to what people do for a living. Darcy is talking about her artwork, her stenciling, her oil painting. Ned shares the pressures of being responsible for other people’s money. Vince nods politely to all of them. Then Jake mentions that he’s a cardiologist.

  Suddenly, Vince leans forward in his chair, intrigued.

  “I’ve never been to a cardiologist,” he says. “And I suppose I should. My dad died of a heart attack when he was barely sixty.”

  “How long ago was that?” Jake asks.

  “Oh—thirty years, give or take.”

  “Was that his first heart attack?” Jake asks.

  “No. He suffered from angina. What I remember most is how he carried those little nitroglycerin tablets around with him and put one under his tongue any time he felt a tingle.”

  “They don’t use them much anymore,” Jake says.

  “Do you think I should be—what? Checked? Tested?”

  “That’s always wise, with your family history. Give my office a call, first thing tomorrow. Tell my secretary I said to fit you in.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” Vince says. His hair has dried in the sun at this point, and he looks…cute. That curl has fallen into his face as it usually does, and he keeps brushing it back with his fingers.

  Like a nervous hummingbird, I dart back into the kitchen. As I’m putting some bowls in the sink, Darcy appears.

  “So?” I ask. “What do you think?”

  “Delicious,” she says. I turn around and see she has taken a fork and dipped it into the potato salad.

  “I meant, what do you think of Vince.”

  “I know you did,” she says. Suddenly, she turns serious.

  “Okay. He’s charming. I’ll give you that,” she says. “But I still don’t like it.”

  “Because…?”

  “Because if I was lying in a hospital somewhere, I’d like to know my husband was missing me, or thinking of me, or feeling guilty that he’s at a party without me.”

  Darcy frowns.

  “And not charming the pants off his new neighbor.”

  I desperately need to change the subject.

  “Jake seems quiet,” I say. “Is everything okay with you guys?”

  “With us—sure,” she says. “But he’s preoccupied. He’s in the middle of a big malpractice suit.”

  “Oh, my God,” I say.

  “Some patient is suing. Claims Jake made a mistake in surgery, and now he can’t work. Jake says it’s all bullshit. But until it’s resolved, it’s hanging over his head and he’s a nervous wreck. Anyway, it’s all kind of hush-hush. Frankly, I kind of wish he would tell someone about it, just to get it off his chest. He said he was gonna ask the guys’ advice today.”

  I look out the kitchen window. Jake is talking. Vince and Mike listen, deep in thought.

  “Looks like he’s doing that now,” I say.

  Just then we hear Ned yell, “Dinner is served.”

  Chapter 18

  We’re ready to eat. We all take our seats around the gray wood picnic table.

  “To the end of summer,” Ned says, holding up his glass. There’s a lot of clinking, and I am beginning to relax inside. No cause for alarm after all.

  As we finish eating, Joey appears on the deck. He says hi to Darcy, Jake, and Mike. I introduce him to Vince.

  “Nice to meet you, son,” Vince says, shaking his hand. “You’re what now: a junior? How old are you?”

  “Seventeen next week,” Joey says.

  “And he’ll be going for his driver’s license,” Ned adds.

  “Ah. The classic rite of passage,” Vince says. “I remember when I first got mine. I was fifteen. Of course, the rules in Iowa were very different then.”

  Iowa?

  He sees the surprised look on my face. “My grandparents owned a farm there,” he says. “In those days, you could get a junior license at fifteen if you lived more than a mile from school.”

  “Hard to believe you’re getting your license,” Darcy says to Joey. “First time I met you, your mom was carrying you around in a Snugli.”

  “I bet you’re pretty good with computers,” Vince says. “Unlike us old folks.”

  “You bet,” I say. “We think of him as our live-in IT guy.”

  “Y’know, Joey, if you’ve got the time, I could use some help setting up a new piece of software I just got. You familiar with Excel? Spreadsheets?”

  “Sure,” Joey says, circling around the table and filling his plate.

  Why does this please me? Why does it make me nervous?

  “That would be great. The company wants me to switch over from my old bookkeeping method, and I don’t think I can mast
er it on my own. I’d pay you, of course,” he adds. “So you can start saving up for your own car.”

  “Cool,” Joey says. He takes his plate and heads back inside.

  “Perfect steaks, Ned,” Mike says, sitting back in his chair.

  “And great day for a barbecue,” Jake adds.

  “It was,” Mike says. “But it looks like it’s about to rain.” Mike is right. The sky has turned a dark gray.

  “Maybe we should head inside for dessert?” I say.

  Just then, there’s a crack of thunder and a few drops of rain. Then, suddenly, it’s pouring. Hard silver drops slash against the deck. Ned runs around grabbing the cushions. Darcy, Jake, and Mike gather up the remaining plates and platters and bottles. I hold open the screen door as everyone rushes in and out. I get drenched in the process.

  “I’ve got to close the windows upstairs,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you,” Vince says. Before I can protest, he’s following me up the stairs, to the second floor.

  By the time we get there, rain has already soaked a small part of the carpet. Vince moves quickly, slamming the windows shut in the hall bathroom, the boys’ rooms, and Caroline’s room.

  Last stop: my bedroom.

  We walk inside. He stands there for a moment, taking it all in: the lace curtains, the cream-colored duvet on the bed, the antique French mirror over the dressing table.

  “Nice,” he says. Nice? Does he mean the room? The afternoon? Being there with me? All of the above?

  He looks around and sees my red lace nightgown hanging on the closet door. Then he looks at me and laughs.

  “Well now,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to adjust my fantasies.”

  A small shiver passes through me.

  Slowly, quietly, as if he has all the time in the world, he walks across the carpet and closes the window on my side of the bed. Then the one on Ned’s side.

  “A California king-size bed,” he says. “You and Ned like that?”

  “Yeah, most of the time,” I say. “Sometimes it feels…I dunno…too big. A little…”

  “Lonely?”

  I say nothing. But Vince speaks.

  “You don’t know what lonely means until…you know…with my wife gone…”

  There is a crackle of thunder behind him. Then a bolt of lightning that lights up the room. For a split second, he is backlit, a lone figure standing in the rain on the Yorkshire moors. He is Heathcliff.

  And I am his Catherine.

  He takes a step toward me. With a finger, he lifts my chin.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “You never have to be afraid of me.”

  He runs his hand through my hair. Then down my ear. And across my neck. He is tender. Oh, so very tender.

  I freeze. Time stops. The moment seems to go on forever.

  But then, with the back of his hand, he leans in and gently wipes a few raindrops off my cheek. I am relieved. Or heartbroken. Maybe a little of both.

  Then we both head downstairs, as if nothing has happened.

  Chapter 19

  The shop was called Gussied Up. That was the first thing that annoyed Marlene.

  Gussied Up sounded cute and fun. But the gowns they sold there were elegant and expensive—ridiculously expensive. Way more than what Marlene and her husband paid in rent.

  The women who came in and tried them on and admired themselves in the store mirror rarely looked at the price tags. That annoyed Marlene, too. But she was in no position to say anything.

  She needed a job. They needed the money.

  When a man came into the store, Marlene and the other salesgirls were instructed to fawn over him. Offer a glass of champagne. Direct him to a chair where he could sit and watch his wife—girlfriend? mistress?—try on gowns and twirl for his amusement. Women with men always spent more, she was told.

  And men alone spent the most.

  So when Marlene sees the man walk in, she rushes to his side, picturing a big, juicy commission. He is nice-looking. Early forties, she guesses. Nice smile. He eyes a rack of fancy cocktail dresses.

  “May I help you find something?” she asks.

  “I’m looking for a gift for a lovely lady,” he says. “I want her to know just how lovely…by getting her something special.”

  He is such a gentleman. Marlene sparks to him immediately.

  “Were you thinking of a gown?” she asks.

  “Probably not the best idea. I don’t know her size.”

  “We have some lovely handbags and scarves,” Marlene says, gesturing to a display against the wall. “Does she have a favorite designer?”

  But the man is shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know her that well.”

  He thinks for a moment.

  “I have an idea,” he says. “Why don’t you show me the thing you like most in the store.”

  Marlene smiles. She knows exactly what she should show him.

  She uses her key to open a glass counter, and pulls out a gold metal belt, studded with green and blue emerald-cut rhinestones, and decorated with sterling and gold filigree. “It’s a one-of-a-kind Art Deco piece,” she says.

  She stretches it out on the counter. “It was custom-made for a very wealthy woman,” she says, holding it up so he can get a closer look at the French pavé settings.

  “Is it gold?” he asks.

  “Pinchbeck,” she says. “A kind of gold alloy invented in the eighteenth century. But the buckle part is eighteen karat. Magnificent, isn’t it.”

  “Yes,” the man says. He looks at the price tag. Marlene assumes he will flinch or decline graciously. He does neither.

  “This is perfect,” he says.

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Please,” he says. “Call me Vince.”

  “All right then…Vince,” Marlene says. She clips the price tag off, then gently rolls the belt into a circle and wraps it in silver tissue paper.

  To her shock, he reaches into his pocket and pays with cash. She has never seen that much cash before.

  “Have you been working here long?” he asks, as she puts the belt in a large gold box.

  She cuts off a long piece of gold and silver ribbon and begins to make a bow.

  “No. Just a few months.”

  “I get it. Looking for something to do with your downtime.”

  She laughs. “Not quite. I needed…” She stops mid-sentence. She doesn’t know how much to tell this man, but he seems so kind. “My husband has been ill for a while.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.” He frowns.

  “Well—he’s on disability. But…” She stops herself again. If the shop owner knew she was talking to a customer about herself, she wouldn’t like it.

  “Does he intend to go back to work?”

  “Yes. Eventually,” she says.

  “But not until the lawsuit is settled.”

  Marlene snaps her head around. Suddenly, she feels very afraid.

  “What…?!”

  “I mean—that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it, Marlene?” Vince continues.

  How does he know her name?

  “Your husband is a deadbeat. Always was. Even before the surgery. Missing days. Calling in sick a lot. One of those guys who’s always looking for a free ride. Am I right?”

  A chill goes through her. Who is this man? What does he want from her?

  “You know,” the man continues, “insurance companies are onto people like you. Filing false claims. Making false accusations. It really isn’t right, how you can ruin a good doctor’s life with just one little lie.”

  “No!” Marlene says, her voice starting to crack. “It’s not like that! That surgeon made a mistake! My lawyer says…”

  “Marlene. Please!” Vince holds up his hand. “Do not insult my intelligence by referring to that ambulance-chasing brother-in-law of yours as an attorney, when both of us know the truth.”

  She has finished wrapping the belt. She hands it to him. She is cl
ose to tears.

  “What do you want?” she asks. She can barely get the words out.

  “I want you to tell your husband to withdraw his case,” he says.

  “I don’t think I…”

  He leans in and grabs her wrist. She winces.

  “Go home. Tell him a man came into the store and gave you a deal. A simple trade. He drops the case, and he gets to keep…the thing he loves most.”

  He is still holding on to her wrist. “That seems fair, doesn’t it? I think you understand what I’m saying.”

  Marlene can hardly speak. She is shaking so much. She nods. He lets go of her wrist and turns to go.

  “By the way,” he says, turning back. “You can keep this, too.” He hands her the wrapped package. “Consider it your very generous settlement.”

  He laughs. Then he walks out the door.

  Chapter 20

  It’s been over a week since the barbecue. Vince has written me several texts and emails.

  Laura, I miss u.

  Where r u?

  Come on, girl. We have to talk.

  Do we?

  Not until I figure out what I want to say.

  Yet I can’t help checking my messages twenty times a day, to see how desperate he’s getting. How much he misses me. How much he wants to see me again. I’m like a lovesick schoolgirl with her first crush. And it feels…well, exciting. Before Vince, most of my messages said things like “Teacher needs to see you.”

  Or “Working late 2nite. Asshole client.”

  Suddenly, I hear honking outside my door. It starts out slowly, then gets more insistent. Someone is leaning on a horn, full blast. What the hell…?

  I go to the door, determined to yell at whoever is creating such a racket. I should have known. I see Vince’s car. The honking stops.

  Vince rolls down the window and waves. Shit.

  I walk to his car, unsure of how to play this.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  He is not smiling. “You know,” he says quietly, “I don’t like to be ignored.”

  Something doesn’t feel right. But then he laughs, and he’s the old Vince again. The angry voice is just a tease.

  “You’re a tough lady to reach,” he says, turning on the charm. “Didn’t you get my messages?”