The House Across The Street

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “This is the last of the soup,” I said, taking the container to the kitchen table.

  “Oh, there wasn’t even enough for you to join me?” she asked with a disappointed look on her face, noticing I only had one bowl.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking in the long expression on her face.

  “Then just leave it and visit with me for a few minutes. I’ll eat it later.”

  “Okay, but I have company and didn’t plan on staying long.” I had a lot of work to do, but secretly wondered if my anxiousness was me wanting to get back to Jackson.

  “Oh, I noticed a clunker over at your house the last few days. Who’s been staying with you?”

  “My cous … a friend of mine.” I just couldn’t out-and-out lie to her. Not to Mrs. Jenkins. “He has a temporary job in the area and he’s staying with me until his task is completed.” I paused for a moment, knowing she and Mrs. Tuttle talked often. “Mrs. Jenkins, I told Mrs. Tuttle that Jackson – that’s my friend’s name – was my cousin. I was afraid people might talk if they thought I had a guy friend staying with me. It seemed easier to say he was my cousin.” I paused for a moment and then added, “He’s staying on my couch. I hope you understand why I wasn’t truthful with Mrs. Tuttle?” At the same time, there wasn’t any need for her to wonder about my one-bedroom living situation either.

  “Oh, Lordy, of course I do,” she said with a light chortle. “There’s no one who talks more than Iva Tuttle … the whole neighborhood is very aware.”

  “Isn’t it the truth,” I wholeheartedly agreed with a small laugh. “Did she tell you about the noises she’s been hearing?”

  She formed a puzzled look on her face. “Noises … what noises?”

  “Oh, maybe she doesn’t talk quite as much as I thought.” I told her all about the late-night disturbances and our suspicions of there being a body in Mr. Dawson’s garage. “Turned out David Hutchins was only doing a heating repair.” I went into detail about the repair job.

  “Hmm, that’s quite a story. But thank goodness it was explained away. I’d hate to think I was sharing a wall with a murderer.” She shuddered. “Goodness, what a creepy thought.”

  “Did you hear any of the commotion?” Mrs. Jenkins lived to the south of Mr. Dawson, while Mrs. Tuttle lived on the north side. Mr. Dawson shared two interior walls between the two women.

  “Oh, hon, you know I didn’t.” She paused. “And don’t start with me.”

  I smiled at her, knowing exactly what she meant. Mrs. Jenkins, much to my disliking, always removed her hearing aids when she went to bed. Without them, she wouldn’t have heard anything. Often, I feared she might not hear danger or crackling fire or any number of other things she might need to heed in the depths of night.

  “Okay, I’ll give you a pass … but you might want to reconsider—”

  “Rachel!” she screeched, realizing she was about to get another reprimand from me. Then to completely avoid the subject, she asked, “Are you going to the book club meeting on Monday night? Remember, last week it was supposed to be at Betty’s, but I asked to have it here. Now she’s insisting it be at her house.”

  “Of course,” I assured her. When the book club meetings were at Mrs. Jenkin’s, or even at Mrs. Tuttle’s, I usually didn’t attend, knowing Mrs. Jenkins was only right across the street if she needed me. But I generally chauffeured them if it was at someone else’s house. “What’s the book this time?” I asked, thinking I’d have to read it sometime between now and then so I wouldn’t be bored out of my mind during their discussion.

  “The Hotel,” she said, meaning the title, and she gave me the author’s name. “It’s right down your alley. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Okay, I’ll have it read by Monday night.” As if I had the time.

  We talked for a few more minutes and then I told her I needed to get back home.

  “Well thank you again for the soup. I’ll eat it while I watch some of my recorded shows.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you Monday night, if not before.”

  Returning home, I prepared roast beef sandwiches from the leftovers.

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Jackson graciously said as I handed him his lunch, including a side of potato salad and a serving of chips. “You’re truly spoiling me.”

  I smiled, thinking back to when I wouldn’t even heat up a bowl of soup for him. What was happening to me? Once we ate, I dragged myself back to work and Jackson twisted around to continue staring at the Foster house. “I think they’re hibernating,” he griped. “You’d think they would’ve gone somewhere by now.”

  “Well it’s been bitterly cold the last few days. Maybe since the sun has popped through, they’ll venture out this afternoon.”

  “I hope so, because this is getting old.”

  Later in the afternoon, my phone rang. “It’s Catie,” I told Jackson, though I wasn’t sure why I mentioned it to him, other than he’d briefly met her the first day he arrived on my porch.

  “Hello,” I said swiping my phone.

  “Hey, guess what?”

  “Can’t … just tell me.”

  “You’re no fun,” she complained, blowing out an exasperated breath. “Brenna scored six tickets to Four Day Weekend … you know, it’s an improve comedy show.”

  “I’ve been there before,” I said, remembering a lifetime ago when Richard and I had fun together. “It’s funny as heck.”

  “Good, then I’m counting you in.”

  “Wait, who all is going?” I asked trying to picture in my mind the possible six, thinking it had damned sure better not include Richard.

  “Brenna has a date with the client she was raving about. They’ve wrapped up his case.” She took in a breath. “So those two, then me and Bradley, and then there’s you.”

  She made me feel like a third wheel … or fifth wheel in this case, leaving me with absolutely no desire to tag along with two couples. “Oh, gosh, I really appreciate the offer, but I’m working. You know … tax season.”

  She growled through the phoneline. “Brenna said you’d use work as an excuse. I have a bet that I can talk you into going. What do you say? Will you make my winning streak two for two?”

  I giggled, remembering she and Brenna had bet ten bucks that I didn’t have a client last Tuesday when I had left early from lunch. While I hated for Catie to lose money to Brenna, I didn’t want to tag along with them. “I’m sorry. I actually have company right now, and just can’t make it.”

  Jackson spun around in his chair and glared at me, whispering, “I’m not company. If you’ve been invited out, don’t hold back on my account.”

  “Oh, who?” Catie pried.

  “Uh…” How could I explain my so-called client was still here? If he were truly a client, he’d merely pick up his tax return, pay me and then leave. It wouldn’t interfere with evening plans. And I certainly couldn’t change him to now being my cousin.

  “Mm-hmm, just what I thought … no one is there. You know Rachel, I hate to push you, but since you’ve convinced me that you and Richard are over, then it’s time for you to get back out there. You can’t keep hiding in your little house. It’s not healthy. Come and go with us. It’ll be fun.”

  My stomach twisted at the thought of “getting back out there.” It was too hard. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. Then suddenly I had an idea. “Hang on a second,” I told Catie. Placing the phone on mute, I turned my attention to Jackson. “Would you like to accompany me to a comedy show tonight?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?” Jackson said bluntly, a huge grin forming on his face.

  “No! I said accompany … not date. You’d be going as my friend.”

  He dramatically pouted, sticking his bottom lip way out. “Wow, I thought I meant something to you … at least more than just being a friend. I’m crushed.”

  “You big jerk, will you go, or do you have to work?”

  “Oh, I’m going. You can count on it … but only if I get a big kiss when I
walk you to the door after our date.”

  “No way,” I said shaking my head to the point my hair was flying around. “Besides, I’m not the type to kiss on the first date. You’d have to woo me for at least three outings.” In the back of my mind, I remembered how desperately I had wanted Richard to kiss me after our first date and when he did, I melted into a puddle, unable to believe my good luck at meeting such a handsome, well-mannered, doctor-to-be. No, there would be no kissing tonight. “Just friends and I mean it,” I grouched at Jackson.

  “Yeah, we’ll see. I’ll bet you’ll be begging me to kiss you by the end of the night.”

  “So, you’re going?” I posed and then firmly added, “As my friend?”

  He dramatically sighed. “Yeah, I suppose I owe you for those meals you’ve cooked.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and he smiled back. “Catie,” I addressed. “I’m coming and I’ll bring a friend.”

  “A date,” Jackson loudly voiced in the background. I sneered at him and he grinned again.

  “Oh, really?” Catie said doubtfully.

  “Yes, a friend,” I reiterated, giving Jackson a scornful look. “What time shall we meet?” I quickly asked before she delved into the identity of my companion. And suddenly I wondered what my friends would think of my bringing Jackson … even as a friend.

  “Six-thirty, in the lobby.”

  “We’ll be there,” I said with questionable enthusiasm.

  “Okay, see you then.”

  After hanging up, I glanced at the clock. I had about an hour more to work and then I needed to get ready. It seemed the day had flown by.

  “Am I supposed to dress up?” Jackson asked.

  “No, I wouldn’t think so. Not like coat and tie. Do you have any dressier pants? I’m sure Bradley will be wearing Dockers.”

  Jackson looked down at his worn jeans and frowned. “I need to run an errand.” Before I could utter a word, he was out the door and in his car. At first, I thought he was only selecting from the closet of clothes he carried in his car. But moments later, I heard his old car sputter to life, and, in a flash, he drove off, forgetting all about watching the neighbors.

  Forty-five minutes later, while I kept my eyes glued to the Foster house, scared to death they would make a move while he was gone, Jackson pulled up to the curb and bounded out. He was carrying a department store sack and whistling a tune.

  “I’ll look my Sunday best,” he told me coming in the door and rattling the sack at me.

  “You didn’t have to go the extra mile. I’m sure your jeans would’ve been fine.” Admittedly I was thankful, not that I cared, but I knew Brenna was overly judgmental. However, secretly I hoped he would trim his facial hair somewhat.

  He ripped into the packaging containing a long-sleeved, navy blue shirt and began removing cardboard forms and pins. He fluffed out the shirt, exposing a multitude of wrinkles. Digging back into his bag, he brought out a pair of black dress trousers and pulled off the tags. Unfolding them, they too showed considerable wrinkling. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, freaking out at the sight of them.

  “Let me have them. I have a fool-proof method.” Jackson watched as I dampened a bath towel and tossed it in the dryer along with his clothes. Setting the timer for five minutes on medium heat, I told him. “Don’t worry, as the towel dries it will create steam which in turn will remove the creases in the fabric.”

  “Shit, I hope so,” he said with a worried frown.

  Five minutes later, his clothes looked perfect. “Thanks Rachel,” he said heading for the back room. “I’ll go change. Also, while I was out and about, I called my friend Rob to cover the Foster house for me. Would you mind if he stayed in your house while we’re out on our date? If you’re not comfortable, he’s already agreed to watch from his truck.”

  I knew the evening temperature would drop and since I had shanghaied Jackson into going with me, I acquiesced. “Okay, he can stay inside … but Jackson, this is not a date.”

  “Thank you again, Rachel.” He took a few steps down the hallway and turned back to me. “I’m really looking forward to our date.” Then he turned his back to me and scurried down the hall, closing the door to the back room.

  “It’s not a date,” I yelled back at him at the top of my lungs.

  My God, I had a date tonight, I thought to myself.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jackson

  My God, I have a date tonight, I think to myself as I kick off my jeans and yank my sweatshirt over my head and throw it on the floor. I feel my lips stretching with a broad smile and my heart is going pitter-patter. Try as I might, I can’t recall the last real date I went on. It’s not that I have any problems getting dates. When I’m cleaned up, girls usually throw themselves at me. And I like girls too. Well, I like sex … lots of sex. But for a while now, I haven’t been interested in dating. I guess that’s why Veronica is still living with me. She’s convenient and so very willing to please me. She’s safer too because since I’m footing all her bills, she isn’t hooking … and, as she tells it, it was her first night ever when I busted her john. So, I tell myself she’s not too tainted.

  While I have had many, MANY, girls, Rachel is … hmm. I’m not sure. She’s beautiful and bright and thoughtful. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever had the opportunity to be with. She’s different. Okay, she’s better than me. In the circles I normally run in, I’m considered a hunk. But I’m nothing like Rachel’s well-educated, rich, doctor-husband. I’m beneath her caliber and it surprised me to no end when she, SHE, asked me on a date. Okay, she asked me as a friend. But I feel like I’m making progress. Honestly, I do believe I’m wearing her down.

  Once I’ve pulled on my new, pleasantly freshened duds, I go down the hall to the living room, looking for approval from Rachel. “Well?” I ask standing in front of her with my hands held up in a ta-da motion.

  “You look very nice,” she says without much emotion.

  I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm. Something like, “My God, you look incredibly handsome” would’ve been better. “Are you sure?” My self-doubt blooms and I look down to assess myself. I even check to make sure my zipper is up.

  “Stop worrying. You look fine,” she assures me.

  I frown. She has not instilled any self-confidence whatsoever. “I hope so,” I mumble under my breath, wondering if she is second-guessing my accompanying her. Maybe she has rethought her socialite status and fears I will not fit in with her friends. But wait, I’ve met Catie. As far as I know, she is a stay-at-home mom. Oh, but wait again, I don’t know anything about her husband. “Catie, your friend, what does her husband do … Bradley you said?”

  “He’s a software engineer,” she provides.

  Dammit, that sounds technical and probably pays more than an undercover officer. “What about Brenna’s date?”

  She puts a puzzled look on her face. “Oh, I don’t know. Brenna is an attorney at Carlson & Carlson. Her date was a client but, according to Catie, they have handled his case.”

  An attorney. I don’t like the sound of that either. And right away, I imagine her date having sought her out to handle some million-dollar corporate venture. “What about Catie?” I ask hoping I’m right about her at least.

  She is slightly distracted, organizing her purse, and taking out some of the items she must think she doesn’t need tonight. “She works from home … as a graphic designer,” she answers me.

  Well dammit. So now things are in perspective … a software engineer, an attorney, a graphic designer, and a corporate asshole, oh, and of course there’s Rachel as a CPA. “What’s my profession tonight?” I dare to ask since I don’t want to blow my cover.

  She shrugs. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about it. What do you want to be?”

  “Well certainly not your out-of-work, scumbag cousin from Oklahoma.”

  “No, of course not,” she says with a laugh. “How about being an artist?”

  “Artists don’t make any money,” I
grouse. “Tell them I’m a movie production expert with Mercury Studios. Make sure to stress it’s a premier video production company in Irving, Texas.” In my head, I imagine they will all be jealous of this career. I may drop some starlets’ names just to watch their mouths drop open.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you sure you can pull off something so elaborate? What if they want a tour of the studio, or ask you what movie you’re currently working on? Or what actors are on the set. Any profession in the movie industry could bring up a lot of questions, especially from Bradley if he thinks you’re an inside avenue for any of his software programs.”

  “Piece of cake,” I tell her, hoping like hell I can do some quick online research, because I don’t have a damned clue about any of the stuff she just mentioned.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “I’ll let you explain your own profession then.”

  It pains me to think she doesn’t have faith in my abilities, but then again, even I don’t. “You know what, Rachel? Let’s just go with what I told Mrs. Tuttle … that I’ve applied for a position with the Fort Worth Police Department. I’ll tell them I was previously employed as a police officer in Oklahoma, but now I’m relocating to Texas.”

  “I think it’s a much better idea,” she wholeheartedly agrees.

  And now after thinking about it, I agree too. After all, when Rachel and I become an item, it would be much harder to keep up my façade in the movie production expert field … whatever that really is. It’s better to stay within my real profession, simply keeping my undercover job out of the limelight.

  Rachel goes to her room to get ready. I find myself so excited … well, not to be with her friends, mind you, but I like the thought of being with Rachel. When she comes back in the room, she has freshened her makeup, curled her hair, and she is wearing some tight-ass black leggings with a creamy sweater. She has an expensive-looking tweed jacket with creams and blacks, and she has on a pair of black, knee-high boots. My God, I think as I drag my gaze down her body and then back to her soft blue eyes. I like everything I see. There is nothing calling for improvement. She is perfect in every respect. “You look absolutely beautiful,” I tell her, and she beams a smile at me. See, that is how you do it … not “You look very nice,” which she previously said to me.