So what did I have to lose by bringing a fabulous home-cooked meal to my new neighbor? Absolutely nothing. I gripped the basket a little tighter and strode out before I had a chance to change my mind again.
I couldn’t tell whether or not he was home. I’d seen a dark sedan in the driveway earlier, and I assumed it belonged to him. The driveway was empty now, but it could have been in the garage attached to the house. I walked up the pavers that led to his front door and rang the bell without giving myself a second chance to over think this.
For a few moments, the house remained quiet. There wasn’t any sound of stirring, no muffled noise of a television or footsteps. I was just about to leave the basket on the porch when the door swung open. I jumped back, my heart pounding in surprise.
“Can I help you?” The voice was a little less strained, a little deeper than I remembered it being this morning. But stop the presses, because the voice was the least of my focus. In the brighter light of late afternoon, the guy who’d seemed vaguely attractive while standing in the shadows was actually smoking hot. Dark blond hair looked like it was on the verge of needing to be cut, with a few wavy bits falling just above wide brown eyes. There was something about those eyes, some emotion I couldn’t read. Caution that was nearly wariness overshadowed his expression, as his mouth tightened and his jaw clenched. He glanced over my shoulder, as though he were looking for something else. Or someone else.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, no, I can help you. Eat. Food. I brought you food. Dammit!” I swallowed and started over. “Hi, I’m your next door neighbor. I wanted to say welcome to the block. And I brought you dinner.” I hefted the basket and thrust it forward.
His nose twitched. “It smells. . .delicious. Thanks, uh. . .” His voice trailed off, and he raised one eyebrow.
“Jackie.” I juggled the basket, and he grabbed it from me, setting it down just inside the doorway. “Jackie O’Brien.”
“Hello, Jackie.” His lips quirked up on one side, and a dimple popped out on his left cheek. “Nice to meet you. I’m Lucas Reilly.”
“I know.” God almighty, what the hell was wrong with me? I sounded like a smarmy seven-year-old. “I heard the movers this morning call you Mr. Reilly. And news travels fast around here. Your realtor has loose lips.”
Lucas rolled those captivating eyes. “Yeah, she gave me the third degree. I figured all the info would make the rounds.” He glanced over my shoulder, an anxious frown on his face and then forced his attention back to me. He leaned one forearm against the door jam, and beneath the tight green T-shirt, I could see the flex of muscles. Nice. “Uh, so. . .what’s for dinner?”
“Cock au vin.” My mouth had apparently decided to act independently of my brain today. “I mean, coq au vin. Sorry. It’s the name of the recipe. Silly, I know, but some of these cookbooks are just ridiculous.”
“So, chicken, huh?” Lucas sniffed again. “And lots of garlic.”
I shrugged. “A little, not a lot, I’d say. Why? Don’t you like garlic?”
He hesitated. “I used to. But lately it makes me sick.”
Fabulous. “Sorry. I guess I should’ve checked with you before I cooked. I’ve never heard of a garlic allergy.”
He held up a hand. “No, really. How could you’ve known? It’s fine if I don’t eat the cloves themselves. I think, anyway. Like I said, it’s kind of a new, uh, symptom. I appreciate it, really.”
“Okay.” There was pause, a silence chock full of awkward, which was my cue for more blurting out words. “I’m a writer, too.”
“Oh, really?” He smiled, focusing on me, and ooh-la-la, there was that dimple again. “I guess the realtor let that slip, too. About me writing a book, I mean.”
“Yeah, she did. That’s really cool.”
“So what do you write? Jackie O’Brien. . .I don’t know your name off the top of my head. Or do you use a pseudonym?”
“No, I don’t. And I haven’t actually published a book. Not yet. I’m a columnist for Food International.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawned on his face. “So the cooking. . .” He pointed down to the basket. “The writing and the cooking go together for you?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing. I review cookbooks by making a few of the recipes in them, and then I talk about how easy or difficult it is for the average cook to translate the meals in their own kitchens.” I grinned. “Full disclosure: your meal tonight is going to show up on the magazine’s web page next week. You know, two birds, one stone.”
“One chicken, in this case.” Lucas smiled, too, and I had to get a grip on myself to keep from melting into a puddle right there on his front porch. I struggled for something witty to say.
“Sorry about my dog this morning. He’s never taken off like that. At least, not first thing in the morning. I usually keep him on a leash if we’re outside, but I’m not used to anyone being over here. No one has lived here for a while.”
He nodded. “No big deal. I like dogs. Just glad he didn’t get run over by the moving men.”
“Nah, only crushed by their derision.” I smirked when Lucas tilted his head. “You know, they said he wasn’t much of a dog.”
“Oh, did they? Well, those two weren’t exactly the Westminster Kennel Club. Hell, they weren’t even the greatest movers.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You should see how much broken crap I have now, thanks to them.”
“Moving sucks.” Standing on the stoop was getting awkward, and I shifted to lean against the railing that ran along the edge of the porch. Lucas started to say something, but before I could hear him, the wrought iron creaked and gave way. My balance gave way with it, and for one moment that would be burned into my mind forever, I struggled to keep from falling, arms wind-milling in what must have been a cartoon-like fashion. I lost the battle and tumbled ass-first into one of the overgrown bushes that surrounded the porch.
I lay there for several seconds, hoping that maybe the stupid bush would just swallow me up the rest of the way. It was the only graceful exit open. But when I opened my eyes, I could see Lucas gaping down at me through the green leaves and twisted branches.
“Oh, my God. Are you all right?” He took one step forward and then stopped, his brow wrinkling and his mouth set again, as though he smelled something less-than-pleasant. Or as if he were in pain, which seemed strange, given the fact that I was the one lying in the shrubbery.
“I think so.” I moved my hand until it hit ground and tried to push myself up. “Luckily this bush broke my fall. Ouch!” I winced and lifted my arm, where a thorn had taken up residence.
“Here.” Lucas extended his hand down to me, finally. I took it, not failing to notice the strength in his grip as he hauled me up. His frown deepened as he stared at me, confusion clouding his eyes. He held my fingers between his for a little longer than was necessary, and my heartbeat picked up. It had been a long time since a man had held my hand, and if it took a clumsy dive into the greens to make it happen, I was okay with that now.
Before I could do anything completely irredeemable, like stand on tiptoe to kiss him, Lucas dropped my hand and stepped back. His face had shuttered closed, but I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“Uh, nothing’s broken, right? I’m sorry about that. Myrtle the realtor said something about the rail needing to be replaced, but I completely forgot about it. You’re the first person to come to the front door.”
“Always happy to identify potential hazards.” I rubbed my hip, thinking I was going to have a colorful bruise there by the morning. “I’m sorry I crushed your bush.”
He waved his hand. “Nah, I’ll probably get rid of them anyway. I’m planning to do some work around here, bring it up-to-date a little. I guess I found my first project.”
“Great. Well. . .” I glanced behind him at the door. “I should let you eat your dinner while it’s hot. It still should be. Hot, I mean.” I brushed a few lingering bits of green out of my hair. “And I think I’ll limp home and soa
k my injured pride.”
Lucas smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You made quite a first impression.”
I shook my head. “That’s me. First I run into your backyard in my pajamas, chasing a dog, and then I nosedive into your plants. Bet you can’t wait to see my third act.”
His lips curved up into an almost-leer. “Is that what you were wearing? One of the movers said you had on nothing but a T-shirt and smile.”
I closed my eyes, feeling red creep up my neck. “I had on shorts underneath it. But that’s just great. I’m glad I could give your movers a thrill, too.”
“Hey.” He reached out to lay his hand on my shoulder, but I caught the briefest hesitation in his movement, almost as though he were afraid to touch me. “Really, don’t sweat it.” He dropped his arm and moved back inside the house. “Thanks again for the food. I’ll bring your dishes back, okay?”
“Sure. Enjoy it.” I waited to see if he would step up and invite me inside after all, but he only forced another smile and sketched a wave in my direction before he closed the door.
I turned and made my way across the yard toward my own back door. I didn’t dare look around to see if any of my neighbors were peeking out their windows; my only hope was that no one else had witnessed that little adventure. Of course, it would give them something to talk about tomorrow at book club.
“Yep. I’m not kidding. Ass-over-teakettle into the bushes.” I tucked my feet under me on the sofa and held the phone away from my ear as my friend Leesa howled with laughter.
“Oh, sweetie. . .I’m sorry. I know you must’ve been mortified. But really. . .the mental image is priceless. None of your elder friends got a video of it on her phone?”
I snorted. “Very few of them have mastered the science of using their phones for making calls, let alone for shooting video. No, I think I’m probably safe from showing up on YouTube, thank heavens for small blessings.”
“That’s a shame. It might make you an internet star.”
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” I glanced out the window. The house next door was dark, save for a single light on the porch. I wondered if Lucas had gone to bed early, or if he’d gone out. He didn’t seem like the clubbing type from our brief interaction, but appearances could be deceiving. And maybe he did have a girlfriend down here, after all. Poor Myrtle the realtor wasn’t known for being infallible.
“Jacks, are you there? Hellooooo?” Leesa yodeled into the phone.
“Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?” I shifted so that my back was to the window. I wasn’t going to turn into the nosy next-door neighbor.
“I was asking about the guy. The one you took dinner to before you did the tumble act.”
“Oh, umm. . .” I closed my eyes. “He’s a college professor from New Jersey. Looks about our age, tall, dark blond hair, brown eyes. Oh, and get this, Leese—he’s got a dimple. On his left cheek.”
“Oooh, baby. So basically he’s a hottie. What about his personality? Did he seem cool?”
I frowned. “Yes. Well, mostly. He was fine most of the time, but then he’d go kind of bizarre. Like he was waiting for someone. Tense about something.”
“Hmm.” Leesa put on her suspicious voice. “A girlfriend? A wife?”
“No, I don’t think so. It was more like he was afraid of something.”
“Oh, God, Jacks, maybe he’s in witness protection. He used to be a mobster, and now he’s an informant. You’re living next door to someone who sang like a canary.”
I rolled my eyes. Leesa could tend toward the dramatic now and then. “Right. So he moved to his aunt’s house. Because that’s the last place the hit men would look.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not really his aunt’s house. That’s just his cover.”
“Maybe. Or. . .” I played with a loose thread on the seam of the couch. “He said something to the movers this morning about having to lie down. He stayed inside when Makani ran over there and just talked to them through the door. Oh, and tonight he said he couldn’t eat garlic, that it’s a new symptom. Could he be sick? Like one of those mystery illnesses, where he’s got to stay away from people?”
“Or maybe he got bitten by a radioactive spider, and he’s afraid to show you his web shooter. Do you want to see his web shooter, Jacks? Did his dimple make you hot for Spidey?”
“Shut up, bitch. What are you, twelve? I’m trying to be serious here.”
“No, you’re obsessing over someone you just met. Talk about middle school. You’re analyzing everything he said and did, just like you did with Joey Crocker in seventh grade, when you were sure you were going to marry him and have tiny Crocker babies.”
I sighed. “Joey Crocker just sold his internet start-up business for a cool six million. I should’ve held out for him, even after he called me Jack O’Lantern.”
“How on earth do you know that?”
“Because it’s on the class Facebook page. You know, the one you’re too good to mess with, so you just get all your news from me. Someone posted a link to an article in the Journal.”
“Huh.” Leesa’s interest was minimal and short-lived.
I heard the shuffle of papers through the phone. “Are you at work?”
“Maybe.”
“You are. At eight-thirty at night.”
“You don’t make partner by going home at five.”
“You need to get a life.”
“I’m not the only one, toots. When’s the last time you went any place but the grocery store?”
I huffed out a breath. “I went out to lunch at Leone’s on Monday.”
“By yourself?”
“No.” I let it sit a beat, and then I gave in. “With Mrs. Mac.”
“That doesn’t count. Jacks, ever since you moved to Florida, you’ve stopped living. Before that even. Since Will. And now you’ve let working at home make you a hermit. You need to get out, go to clubs. Be a strong, confident woman. Meet people. People who don’t remember the Great Depression.”
“I’m not a hermit. And I’m sorry, I think finding out my fiancé was already married should qualify me to take a little recovery time when it comes to dating.” I pressed my lips together. The memory didn’t hurt so much, but I still didn’t like it. “You should come down here, and we’ll go out together. When was your last vacation?”
Leesa sighed. “I had a root canal over lunch five months ago. Does that count?”
“Nope. You have to actually go a whole day without being at the office.”
“Then you should come up here and get some culture. We’ll go to the museums and Bloomingdales and Broadway. C’mon, it’s been way too long since you’ve been home.”
“You sound like my mom and dad. Who, by the way, do come visit me every once in a while, unlike other people I know.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. When I’m named partner, I’m taking three weeks off, and the first thing I’ll do is swing down to the land of the early bird special. But for now, I’ve got to go.”
“Fine. If it turns out my neighbor is a mob informant on the run, and someone rubs me out by mistake, you’ll have to live with the guilt.”
“I’ll try to soldier on. ‘Night, Jacks. Love you.”
“Love you too, Leese.”
I dropped my cell phone on the table next to the sofa and lay my head against the cushion. The house was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. Makani was sprawled out on the tile floor, his little belly heaving up and down with his rapid puppy breaths.
It was too early for bed and too late to do anything else. I picked up the TV remote and flipped through the channels, surfing over endless reruns, news updates and infomercials before I clicked it off with a frustrated sigh.
I let my eyes slide from the blank television screen to the window. Lucas’s house still appeared to be empty. If he’d already gone to sleep, it supported my tragic-illness theory. Poor Myrtle had said he’d left his career as a college professor
to write a book. Maybe it was because he knew his time was limited. He’d come down here, leaving his friends and family behind so they wouldn’t have to watch his steady, inevitable decline. He planned to be alone, to live out his last few months—weeks?—by himself.
But he hadn’t counted on me. I’d be there for him, supplying chicken soup, pots of hot tea, a hand to hold when it all became too much. In my fantasy, whatever he had wasn’t contagious, so hand-holding was okay. We’d both know that if only things were different, if only life were fair, we’d have met under better circumstances and lived happily ever after. It was tragic, but we’d be strong. I’d keep a brave face to the end, and when his eyes closed for the last time, I’d finally let myself weep and whisper the words neither of us had dared to utter. . .I lo—
The doorbell chimed, and I jumped so far I nearly tumbled again, this time off the sofa. I clapped my hand to my heart in true Italian girl fashion, just like my mom and my Nonna always did when they were startled. Genetics did work.
Doorbells after nine in my neighborhood were not a good thing. The last time I’d had a late-night visitor was when Mr. Grover down the street had a stroke and fell in his bath. He’d managed to trigger his life alert alarm, but when the paramedics arrived on the scene, the only the name they could find for his emergency contact was mine. I was the lucky person who got to sit with him in the back of the ambulance and hold his hand as we sped to the hospital. I found out later that most everyone on the block had listed me as the person to be called in case of emergency. Mrs. Mac thought that was completely reasonable.
“Well, dear, you’re younger than us. I could have one of the other neighbors, but what if she dies and I forget to update it? And all my family lives so far away. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Still, I was a woman living alone, and I couldn’t be too careful. If an attacker chose my house to invade, Mrs. Mac wasn’t going to hear me scream, and apparently Lucas wasn’t home to come to my rescue. Plus, there was the whole tragic-illness deal. Although the idea of him saving me at great risk to his fragile health was kind of romantic.
Death Fricassee Page 3