Right Next Door

by Debbie Macomber

  “I’ll give you a lift home,” Alex volunteered.

  “Thanks.” She was already in his debt; one more thing wouldn’t matter.

  Within minutes, they were sitting inside Alex’s car with the heater running full blast. Carol ran her hands up and down her arms to warm them.

  “You’re cold.”

  “I’ll be fine in a minute. If I wasn’t such a slave to fashion,” she said with self-deprecating humor, “I would’ve worn something heavier than this cotton jacket. But it’s the same pale green as my slacks and they go so well together.”

  “You sound just like Jim. It was forty degrees yesterday morning, and he insisted on wearing a shirt from last summer.”

  They smiled at each other, and Carol was conscious of how close they were in the snug confines of Alex’s sports car. Her dark eyes met his warm gray ones. Without warning, the laughter faded from Alex’s lips, and he studied her face. After viewing the damage earlier, Carol knew her hair hung in springy ringlets that resembled a pad used to scrub pots and pans. She’d done the best she could, brushing it away from her face and securing it at the base of her neck with a wide barrette she’d found in the bottom of her purse. Now she was certain the tail that erupted from her nape must be sticking straight out.

  A small lump lodged in her throat, as though she’d tried to swallow a pill without water. “You never did get your dinner, did you?” she asked hastily.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Listen, I owe you. Please…stop somewhere and let me treat you. It’s after nine—you must be starved.” She glanced at her watch and felt a blush heat her cheeks. It’d been longer than she could recall since a man had unsettled her quite this much.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said again. “I’m a big boy. I’ll make myself a sandwich once I get home.”

  “But—”

  “If you insist, you can have me over to eat sometime. All right? When it comes to dinner, Jim and I share the duties. A good home-cooked meal would be welcome.”

  Carol didn’t have any choice but to agree, and she did so by nodding her damp head briskly until she realized she was watering the inside of his car. “Oh, sure, I’d like that.” She considered saying that she came from a large Italian family and was an excellent cook, but that would sound too much like the personal ads her sister-in-law, Paula, insisted on reading to her.

  “You do cook?”

  “Oh, yes.” Once more she held her tongue. Whereas a few moments earlier she’d been cold, now she felt uncomfortably warm. Her hands were clammy and her stomach was filled with what seemed like a swarm of bees.

  They chatted amicably on the rest of the drive to her house. When Alex pulled into her driveway, she turned and smiled at him, her hand on her door handle. “I’m really grateful for all your help.”

  “No problem.”

  “And…I’m sorry about what happened with Bambi.”

  “I’m not,” he said, then chuckled. “I’ll give you a call later, all right? To check on your car….”

  The question seemed to hang between them, heavy with implication. It was the “all right” that told her he was referring to something beyond the state of her car.

  “Okay,” she said almost flippantly, feeling more than a little light-headed.

  “So, tell me about this man who brings color back to my little girl’s cheeks,” Angelina Pasquale said to Carol as she carried a steaming plate of spaghetti to the table.

  Carol’s mother didn’t know how to cook for three or four; it was twelve or fifteen servings for each and every Sunday dinner. Her two older sisters lived in California now, and only Tony and Carol and their families came religiously for Sunday dinner. Her mother, however, continued to cook as if two or three additional families might walk in unannounced for the evening meal.

  “Mama, Alex Preston and I just met last week.”

  “That’s not what Peter said.” The older woman wiped her hands on the large apron tied around her thick waist. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was tucked into a neat bun. She wore a small gold crucifix that had been given to her by Carol’s father forty-two years earlier.

  Carol brought the long loaves of hot bread from the oven. “Alex is Jim’s father. You remember Peter’s friend, don’t you?”

  “He’s not Italian.”

  “I don’t know what he is. Preston might be an English name.”

  “English,” Angelina said as if she was spitting out dirty dishwater. “You gonna marry a non-Italian again?”

  “Mama,” Carol said, silently laughing, “Alex helped me when my car broke down. I owe him dinner, and I insisted on taking him out to repay him. We’re not stopping off at the church to get married on the way.”

  “I bet he’s not even Catholic.”

  “Mama,” Carol cried. “I haven’t the faintest clue where he attends church.”

  “You taking a man to dinner instead of cooking for him is bad enough. But not even knowing if he’s Catholic is asking for trouble.” She raised her eyes as if pleading for patience in dealing with her youngest daughter; when she lowered her gaze, they fell to Carol’s feet. She folded her hands in prayerlike fashion. “You wear pointed-toe shoes for this man?”

  “I didn’t wear these for Alex. I happen to like them—they’re in style.”

  “They’re gonna deform your feet. One day, you’ll trip and end up facedown in the gutter like your cousin Celeste.”

  “Mama, I’m not going to end up in a gutter.”

  “Your cousin Celeste told her mother the same thing, and we both know what happened to her. She had to marry a foot doctor.”

  “Mama, please don’t worry about my shoes.”

  “Okay, but don’t let anyone say your mama didn’t warn you.”

  Carol had to leave the room to keep from laughing. Her mother was the delight of her life. She drove Carol crazy with her loony advice, but Carol knew it was deeply rooted in love.

  “Carol,” Angelina said, surveying the table, “tell everyone dinner’s ready.”

  Peter was in the living room with his younger cousins, who were watching the Dodgers play Kansas City in a hotly contested baseball game.

  “Dinner’s on the table, guys.”

  “Just a minute, Mom. It’s the bottom of the eighth, with two out.” Peter’s intense gaze didn’t waver from the screen. “Besides, Uncle Tony and Aunt Paula aren’t back from shopping yet.”

  “They’ll eat later.” Carol’s brother Tony and his wife had escaped for the afternoon to Clackamas Town Center, a large shopping mall south of Portland, and they weren’t expected back until much later.

  “Just a few more minutes,” Peter pleaded.

  “Mama made zabaglione,” Carol said.

  The television went off in a flash, and four children rushed into the dining room, taking their places at the table like a rampaging herd of buffalo. Peter was the oldest by six years, which gave him an air of superiority over his cousins.

  Sunday dinner at her mother’s was tradition. They were a close-knit family and helped one another without question. Her brother had lent her his second car while hers was being repaired. Carol didn’t know what she’d do without him. She’d have her own car back in a few days, but Tony’s generosity had certainly made her life easier.

  Mama treasured these times with her children and grandchildren, generously offering her love, her support and her pasta. Being close to her family was what had gotten Carol through the difficult years following Bruce’s death. Her parents had been wonderful, helping her while she worked her way through college and the nursing program, caring for Peter when she couldn’t and introducing her to a long list of nice Italian men. But after three years of dealing with Bruce’s mental and physical abuse, she wasn’t interested. The scars from her marriage ran deep.

  “I’ll say grace now,” Angelina said. They all bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

  No one needed any encouragement to dig into the spaghetti drenched in
a sauce that was like no other. Carol’s mother was a fabulous cook. She insisted on making everything from scratch, and she’d personally trained each one of her three daughters.

  “So, Peter,” his grandmother said, tearing off a thick piece from the loaf of hot bread. “What do you think of your mother marrying this Englishman?”

  “Aw, Grandma, it’s not like that. Mr. Preston called and Mom’s treating him to dinner ’cause he gave her a ride home. I don’t think it’s any big deal.”

  “That was what she said when she met your father. ‘Ma,’ she told me, ‘it’s just dinner.’ The next thing I know, she’s standing at the altar with this non-Italian and six months later the priest was baptizing you.”

  “Ma! Please,” Carol cried, embarrassed at the way her mother spoke so freely—although by now she should be used to it.

  “Preston.” Her mother muttered the name again, chewing it along with her bread. “I could accept the man if he had a name like Prestoni. Carol Prestoni has a good Italian ring to it…but Preston. Bah.”

  Peter and Carol exchanged smiles.

  “He’s real nice, Grandma.”

  Angelina expertly wove the long strands of spaghetti around the tines of her fork. “Your mama deserves to meet a nice man. If you say he’s okay, then I have to take your word for it.”

  “Mama, it’s only one dinner.” Carol wished she’d never said anything to her mother. Alex had called the night before, and although he sounded a little disappointed that she wouldn’t be making the meal herself, he’d agreed to let her repay the favor with dinner at a local restaurant Monday night. Her big mistake was mentioning it to her mother. Carol usually didn’t say anything to her family when she was going out on a date. But for some reason, unknown even to herself, she’d mentioned Alex as soon as she’d walked in the door after church Sunday morning.

  “What color eyes does this man have?”

  “Gray,” Carol answered and poured herself a glass of ice water.

  Peter turned to his mother. “How’d you remember that?”

  “I…I just recall they were…that color.” Carol felt her cheeks flush. She concentrated on her meal, but when she looked up, she saw her mother watching her closely. “His eyes are sort of striking,” she said, mildly irritated by the attention her mother and her son were lavishing on her.

  “I never noticed,” Peter said.

  “A boy wouldn’t,” Angelina told him, “but your mother, well, she looks at such things.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, but Carol wasn’t about to claim otherwise.

  As soon as they were finished with the meal, Carol’s mother brought out the zabaglione, a rich sherry-flavored Italian custard thick with eggs. Angelina promptly dished up six bowls.

  “Mama, zabaglione’s high in fat and filled with cholesterol.” Since her father’s death from a heart attack five years earlier, Carol worried about her mother’s health, although she wasn’t sure her concern was appreciated.

  “So zabaglione’s got cholesterol.”

  “But, Mama, cholesterol clogs the veins. It could kill you.”

  “If I can’t eat zabaglione, then I might as well be dead.”

  Smiling wasn’t what Carol should have done, but she couldn’t help it.

  When the dishes were washed and the kitchen counters cleaned, Carol and her mother sat in the living room. Angelina rocked in the chair her mother’s mother had brought from Italy seventy years earlier. Never one for idle hands, she picked up her crocheting.

  It was a rare treat to have these moments alone with her mother, and Carol sat on the sofa, feet tucked under her, head back and eyes closed.

  “When am I gonna meet this Englishman of yours?”

  “Mama,” Carol said with a sigh, opening her eyes, “you’re making me sorry I ever mentioned Alex.”

  “You didn’t need to tell me about him. I would have asked because the minute you walked in the house I could see a look in your eyes. It’s time, my bambina. Peter is growing and soon you’ll be alone.”

  “I…I’m looking forward to that.”

  Her mother discredited that comment with a shake of her head. “You need a husband, one who will give you more children and bring a sparkle to your eyes.”

  Carol’s heart started thundering inside her chest. “I…I don’t think I’ll ever remarry, Mama.”

  “Bah!” the older woman said. A few minutes later, she murmured something in Italian that Carol could only partially understand, but it was enough to make her blush hotly. Her mother was telling her there were things about a man that she shouldn’t be so quick to forget.

  The soft Italian words brought a vivid image to Carol’s mind—an image of Alex holding her in his arms, gazing down at her, making love to her. It shocked her so much that she quickly made her excuses, collected Peter and drove home.

  Her pulse rate hadn’t decreased by the time she arrived back at her own small house. Her mother was putting too much emphasis on her dinner date with Alex…far more than necessary or appropriate.

  As soon as Peter went over to a neighbor’s to play video games, Carol reached for the phone. When voice mail kicked in on the fourth ring, she immediately hung up.

  On second thought, this was better, she decided, and dialed again, planning to leave a message. “You’re a coward,” she muttered as she pushed down the buttons.

  Once more the recorded message acknowledged her call. She waited for the greeting, followed by a long beep.

  “Hello…Alex, this is Carol…Carol Sommars. About our dinner date Monday night…I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel. Something…has come up. I apologize that thisissuchshortnotice. Bye.” The last words tumbled together in her haste to finish.

  Her face was flushed, and sweat had beaded on her upper lip as she hung up the phone. With her hand on the receiver, she slowly expelled her breath.

  Her mother was right. Alex Preston was the one man who could bring the light back into her eyes, and she’d never been more frightened in her life.

  Three

  Carol’s hand remained closed around the telephone receiver as she heaved in a giant breath. She’d just completed the most cowardly act of her life.

  Regretting her actions, she punched out Alex’s phone number again, and listened to the recorded message a third time while tapping her foot. At the beep, she paused, then blurted out, “I hope you understand…I mean…oh…never mind.” With that, she replaced the receiver, pressed her hand over her brow, more certain than ever that she’d just made a world-class idiot of herself.

  Half an hour later, Carol was sorting through the dirty clothes in the laundry room when Peter came barreling into the house.

  He paused in the doorway, watching her neatly organize several loads. “Hey, Mom, where’s the TV guide?”

  “By the television?” she suggested, more concerned about making sure his jeans’ pockets were empty before putting them in the washer.

  “Funny, Mom, real funny. Why would anyone put it there?”

  Carol paused, holding a pair of dirty jeans to her chest. “Because that’s where it belongs?” she said hopefully.

  “Yeah, but when’s the last time anyone found it there?”

  Not bothering to answer, she dumped his jeans in the washing machine. “Did you look on the coffee table?”

  “It’s not there. It isn’t by the chair, either.”

  “What are you so keen to watch, anyway? Shouldn’t you be doing your homework?”

  “I don’t have any…well, I do, but it’s a snap.”

  Carol threw another pair of jeans into the churning water. “If it’s so easy, do it now.”

  “I can’t until Jim gets home.”

  At the mention of Alex’s son, Carol hesitated. “I…see.”

  “Besides, it’s time for wrestling, but I don’t know what channel it’s on.”

  “Wrestling?” Carol cried. “When did you become interested in that?”

  “Jim introduced me to it.
I know it looks phony and stuff, but I get a kick out of those guys pounding on each other and the crazy things they say.”

  Carol turned and leaned against the washer, crossing her arms. “Personally I’d rather you did your homework first, and if there’s any time left over you can watch television.”

  “Of course you’d prefer that,” Peter said. “You’re a mom—you’re supposed to think that way. But I’m a kid, and I’d much rather watch Mr. Muscles take on Jack Beanstalk.”

  Carol considered her son’s argument for less than two seconds. “Do your homework.”

  Peter sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Reluctantly he headed toward his bedroom.

  With the wash taken care of, Carol ventured into the backyard, surveying her neatly edged flower beds. Besides perennials, she grew Italian parsley, basil and thyme and a few other herbs in the ceramic pots that bordered her patio. One of these days she was going to dig up a section of her lawn and plant an honest-to-goodness garden.

  “Mom…” Peter was shouting her name from inside the house.

  She turned, prepared to answer her son, when she saw Alex walk out the back door toward her. Her heart did a somersault, then vaulted into her throat and stayed there for an uncomfortable moment.

  “Hello, Alex,” she managed to say, suspecting that her face had the look of a cornered mouse. She would gladly have given six months’ mortgage payments to remove her messages from his voice mail. It wasn’t easy to stand there calmly and not run for the fence.

  “Hello, Carol.” He walked toward her, his gaze holding hers.

  He sounded so…relaxed, so calm, but his eyes were a different story. They were like the eyes of an eagle, sharp and intent. They’d zeroed in on her as though he was about to swoop down for the kill.

  For her part, Carol was a wreck. Her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that her fingers ached. “What can I do for you?” she asked, embarrassed by the way her voice pitched and heaved with the simple question.

  A brief smile flickered at the edges of Alex’s mouth. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “No…well, I can guess, but I think it would be best if you just came out and said it.” She took a couple of steps toward him, feeling extraordinarily brave for having done so.