Right Next Door

by Debbie Macomber

  “Where are we going?” she asked, sniffling.

  “My house. James won’t be home yet, and we can talk without being disturbed.”

  Carol wasn’t sure what more he could say, but she agreed with a nod of her head and climbed inside. He closed the door for her, then paused and ran a hand over his eyes, slumping wearily.

  Neither of them said much during the ten-minute drive. He helped her out of his car, then unlocked the front door to his house. His suitcases had been haphazardly dumped on the living room carpet. When he saw Carol looking at them, he said simply, “I was in a hurry to find you.” He led the way into the kitchen and started making a pot of coffee.

  Carol pulled out a stool at the counter and seated herself. His kitchen—in fact, his home—wasn’t at all what she expected. A woman’s touch could be seen and felt in every room. The kitchen was yellow and cheery. What remained of the evening light shone through the window above the sink, sending warm shadows across the polished tile floor. Matching ceramic canisters lined the counter, along with a row of well-used cookbooks.

  “Okay, Carol, tell me what’s on your mind,” Alex urged, facing her from behind the tile counter. Even then Carol wasn’t safe from his magnetism.

  “That’s the problem,” she said, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what’s on my mind. I’m so confused….”

  “I realize my proposal came out of the blue, but once you think about it, you’ll understand how perfect we are for each other. Surely you’ve thought about it yourself.”

  “No,” she said quickly, and for emphasis, shook her head. “I hadn’t…not once. Marriage hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “I see.” He raised his right hand to rub his eyes again.

  Carol knew he must be exhausted and was immediately overcome with remorse. She did love Alex, although admitting it—to herself as much as to him—had sapped her strength.

  “What do you want to do?” he asked softly.

  “I’m not sure,” she whispered, staring down at her hands, which were tightly clenched in her lap.

  “Would some time help?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “How long?”

  “A year. Several months. At the very least, three or four weeks.”

  “How about two weeks?” Alex suggested.

  “Two weeks,” she echoed feebly. That wasn’t nearly enough. She couldn’t possibly reach such an important decision in so little time, especially when there were other factors to consider. Before she could voice a single excuse, Alex pressed his finger to her lips.

  “If you can’t decide in that length of time, then I doubt you ever will.”

  A protest came and went in a single breath. There were so many concerns he hadn’t mentioned—like their sons!

  She was about to bring this up when Alex said, “I don’t think we should draw the boys into this until we know our own minds. The last thing we need is pressure from them.”

  Carol agreed completely.

  The coffee had finished perking, and Alex poured them each a cup. “How about dinner Friday night? Just the two of us.” At her hesitation, he added, “I’ll give you the rest of this week to sort through your thoughts, and if you still have any questions or doubts by Friday, we can discuss them then.”

  “But not a final decision?” Carol murmured, uneasy with the time limitation. He’d said two weeks, and she was going to need every minute to make up her mind.

  Carol woke around three with her stomach in painful knots. She lay on her side and at a breath-stopping cramp, she tucked her knees under her chin. A wave of nausea hit her hard, and she couldn’t stifle a groan. Despite her flu shot last fall, maybe she’d caught one of the new strains that emerged every year.

  She lay perfectly still in the fervent hope that this would ward off her growing need to vomit. It didn’t work, and a moment later she was racing for the bathroom.

  Afterward, sitting on the floor, her elbows on the edge of the toilet, she breathed deeply.

  “Are you all right?” Peter asked from behind her.

  “I will be. I just need a couple more minutes.”

  “What’s wrong?” Peter asked. He handed her a warm washcloth, following that with a cup of water.

  “The flu, I guess.”

  He helped her to her feet and walked her back to her bedroom. “I appreciate the help, Peter, but it would be better if you went back to bed. I’ll be fine by morning.”

  “I’ll call work for you and tell them you’re too sick to come in.”

  She shook her head. “No…I’ll need to talk to them myself.” Her son dutifully arranged the blankets around her, giving her a worried look before he slipped out of her bedroom.

  Peter must have turned off her alarm because the next thing Carol knew it was eight-thirty. The house was eerily silent.

  Sitting up, she waited for an attack of nausea. It didn’t come. She’d slept without waking even once. She was astonished that she hadn’t heard Peter roaming about. He was usually as noisy as a herd of rampaging buffalo. Perhaps he’d overslept as well.

  In case he had, she threw the sheets back, sat on the edge of the bed and shoved her feet into slippers before wandering into the kitchen. The minute she stepped inside, it was obvious that her son had been up and about. A box of cold cereal stood in the middle of the kitchen table, along with a bowl half-filled with milk and crusts from several pieces of toast.

  Posted on the refrigerator door was a note from Peter, informing her that he’d phoned the hospital and talked to her supervisor, who’d said Carol didn’t need to worry about coming in. He proudly added that he’d made his own lunch and that he’d find a ride home from track practice, so she should stay in bed and drink lots of fluids. In a brief postscript he casually mentioned that he’d also called Grandma Pasquale.

  Carol’s groan had little to do with the way she was feeling. All she needed was her mother, bless her heart, hovering over her and driving her slowly but surely crazy. No sooner had the thought formed in her mind than the doorbell chimed, followed by a key turning in the lock and the front door flying open. Her mother burst into the house as though Carol lay on her deathbed.

  “Carol,” she cried, walking through the living room. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m feeling much better, Mama.”

  “You look terrible. Get back in bed before the undertaker gets wind of how you look.”

  “Ma, please, I’m just a little under the weather.”

  “That’s what my uncle Giuseppe said when he had the flu, God rest his soul. His wife never even got the chicken stewed, he went that fast.” She pressed her hands together, raised her eyes to the ceiling and murmured a silent prayer.

  “Peter shouldn’t have phoned you,” Carol grumbled. She certainly didn’t need her mother fussing at her bedside, spooning chicken soup down her throat every time she opened her mouth.

  “Peter did the right thing. He’s a good boy.”

  At the moment Carol considered that point debatable.

  “Now back to bed before you get a dizzy spell.” Her mother made a shooing motion with her hands.

  Mumbling under her breath, Carol did as Angelina insisted. Not because she felt especially ill, but because arguing required too much energy. Carol might as well try to talk her mother into using canned spaghetti sauce as convince her she wasn’t on her deathbed.

  Once Carol was lying down, Angelina dragged the rocking chair into her bedroom and sat down. Before another minute had passed, she was busy with her knitting. Several balls of yarn were lying at her feet in case she wanted to start a second or third project in the next few hours.

  “According to Peter you were sick in the middle of the night,” Angelina said. Eyes narrowed, she studied Carol, as if staring would reveal the exact nature of her daughter’s illness. She shook her head, then paused to count the neat row of stitches before glancing back at Carol, clearly expecting an answer.

  “It must’ve been something I
ate for dinner,” she suggested lamely.

  “Peter said you were looking at parts of a toilet no one should see that close up.”

  Her teenage son certainly had a way with words. “I’m feeling better,” she said weakly.

  “Your face is paler than bleached sheets. Uncle Giuseppe has more color than you, and he’s been in his grave for thirty years.”

  Carol leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She might be able to fool just about anyone else, but her mother knew her too well.

  Several tense minutes passed. Angelina said not a word, patient to a fault. Yes, her mother knew; Carol was sure of it. She kept her eyes closed, afraid that another searching look would reveal everything. Oh, what the heck, Angelina would find out sooner or later.

  “Alex asked me to marry him last night.” Carol tried to keep her voice even, but it shook noticeably.

  “Ah,” her mother said, nodding. “That explains everything. From the time you were a little girl, you got an upset stomach whenever something troubled you, although why you should be troubled when this man tells you he loves you is a whole other question.”

  Carol didn’t need to hear stories from her childhood to recognize the truth.

  “So what did you say to him?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “This man brings color to your cheeks and a smile to your eyes and you said nothing?”

  “I…need time to think,” Carol cried. “This is an important decision…. I’ve got more than myself and my own life to consider. Alex has a son and I have a son…. It isn’t as simple as it sounds.”

  Her mother shook her head. Her rocker was going ninety miles an hour, and Carol was positive the older woman’s thoughts were churning at equal speed.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Mama,” she whispered. “I’m so frightened.”

  Angelina stopped abruptly and set her knitting aside. She reached for Carol’s hands, holding them gently. A soft smile lit her eyes. “You’ll make the right decision.”

  “How can you be so sure? I’ve been wrong about so many things—I’ve made so many mistakes in my life. I don’t trust my own judgment anymore.”

  “Follow your heart,” Angelina urged. “It won’t lead you wrong.”

  But it would. She’d followed her heart when she married Bruce, convinced their love would see them through every difficulty. The marriage had been a disaster from the honeymoon on, growing more painful and more difficult with each passing day. The horror of those years with Bruce had shredded her heart and drained away all her self-confidence. She’d offered her husband everything she had to give, relinquished her pride and self-respect—and to what end? Bruce hadn’t appreciated her sacrifices. He hadn’t cherished her love, but turned it into something cheap and expendable.

  “Whatever you decide will be right,” her mother said once again. “I know it will be.”

  Carol closed her eyes to mull over her mother’s confidence in her, which she was sure was completely unfounded. Angelina seemed to trust Carol’s judgment more than Carol did herself.

  A few minutes later, her mother started to sing softly, and her sweet, melodious voice harmonized with the clicking of the needles.

  The next thing Carol knew, it was early afternoon and she could smell chicken soup simmering in the kitchen.

  Angelina had left a brief note for her that was filled with warmth and encouragement. Feeling much better, Carol helped herself to a bowl of the broth and noodles and leisurely enjoyed her first nourishment of the day.

  By the time Peter slammed into the house several hours later, she was almost back to normal.

  “Mom,” he said rushing into the room. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. It looked as though he’d run all the way home. His chest was heaving as he dropped his books on the table, then tried to catch his breath, arms waving excitedly.

  “What is it?” Carol asked, amused by the sight her son made.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded, kissing both her cheeks the way her mother did whenever she was exceptionally pleased. “This is great, Mom, really great! Now we can go fishing and camping and hiking all the time.”

  “Say anything about what?” she asked in bewilderment. “And what’s this about fishing?”

  “Marrying Mr. Preston.”

  Carol was half out of her seat before she even realized she’d moved. “Who told you…who so much as mentioned it was a possibility?”

  “A possibility?” Peter repeated. “I thought it was a done deal. At least that’s what James said.”

  “James told you?”

  Peter gave her a perplexed look. “Who else? He told me about it first thing when I got to school this morning.” He studied her, his expression cautious. “Hey, Mom, don’t look so upset—I’m sorry if you were keeping it a secret. Don’t worry, James and I think it’s a great idea. I’ve always wanted a brother, and having one who’s my best friend is even better.”

  Carol was so outraged she could barely talk. “H-he had no business saying a word!” she stammered.

  “Who? James?”

  “Not James. Alex.” If he thought he’d use the boys to influence her decision, he had another think coming.

  Carol marched into her bedroom, throwing on a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt. Then she hurried into the living room without bothering to run a brush through her tousled hair.

  “Where are you going?” Peter demanded. He’d ladeled himself a bowl of soup and was following her around the house like a puppy while she searched for her purse and car keys.

  “Out,” Carol stormed.

  “Looking like that?” He sounded aghast.

  Carol whirled around, hands on her hips, and glared at him.

  Peter raised one hand. “Sorry. Only please don’t let Mr. Preston see you, all right?”

  “Why not?”

  Peter raised his shoulder in a shrug. “If he gets a look at you, he might withdraw his proposal. Honestly, Mom, this is the best thing that’s happened to us in years. Don’t go ruining it.”

  Eleven

  James answered the door, and a smile automatically came to his lips when he saw it was Carol. Then his eyes narrowed as though he wasn’t sure it was her, after all. Carol realized he was probably taken aback by her appearance. Normally she was well-dressed and well-groomed, but what Alex had done—had tried to do—demanded swift and decisive action. She didn’t feel it was necessary to wear makeup for this confrontation.

  “Where is he?” Carol asked through gritted teeth.

  “Who? Dad?” James frowned. “He’s watching the news.” The teenager pointed toward the family room, which was adjacent to the kitchen.

  Without waiting for James to escort her inside, Carol burst past him, intent on giving Alex a piece of her mind. She was furious. More than furious. If he’d honestly believed that involving the boys would affect her decision, then he knew absolutely nothing about her. In fact, he knew so little, they had no business even considering marriage.

  She refused to be pressured, tricked, cajoled or anything else, and before this day was over Alex would recognize that very clearly indeed.

  “Carol?” Alex met her halfway into the kitchen. His eyes softened perceptibly as he reached for her.

  Carol stopped just short of his embrace. “How dare you,” she snapped.

  “How dare I?” Alex repeated. His eyes widened with surprise, but he remained infuriatingly calm. “Would you elaborate, please, because I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, you do.”

  “Dad?” James ventured into the kitchen, giving Carol a wide berth. “Something must really be wrong,” the boy said, and then his voice dropped to a whisper as he pointed to Carol’s feet. “Mrs. Sommars is wearing two different shoes.”

  Carol’s gaze shot downward, and she mentally groaned. But if either of the Preston men thought they’d throw her off her guard by pointing out that she’d worn a blue tennis
shoe on her right foot and a hot-pink slipper on her left, then she had news for them both.

  “I have the feeling Mrs. Sommars was in a hurry to talk to me,” Alex explained. The smile that quivered at the corners of his mouth did little to quell her brewing temper.

  James nodded. “Do you want me to get lost for a few minutes?”

  “That might be a good plan,” Alex replied.

  James exchanged a knowing look with his father before discreetly vacating the room. As soon as Carol heard James’s bedroom door close, she put her hands on her hips, determined to confront Alex.

  “How dare you bring the boys into this,” she flared.

  “Into what?” Alex walked over to the coffeepot and got two mugs. He held one up to her, but she refused the offer with a shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Carol, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jabbing her index finger at him, she took several steps toward him. “Don’t give me that, Alex Preston. You know very well what I mean. We agreed to wait, and you saw an advantage and without any compunction, you took it! Did you really think dragging Peter and James into this would help? How could you be so foolish?” Her voice shook, but her eyes were as steady as she could make them.

  “I didn’t mention the possibility of our getting married to James, and I certainly didn’t say anything to Peter.” He leaned against the kitchen counter and returned her disbelieving glare with maddening composure.

  Angrily Carol threw back her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  His eyes hardened but he didn’t argue with her. “Ask James then. If he heard that I’d proposed to you, the information didn’t come from me.”

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” she cried, not nearly as confident as she’d been earlier. The aggression had gone out of her voice, and she lowered her hands to her sides, less certain with each minute. The ground that supported her outrage started to shift and crumble.

  “I told you I wouldn’t bring the boys into this,” he reminded her smoothly. “And I didn’t.” He looked over his shoulder and shouted for James, who opened his bedroom door immediately. Carol didn’t doubt for an instant that he’d had his ear pressed to it the entire time they’d been talking.