Mr. Right Next Door

by Arlene James

  “I love you, too, Pop. When I come next week I’ll shave you.”

  Ben chuckled and explained to Denise that he couldn’t see well enough to shave his own face in the mirror anymore, so how he looked no longer bothered him. “But Ma,” he said, “she liked to keep up appearances, so occasionally I get scraped, just in case we meet up at the pearly gates.” He scratched his chin, saying, “I swear if I showed up there like this she’d just send me back, halo and all, fer a razor.” He laughed when he said it, and Denise marveled at the humor and joy and utter normalcy he found in the prospect of his own death.

  They took their leave, Reiver prancing around them with eager pants on their way to the truck. Ben gave the dog another hug and a pat and ordered him into the back of the truck. Then he stood in the warm glow of the light that spilled from the open doorway and waved until he disappeared in the rearview mirror. Denise found herself weeping again, but oddly, she wasn’t sad. She was touched. She was...grateful.

  And she was afraid.

  She was afraid that she’d found something very special in Morgan Holt, something too special to hold at bay. And it was going to turn her carefully constructed life upside down. Hurtin’ comes t’ all of us, and there’s no help for it.

  No help at all.

  They drove in silence for some time. When it felt right, Morgan spoke. “So what do you think?”

  She took a deep breath as if awakening from a deep slumber and said, “About?”

  “My father.”

  “He’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, he is, but you can see why my sister is worried.”

  She said nothing for some minutes and then, “Can nothing be done about his eyes?”

  “No. Some years ago perhaps, but not now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That is the most obvious problem, I suppose, but the greatest problem is his heart. The doctors say he’s been living on borrowed time for years.”

  She sighed and lifted a hand to her hair, her elbow braced against the window. “I think he’s been living for you,” she said softly. “He wants you to be happy. He wants you not to be alone.”

  He knew it was true and that it wouldn’t help to say that he wanted the same thing. He said, “So what do you think about him living on alone there?”

  “He doesn’t even have a telephone,” she pointed out.

  “No, but the neighbors come by and check on him every day.”

  “It isn’t safe,” she argued, “all those propane bottles and kerosene lamps.”

  “No, it isn’t safe,” he agreed.

  “He doesn’t even have indoor plumbing.”

  “No plumbing.”

  She stared straight ahead through the windshield, and after a few moments she lifted a hand to wipe her fingertips across her cheeks. “Leaving there would kill him.”

  “Yes, very likely it would.”

  Silence came again, tentative, sad, unsettled. They had almost reached the Fayetteville bypass when she turned to look at him and said, “You won’t let your sister move him, will you?”

  He met her gaze levelly. “No. I won’t let anyone move him.”

  She wiped her cheeks again, sniffed and said, “I haven’t cried this much in years.”

  He reached across the seat and took her hand in his. “Some tears are healing,” he told her gently. She turned her face away, but she let him hold her hand. He drove them slowly but surely around Fayetteville and headed southeast.

  They were almost home when she said abruptly, “Some wounds can’t be healed.”

  He thought his reply through carefully. “I believe they can. The scars remain, and sometimes they cripple us, but the wounds don’t have to remain raw.”

  She said nothing more. He pulled the truck up into the drive beside the house. She pulled her hand free of his and reached for the door handle. “Thank you,” he said quickly, then added as nonchalantly as he could, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  He could feel her panic, her trepidation, and decided that he would tell her that she was free to do as she pleased. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t throw away his one chance. Instead he said, “Pop was right, you know. I’m good at loving.”

  “You were listening,” she accused tiredly.

  “Yes.”

  “You knew what he wanted to say to me.”

  “Yes.”

  She opened the door and slid a foot out of it, but then she turned back, her face a mask of pure sorrow. “I can’t love you, Morgan. I can’t.”

  He wanted to put his hands on her, to pull her back inside with him, to hold her, but he didn’t dare. He had to settle for draping an arm over the steering wheel and turning partway in his seat to communicate his urgency. “Listen to me for a moment, please. My parents taught me how to love. They were good teachers.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But somehow I forgot for a time,” he went on quickly, “and when I remembered again I found I had no one to love, not the way I want to love, not the way I need to love.”

  “It’s not me, Morgan!” she cried. “Why can’t you see that?”

  He shook his head and said, “I don’t know. I just can’t. I just can’t.”

  She made a strangled sound, something between anger and pain, and then she bolted. She pushed the door wide and she ran.

  He laid his head against the steering wheel and tried to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was Denise at the table with his father and him, smiling, relaxed, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, free—if only for the moment—of her own heartsickness.

  Reiver jumped down out of the back of the truck and stuck his head into the open door of the cab as if to ask what was holding things up. “Coming, boy,” he said apologetically. “Just the two of us for dinner again, I guess. Just me and you. Just...me.”

  But it couldn’t always be that way. He wouldn’t let himself believe that it would always be that way, not for him—and not for Denise Jenkins.

  Denise fumbled with the key, turning it first one direction and then another until finally the door pulled free. She rushed inside, yanked it shut and threw the dead bolt before she even turned on the light. The neat, efficient, modern comfort literally assaulted her. The central heating kicked on, but she shivered uncontrollably, cold from the inside out. Her head was full of flashing images. Ben Holt rubbing that monster of a dog, carrying hot cider to the table, laughing about Radley, kissing her cheek, holding her hand. She saw Ben. She felt Morgan.

  Standing close, strong, quiet, patient, he waited to dry her tears, to hold her together, to make her smile. He wanted to love her, to make her happy, to stop the pain. She knew with awful certainty that she could never let him do that. She knew, finally, that she did not want to stop the pain. She cherished her pain. Without her pain she had nothing left of Jeremy, nothing left of the son for whom she’d gladly have given up her own life.

  How could she be happy when her son was dead? How could she live, really live, when he did not? She couldn’t. She didn’t even want to, and it was selfish of Morgan to even ask it of her. He had so much already. He had peace and contentment and freedom. She had only memories and the pain of a love that she could not, would not, give up. Jeremy was dead. She wouldn’t allow her love for him to die, too, no matter that it meant keeping the pain alive, as well. No, Morgan was asking too much. He had to see that he was asking too much.

  She wanted to think that Ben would understand the depth of her loss, but she couldn’t let that matter. She couldn’t let anything matter more than the loss of her son. She had her job. That was enough to fill her days and even her nights. That was all she wanted, all she needed. Except Jeremy. Except her son. He was the one person she could never again have to hold. Nothing and no one could replace him, not even Morgan Holt.

  She felt a prick on her foot above the top of her shoe and looked down to find Smithson delicately sinking his hind claws into her sock as he regally, d
eliberately walked across it. She bent down and scooped him up. “Ready for some attention, are you?” He craned his upper body away from her, but she wasn’t fooled. She carried him to the chair in front of the window and sat down to devote some time to serious stroking and crooning. Smithson promptly settled down in her lap and allowed her to minister to him without so much as a cuddle. She didn’t mind. She liked her space, too, and she understood all about putting someone in her—or his—place. They understood each other, she and Smithson. Together they had everything they really needed.

  Morgan Holt was just going to have to accept that. Sometimes life didn’t give a person any choice, and the situation with his father was a case in point. It was a problem without a solution, and if Morgan could accept that, he could accept the fact that the two of them had no future together. She hated to hurt him. He was a good man. She saw that very clearly now. But facts were facts, and no one could change them. No one.

  Feeling fortified again, calmer, stronger, she put down the cat and climbed the stairs to the bedroom, flipping on lights as she went. The message light on the answering machine was blinking from the bedside table. She walked over and pushed it, listening to the techno squawk and then the sound of her brother’s voice.

  “Hey, sis! Hope you’re not working. Listen, May and the kids and I are driving down to Texas to see her parents next weekend. We thought we’d swing by on Saturday for a little visit with you. Haven’t seen you in several months. Mom says you’re not sure you can get home for the holidays. I’d like to change your mind about that. The folks won’t be around forever, you know. Anyway, we’ll be through Jasper about ten Saturday morning and we’ll see you then. May says not to worry about lun—”

  The techno squawk cut him off. Her hard-won composure vanished. She plopped down on the side of her bed and pulled at her hair, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming. That was all she needed, Troy and May and their two kids, the perfect little family. She didn’t want to see them. She didn’t want to dredge up the love that she knew was buried deep in her heart for these people. She didn’t want to work at being pleasant and pretending that she didn’t care that she no longer had a family of her own. She didn’t want to see the worry in her brother’s eyes or the pity in May’s—or the unease in Cory’s and Missy’s small faces.

  She understood how they felt. If it could happen to Jeremy, it could happen to them, too. If she was their mother, she’d be worried sick every moment they were out of her sight. Even now she worried for them, but the fact remained that she didn’t want to see them. She had to derail this impending visit, and she vowed that no matter what, Troy wouldn’t talk her into going home for the holidays. She wouldn’t do that to herself. Or to them.

  She picked up the telephone and punched in the eleven appropriate numbers. May answered, realized who was calling and switched to a too-bright voice before going to get Troy. He came on sounding a little defensive and a lot wary.

  “Denise?”

  “Hello, little brother.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. I’m just really busy, that’s all. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, me, too. That’s the reason I decided to take this time off. The kids have a couple of days out of school next week, and we won’t have another chance to get down that way again until after Christmas. If you’re serious about not coming home for the holidays, this may be our only chance to see you all year.”

  “Uh, yeah, listen, about the holidays, I...I have obligations here.”

  “Oh? You seeing someone?”

  “That’s not the point, Troy.”

  “You can’t spend the holidays there alone moping.”

  “I can do anything I please, thank you.”

  He sighed, and she could feel his frustration and concern. I’m worried about you, Deni,” he said softly. “I need to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine. I just—”

  “Can’t you spare a couple of hours for us, sis? Are you going to cut us completely out of your life, us and everyone else?”

  “Of course not. I just—”

  “Then we’ll see you Saturday.”

  “Troy...” She bit her lip. What could she say that wouldn’t wound him? What excuse would he not see through? She put her fingertips to one temple and capitulated. “Tell May I’ll put together something for lunch.”

  His relief rang through every word. “Oh, that’s not necessary. We’ll go out.”

  “No. No, I want to.”

  “Okay, sure, but don’t go to any real trouble.”

  Real trouble. God love him, he didn’t know what real trouble was. She spared a wish that he never would and said something inane about her silly cat enjoying company, then rang off to flop back on the bed and groan. Why couldn’t anyone understand? Her son was dead. Her life could never, ever be normal or happy again. It hurt her just to see a whole family together, but seeing her brother’s family was even worse. They’d always expected to raise their children together as they had been raised, surrounded by cousins and siblings. That could never happen now, not for her. All she had left was her grief, and she wouldn’t give that up even if it meant that she could no longer unselfishly love her brother’s family. Even if it meant always being alone.

  She struggled up into a sitting position, telling herself that she could manage a weekend visit. It was the lifetime of togetherness that was truly beyond her. She pretended to function normally all the time. She could pretend a little harder come Saturday. She only hoped that would be enough for Troy, because anything more was beyond her just now. She looked down as Smithson wound himself sensuously around her ankles.

  “You’re the only one who doesn’t expect me to get over it,” she told him, scratching him delicately between the ears. “You and Ben. You’re the only ones who can understand.”

  Chapter Six

  “It’s a lovely little apartment,” May said, beaming a too-bright smile as she dropped down onto the sofa. She groped for her husband’s hand, obviously in need of support, and Troy was nothing if not supportive. He squeezed her fingers and looked up at Denise, doing his part to keep the nonconversation flowing.

  “Yeah, it’s, uh, kind of an unusual setup, though, a modern apartment building and a restored Victorian manor on the same lot, more or less.”

  “Well, that’s because they’re owned by the same man,” Denise informed him lightly. “And Jasper’s not a big city, you know. They don’t seem to have the same kind of restrictions and zoning as, well, Fayetteville, for example.”

  “That’s sort of my point,” Troy said, leaning forward and taking May’s hand with him. His sleek, dark head craned back so that he could stare up at Denise from beneath the smooth line of his brow. “Seems like an attractive, single, young woman like yourself would want to be more in the center of things. How come you moved here instead of Fayetteville? And don’t say it’s because the of fice is practically next door, because Fayetteville isn’t that far away.”

  Exasperated, she said, “The road runs both ways, you know.”

  From overhead came the sound of a loud thump, drawing all eyes upward. May and Troy looked at each other in sudden wariness. “Where are the kids?”

  “I thought they were right behind you when we came back downstairs.”

  May jumped up. “I’d better go and get them.”

  Smithson apparently agreed, if his yowl from the same general area was any indication. Concerned for both cat and children, Denise muttered that she’d go with May, and set off behind her.

  This visit was going just as she’d feared it would. Troy and May were as uncomfortable as she. Conversation so far had been rife with pregnant pauses and touchy subjects. The children were tired of being indoors, and she knew that she had been impatient with them. The tour of the apartment had taken too little time and succeeded only in interesting the children in her surly cat. And Troy kept returning to the subject of her “emotional isolation.” She had the feeling that they w
eren’t done with it, yet.

  To add to her already overflowing cup, she was halfway up the stairs when someone knocked at the door. She stopped and yelled, “Coming!” But Smithson yowled again just then and started hissing. She spared no moment to consider who might be calling or why. Instead, she hung over the banister and yelled for Troy to answer the door, then sprinted up the remaining steps. Let him deal with whoever had the poor timing to show up just then. She had all she could handle just now between her darn cat, two precocious kids and a brother with too much concern. She just had too much of everything right now. Too much of nothing.

  Morgan stared at the tall, dark man standing in Denise’s doorway and felt his heart drop to the soles of his feet. He saw a certain familiarity in the straight, even features and tall, slender body shape but could not for the moment think beyond finding a handsome stranger at Denise’s door. His tone was—understandably, he felt—sharp when he demanded, “Who are you?”

  The stranger cocked his head, as if searching for and finding a certain hoped-for note in Morgan’s voice. “I’m Troy. Who are you?”

  “Morgan. Is Denise home?”

  A smile grew on the stranger’s face. “Yeah. She’s upstairs rescuing the cat. Want to come in?”

  Morgan nodded and stepped up into the tiny foyer, pulling the door closed behind him. “Something wrong with Smithson?”

  Troy’s smile grew even broader. “You know Denise’s cat?”

  Morgan wondered if this conversation was as weird as he thought it was. He shrugged. “I’m pretty much a dog person myself, but yeah, I know about Denise’s cat. What I don’t know about is you.”

  “Oh!” The other man stuck out his hand. “I thought I said. It’s Troy, Troy Jenkins.”

  “Jenkins!” Morgan put his hand in Troy’s only a tad belatedly. “You’re kin to Denise in some way then?”

  “I’m her brother. She took her maiden name back after the divorce,” he explained.