Mr. Right Next Door

by Arlene James

  She nodded, grateful for something upon which to fix her thoughts. “I’m more tired than anything else. It was...a difficult trip.” In some far corner of her mind, she recognized the sound of Smithson rattling the gate of his carrier, but it seemed remote, incidental. Morgan drew her to a halt and took both her hands in his.

  “Listen, Rad and I have had a good visit. He won’t mind if I slip off to spend a few hours with you. Maybe you need to talk and—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Morgan, all I want right now is a long, hot soak in the tub, followed by bed.”

  His mouth quirked up in one corner. “Sounds great to me.”

  Heat diffused her. The memory, startlingly vibrant, of his hands on her bare breasts swept through her. It was as if time replayed that one clear instant of sensation. It was relived, slowly, minutely, completely, losing nothing in memory, revealing everything, most especially how very much she wanted to be with him. The sharpness and clarity of it frightened her. It was too real, too certain. She couldn’t protect herself, couldn’t think.

  Suddenly Reiver’s angry, frantic barking yanked her back to herself. In one searing flash of understanding, she realized that the big dog had wandered close to Smithson’s carrier and a battle royale had been engaged despite the cage’s gate between them. She didn’t need to hear Smithson’s threatening hisses to know that hostilities were about to escalate. She yanked her hands free of Morgan’s and ran for the carrier. Just before she got there, the carrier’s door came unlatched and Smithson bolted. For one awful instant, she feared that Reiver was going to tear her stupid, prickly cat limb from limb, but Morgan had run after Denise and called Reiver to heel, which didn’t stop the great brute from snarling at poor Smithson, who shot off into the night like a bolt of feline lightning.

  Denise watched, openmouthed, as the cat literally vanished. It seemed like the worst kind of betrayal and abandonment given everything that she’d put up with and done for that cat. And she knew suddenly who was to blame. She rounded on him, irrational in her protective shield of anger.

  “Damn you, Morgan, you’ve as good as killed my cat!”

  He gaped at her. “I what?”

  “He’s never been outside before! He’s a house cat, Morgan! He only has his back claws. He can’t even protect himself!”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” This came from Radley, who had loped down to the scene of the crime, so to speak, to comfort Reiver, as if that great, slobbering beast needed or deserved it. Denise turned a look of such venom on Radley that he literally blanched, his eyes growing wide. She switched her gaze to Morgan again, ready and willing to take out her dismay on him.

  “Your dog attacked my poor cat!”

  “Come on, Denise, I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Don’t you dare defend that monster! Smithson was in his carrier!”

  “There’s a natural anathema between cats and dogs, you know that. Reiver only—”

  “He ought to be put down!” she cried. “And if he’s killed my cat, he will be! I’ll see to it! Oh, blast!” She stomped her foot as anger gave way to tears. Morgan reached out with both arms, but she knew that if she fell into them now she would be utterly lost. She was just too vulnerable, too confused. She shook her head, backing away. “I want my cat,” she said plaintively. “You lost my c-cat!” She whirled away and yanked open the apartment door.

  “Denise!”

  She yanked it shut again, finding a glimmer of satisfaction in the bang as it slammed closed. She heard the curse words that Morgan spat and the uncertainty in Radley’s voice as he said, “Dad? What do we do, Dad?”

  “Lock up that dog!” Morgan ordered. “Then find that damned cat!”

  Denise leaned against the closed door and started to sob, and she didn’t even know why, really. She was easily as irritated with Smithson as the rest of the world, and yet she felt that she had lost everything, including her peace of mind, perhaps even her place in the world. She left the bags in the car and the carrier on the doorstep and climbed the stairs in the dark to fall fully clothed into bed, her relaxing bath—and her disturbing response to Morgan Holt’s touch—forgotten.

  She hadn’t expected to fall asleep, but the difficulty with which she pulled herself to consciousness, in answer to the pounding inside her head, testified clearly to her state of unconsciousness. When she got nearer the surface, she realized the pounding was not inside her head but outside, and finally she realized that someone was knocking at her door. Groaning, she sat up and swung her legs off the side of the bed. She felt as if she’d been pummeled. Every muscle was sore, but she got to her feet and switched on a light. She was still wearing her all-weather coat and shoes, and she didn’t see any reason to take them off now. She made herself go down the stairs to the entry, where she flipped on the overhead light. The knocking stopped. She reached for the bolt and realized that she hadn’t even thrown it. Worse, when she pushed open the door, she heard the jangle of the keys she’d left in the outside lock.

  Radley Holt stood uncertainly on her doorstep, a live towel clutched against his chest. The towel roiled and hissed.

  “My cat!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said ruefully and stepped up into the entry, awkwardly clutching the moving towel and managing to pull the door closed behind him at the same time. With the door safely closed, he extended the cat, towel and all. Denise was absurdly happy, but when she reached out to take hold of the cat, Smithson hissed, spat, and sunk his teeth into the fleshy part of her hand between her thumb and forefinger. Denise yelped and yanked her hands back. Smithson leaped down and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Denise to nurse her hand and glance, embarrassed, at Radley. He smiled understandingly.

  “Got me, too. I don’t think he much liked his foray into the big wide world.”

  “He bit you? Oh, I’m so sorry, Radley. It’s just that he’s not used to being outside and—” But, of course, it wasn’t just that the cat wasn’t used to being outside. He was prickly at the best of times.

  Something banged against the door, and it bumped open, jostling Radley out of the way. Morgan came in with her overnight case and the cat carrier. He didn’t so much as look at her before carrying both into the living room and putting them down, tossing her keys onto the coffee table. He came back into the foyer and laid a hand on Radley’s shoulder. “Come on. I’ll buy you that drink we talked about.”

  Radley nodded, shot a look at Denise and went out, pushing the door behind him. Denise wasted no time grabbing the opportunity to apologize. “Morgan, I’m sorry.”

  He nodded, shrugged, lifted his hands palm up in a gesture of helplessness. “Right. Listen, you need some sleep, and I need...” He shook his head. “What I don’t need is to be cast as the bad guy again. I mean, I won’t live like that again, Denise, where everything that goes wrong is all my fault, no matter how bizarre or unpredictable or remote.” He put his hands to his hips and bowed his head, breathing deeply. She realized then how badly her unjustified accusations had hurt him.

  “I’m so sorry. I had no right to blame you. I...” She put a hand to her head. “I’m so confused.”

  “Yeah, well, that makes two of us. Look, I gotta go. Rad’s waiting.”

  She nodded. He opened the door and stepped outside. “Thanks for—” he waved a hand in dismissal and walked away “—everything,” she finished softly. Carefully, she pulled the door closed and set the bolt. She could hear Smithson crunching cat food in the kitchen, and for a moment resentment flared. But the truth was that no one and nothing was to blame but herself. She had lashed out unfairly, and clearly Morgan had had enough of that in his life. Who could blame him if he kept his distance after this? Maybe it would be best if he did. Best for him, anyway.

  She tore her thoughts away from Morgan and carried her bag upstairs where she unpacked it and put it away. That done, she sat on the side of the bed and considered what to do next. She still felt that she could sleep about forty-eight hours straight, but
she was oddly reluctant to crawl back into the bed. Despite her exhaustion, she was keyed up, restless. She decided to take that long, hot bath she’d been wanting.

  Forty minutes later she emerged from the steam-filled bathroom. Her hair was piled up loosely on top of her head, and she wore a long, soft gown of brushed cotton and her warmest terry-cloth robe and matching slippers. Unfortunately, rather than being relaxed and sleepy, she felt invigorated. She went downstairs, made herself a snack and a cup of cocoa, and settled on the sofa in the living room, intending to watch a little late-night television. Five minutes into the late movie, the cable went out. A quarterhour later, she gave up and switched it off, then took down a favorite book and prepared to be engrossed. But it was too quiet, too...lonely. She thought of Morgan and Radley sitting in some cozy, candlelit bar somewhere, quaffing beers and laughing together, probably about what an idiot she was. She put down the book and got up to turn on the stereo.

  What she needed was some soothing music. She laid her head back and let the beauty of Brahms wash over her. Smithson apparently decided that he needed a lap, for he suddenly leaped into hers, sending her bolt upright, one brow arching. “So you’ve decided you want a snuggle, have you?”

  The cat ignored her, grooming his paws and whiskers with haughty concentration. It wouldn’t do her any good, she knew, to scold, and besides, what did she have except this hateful old cat? Suddenly, the emptiness of her own life threatened to devour her, and something told her that it would unless she found the courage to love again. But how could she? How could she risk losing someone dear to her again? She couldn’t survive that kind of devastation again. She couldn’t. And yet, somehow, she couldn’t quite face the idea of spending her life alone, either. Bone-deep sadness settled over her, sadness so poignant it was beyond tears.

  After a few minutes Smithson hopped down and went on his way, complacently superior. Denise shook her head ruefully, got up and switched off the stereo and climbed the stairs to bed.

  She lay in the darkness, weary to the soul but wideawake. She thought of all that had happened over the holiday and was thankful that she had finally faced the ghosts of her past life. The question now was how to face the future. She was still pondering that question when she heard laughter in the distance. Gladly, she rose, pulled on her robe and went to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, she gazed down into a still, cold night. Movement at the very edge of her vision made her turn her head. There beneath the streetlight on the corner were Morgan and Rad, their arms thrown about each other’s shoulders, their breath frosting the air as they laughed and spoke.

  It quickly became obvious that they were rip-roaring drunk. She lost sight of them as they lurched into deep shadow, but soon they tumbled out on the other side, stumbling and careening and falling to roll on the grass. A brief wrestling match ensued, ending when Morgan wound up with a hammerlock on Radley’s coat, Radley slipping away to hoot and point and tease. Laughing, Morgan chased him into the house. She watched for a long time afterward, but they didn’t come out again. Eventually, the lights in the house winked off one by one. Denise went back to her own, now cold bed and settled down once more. Her final thought as she drifted at last into desperately needed slumber was that Morgan had brought her Danish and coffee when she’d been hungover—and she had rejected it out of hand.

  It was Radley who let her in the next morning.

  “Hi. Cat okay?”

  She gave him a small, apologetic smile. “The cat’s fine. I, um, don’t think I thanked you properly for bringing him home to me.”

  He shrugged. “No sweat. It wasn’t like he could get up a tree or anything. Besides, it was Dad who actually caught him.”

  “Yes, well, is your father in?”

  Radley seemed to hesitate, his smile a fraction too slow. “Yeah, he’s here. Um, I was just leaving, though. I have an errand to run.” He reached for a coat hanging on a hook on the hall tree and shrugged into it, shouting, “Dad! Denise is here!” He shot her an apologetic grimace. “Ms. Jenkins, that is.”

  “Denise will do just fine,” she told him. Morgan stepped out into the entry hall. Radley beat a hasty retreat, flipping his father a wave and slipping out the door. Morgan frowned, but whether it was because of her or Radley, Denise didn’t know. She smiled gamely. “Hi. I wanted to thank you again and—”

  “Morgan?” Denise broke off as a tall, slender, shockingly attractive woman stepped into the hallway.

  Morgan’s chin came up, and he split a wary glance between Denise and the other woman. She was perfectly groomed, her soft blond hair twisted up in a sleek, sophisticated style. Large, almond-shaped eyes of a startling green coolly took her measure and seemed to find her wanting. Denise suddenly felt under dressed in her half boots, dark corduroy jeans, turtleneck and classic wool jacket, her dark hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. The other woman wore black pleated slacks, heels, a cream-colored silk blouse and a flared, houndstooth jacket, clearly a designer piece. Her makeup was perfect, her nails long and red. The leather belt cinched at her waist left no doubt as to its trim circumference. The woman’s gaze dismissed Denise as unimportant and fixed possessively on Morgan.

  “Are we through here?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She folded her arms in a gesture both smug and elegant.

  Denise kept waiting for Morgan to introduce her. Instead, he bounced glances off every object in the room except her, finally saying to the woman at his elbow, “I’ll only be a minute, Belinda. This is business.”

  Belinda sniffed through her exquisitely narrow, straight nose and disappeared back the way she’d come. Morgan cleared his throat and walked forward, saying, “This is business, isn’t it, Denise? I mean, all things considered, it could hardly be anything else.”

  Her heart dropped to the soles of her feet. He was seeing someone else then. He’d given up on her. Well, she had no one to blame but herself. She took a deep breath, surprised that it hurt, that her chest felt so tight and constricted. She managed a nod. “Ah, the c-cable’s out in my apartment.”

  “Really? I haven’t heard from any of the other tenants about it. Are you sure you’re equipment is in working order?”

  “No. No, I’m not. Th-that’s why I’ve called for a repairman.” She drew another deep breath, careful to keep her gaze targeted just below his chin. “The thing is, he can’t come until M-Monday. I was hoping you... I was hoping you would let him in.”

  He stood there for a moment, his hands on his hips, and she really thought that he was going to refuse. But then he nodded. “Sure. No problem. What time?”

  She shrugged. “B-before noon. Sorry I can’t be more precise.”

  “Okay.” Just that. Nothing more.

  Denise tried to think for several moments what her reply to that should be, but in the end she could do no more than mutter her thanks and get out of there. She practically ran back to the apartment, where she hadn’t a blessed thing to do. Not that she was capable of any rational action just then. She was breathless, stunned. In shock. It wasn’t even so much that Morgan was seeing someone else, someone perfect and elegant and very sure about what she wanted—Denise didn’t stop to think how she knew that No, it was how much it hurt It was the depth of the pain. Suddenly she knew that there were more ways to lose someone than she’d ever guessed, and telling herself that she shouldn’t, couldn’t, care was not adequate protection. Perhaps no such protection existed. Perhaps the human heart made its own rules, and the human intellect was powerless against it. Which left her right where she’d always been, with too much of absolutely nothing.

  Morgan closed the door behind Belinda and put both hands to his temples. He said a silent prayer of thanks for the good Dr. Isaiah, who had married his ex and carried her off to Little Rock, from which she usually confined her know-it-all demands to long-distance telephoning. Radley’s decision to bypass the usual Thanksgiving at her palatial home in the country club section of the state capitol
had prompted his mother to make the drive up from Little Rock in order to verbally tear a strip off both their hides. Only Rad had fled the worst of it, the rat, leaving Morgan to listen with half an ear while she told him, with great conviction, how pathetic he was as a father. She blamed him for everything from Rad’s inability to settle on a career choice to her cook’s inability to prepare a perfect turkey. She and the doctor had had friends in—influential people, of course—and she had been forced to explain to them that her own son had chosen to spend this most precious of family holidays with his father and grandfather! He’d had a hard time not laughing at that.

  But he didn’t feel like laughing now. His head was pounding, the effect of too much alcohol, no doubt, too much alcohol and too much Belinda—but too little Denise. He’d really thought that she was making progress, that her trip back home would somehow put to rest some of the unresolved issues that seemed to surround her son’s death and hold her back from a loving relationship. With him. He’d been so sure that he was right for her and vice versa. When she’d blamed him for her stupid cat getting out of its carrier, he’d felt a horrid chill, a terrible sense of déjà vu. He hadn’t expected that from her. It was just the sort of thing he’d expect of Belinda, though. And that was the problem. He couldn’t go through that again, being blamed for everything under the sun that displeased her, never being able to get it right, wanting so badly and failing so miserably to make her happy.

  On the other hand, he’d just been through a solid hour of Belinda’s absurd accusations, and it hadn’t affected him in any way like that one moment of absurdity with Denisc last night had. Then, too, she had apologized—just as soon as she’d calmed down. Belinda, conversely, could insult him for hours on end without ever getting visibly upset. It was second nature to her, like buying the most expensive of everything or bleaching her hair. Besides, he’d stopped loving Belinda long ago, or rather, he had stopped trying to love her. Somehow he didn’t seem to have to try with Denise. Almost from the moment he’d met her, he’d just felt that they were right for each other. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to feel the same way, and he had promised himself years ago that he would not love a woman who couldn’t love him back. Not again.