Mr. Right Next Door

by Arlene James

  But then she wanted him to banish Reiver to the cold, snowy out-of-doors, and it really was just too much. He said something unplanned and really stupid about Reiver being his best friend and how she’d behaved the one and only time that wicked cat of hers had been out in the great outdoors. She said nothing about the stupid cat being declawed or blaming him for the cat getting out of its carrier when he was standing ten yards away. Instead, she kissed him on the cheek and capitulated sweetly, saying, “You’re absolutely right, Morg. I forget how much better behaved Reiver is than Smithson. It’s just, well, he’s a little smelly.”

  Actually, “a little smelly” was an understatement. Morgan took his tie off and gave Reiver a quick bath in the shower. He’d been meaning to do it for a couple of days anyway. He’d been meaning to do several things for a couple of days, most of which he caught Denise or Radley doing at some point, like laying a fire on the hearth and dusting the chandelier over the dining table. He was being a beast, and he knew it. Yet, when the first party-goers arrived at the door and Denise called out from the kitchen that he should get it, he felt a spurt of resentment.

  After that, he was too busy playing host to feel much of anything. He didn’t even have time, really, to form much of a first impression of Radley’s Leanne. Her parents were another matter. The Fabers were a walking contradiction. Jess, Mr. Faber, was a small, balding, meek sort who seemed constantly pained by one thing or another, while Helen, Mrs. Faber, stood nearly six feet tall and spoke with a voice like a cannon boom. Morgan found himself hoping inanely that Leanne was adopted.

  Denise’s secretary, Betty, and her husband, Cleeve, arrived before he had time to make more than the most cursory conversation with the Fabers. Betty was a grandmotherly type, and dressed, Morgan guessed, much as she would be for a day at the office. Cleeve was a retired professor of economics and looked every inch the part from his balding pate to the patches on the elbows of his gray tweed jacket and the jaunty bow tie dressing his Adam’s apple, red in deference to the holiday season, apparently. Both were clearly uncertain and yet not intimidated. Almost with relief, Morgan realized that he liked them, especially when Betty took one of his hands in hers and said quietly how very sorry she was about his father’s passing.

  “And I can tell you,” she confided in a near whisper, “it shook our Ms. Jenkins as nothing else I’ve ever seen has done. But then I didn’t know about her little son before. She never mentioned it until after your father, you see.” She smiled suddenly and added more firmly, “I’m so glad that you have each other now.”

  Morgan found himself smiling in return. “So am I.”

  Line and Mavis arrived then. True to form, Line pounded on the door and then merely opened it and walked in. Mavis swept in behind him, slipped her coat from her shoulders and dropped it over Linc’s arm in one smooth movement, her head pivoting at the end of her neck as she took in everything around her. “The house is marvelous!” she exclaimed, gliding toward him with that ever-present homecoming-queen grin in place.

  Line hung the coat on the hall tree and followed at the more sedate pace required by the lack of movement in his right knee. A hideous break during a football game their junior year at the University of Arkansas had put an end to his dreams of playing pro ball and sent him into banking instead. Neither his attitude nor his wallet had suffered. In his usual straightforward manner, he wasted no breath on small talk, saying instead, “Been worried about you! Damned glad to get the invitation. suppose we have that beauty who was mooning over you at the funeral to thank. Where is she then?”

  Morgan chuckled. “In the kitchen, thank you.”

  Linc’s dignified silver brows rose in tandem. “Domesticated her, have you? Damn, there’s hope for you yet.”

  “That’s the next vice president of Wholesale International you’re talking about, and if you offend her she’s liable to snatch that tongue right out of your head.”

  “Yeow! I like her already.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Get me a drink, host, and remember it’s the season for generosity.”

  “Come on then.”

  He took Linc into the parlor, made introductions all around and manned the bar until everyone was settled, then he excused himself to check on Denise, leaving Radley in charge. He found her scrutinizing a cookbook, wire whisk in hand and muttering to herself. “Need a hand?”

  She started at the sound of his voice and whirled around. Her apron had been scorched, and she had flour on her chin. “Morgan! Thank God! I’m afraid I’ve ruined the sauce! It got so thick so quickly! I took it off the fire, but it’s all curdled looking, so I thought I’d better start over, but first I—” The buzzer went off on the oven. “Oh! The roast!” She literally tossed the whisk at the counter and ran to the oven. Yanking open the door she reached inside with her bare hands.

  “Denise!” Morgan snatched pot holders off the counter and shoved her out of the way. “Are you nuts? You’ll burn your hands!”

  He brought the roasting pan out. Denise took one look and wailed, “Oh, no! I’ve burned it!”

  “It’s not ruined,” he told her, “just a little overdone. We can fix it.”

  “How?”

  “I need a tin of pate from the pantry, a bottle of sherry, Worcestershire, mustard and that syringe with the huge needle in the left-hand drawer there by the refrigerator.” While she went to gather those things, he took a knife and trimmed off the worst of the black. It wasn’t too bad, really, but it wasn’t very elegant, either. Well, they’d fix that. Working quickly, he injected the roast liberally with a mixture of sherry and Worcestershire. Next he blended the pate and mustard and spread it over the roast, coating it evenly. Finally, he used the knife to quickly create a crosshatch pattern in the coating. “There. We’ll let it set a few minutes while I make the sauce and you get changed. Everyone’s here, you know. I have Rad playing host.”

  Denise gasped and yanked at her apron. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you knew. We haven’t exactly been tiptoeing around in there.”

  “Where did you put my things?”

  “In the room next to mine.”

  “Damn! I’ve ruined everything!”

  Chuckling, he wiped his hands on a dish towel and pulled her to him, kissing her quickly on the mouth. “You haven’t ruined anything. Now get moving.”

  She started away, then turned back and said, “Put in the bread, will you? fifteen minutes at 350.”

  “Will do.”

  She kissed him hard on the mouth and literally ran for the back stairs. Laughing, he shook his head and got down to business.

  Somehow—he’d never quite understand it—she beat him back to the parlor. He heard her laughter as he crossed the entry hall and stopped in the doorway to see for himself if she really was already there. She was definitely there. And the sight of her fairly knocked his eyeballs out. She had piled her hair up loosely on top of her head and clipped a pair of dime-sized rhinestones to her earlobes, and she wore a dress that made his mouth water. It was as red as her lipstick and long-sleeved and fitted and short, with a neckline that came all the way up to her collarbone in front and plunged to her waist in back. She had little red shoes on her feet with closed toes supporting huge rhinestones and no backs whatsoever, and unless he missed his guess, she wasn’t wearing any stockings—or much of anything else beneath that dress. He’d seen bikinis that weren’t as sexy as that getup, and suddenly it was all he could do to shut his mouth and swallow.

  “Ah, our host!” Lincoln said. “Thought you’d abandoned us.”

  “I—” Morgan cleared his throat and moved into the room. “I got waylaid in the kitchen.”

  “Thank God one of us can really cook!” Denise said. “Otherwise, I’m afraid we’d be calling out for pizza!”

  Everyone laughed but Morgan. He walked across the room and slid his arm around her waist in a blatant gesture of possession. “She’s being too modest,” he said, more for
her ears than anyone else’s. “I made the sauce while she made herself beautiful. Now which one of us knows best what she’s doing?”

  She literally blushed, but she smiled, too, and it occurred to him that he was feeling mighty good just now. He got them both drinks and steered her toward the fainting couch. Everyone was talking and laughing when the buzzer went off in the kitchen. He set it a couple minutes early to allow for time getting to it. “That’s the bread,” he said, starting to rise.

  “No, let me,” Denise said, handing him her glass. “We’ll do this family-style if no one objects,” she said over her shoulder as she moved toward the door. “I’ll have it on the table in a jiffy.”

  “I’m all for serving myself,” Lincoln said. “Everyone else seems to underestimate my appetite.”

  “Honestly, Morg, you’d think I starved him!” Mavis complained cheerfully.

  “No one who can see him thinks you starve him, Mavis,” Rad quipped.

  After the laughter died down, Helen Faber said, “Looking at him, you’d think I starved Jess, but the man eats his weight three times a day, I swear, while I get fat on lettuce and carrots.”

  “You’re not fat, Helen,” Jess Faber said softly. “You’re big, and there’s a difference.”

  “Radley’s the real eater,” Leanne said then, her voice silky and cultured, “but it never shows.”

  “It will,” Morgan promised. “Wait’ll he hits forty.”

  “Or fifty!” Betty and Cleeve chimed.

  The conversation went on in that vein until Denise slid open the door to the formal dining room and announced that dinner was on the table. It was a fine dinner made excellent by the company. Afterward they sat around the parlor listening to recorded Christmas music and chatting amongst themselves. At one point Mavis stole Denise away, and the two of them conversed gaily for several long minutes, during which Morgan looked on indulgently, as pleased and at peace as he’d ever been. Somehow he had crossed a threshold tonight. His eyes went to Denise, and he thought to himself that she had meant for him to make a transition tonight. She had pushed him back into life, and he was suddenly so very grateful that he felt on the verge of tears. Reiver padded up next to his chair then and lay down at his feet, snuffling a deep sigh of contentment. It was a sentiment Morgan both understood and shared. Life was good. Life was very good.

  Christmas day began cold and gray. Without fresh snowfall, the fields and yards had grown muddy and dirty. But Denise’s mood would not be dampened. She thought of the smiles Morgan wore more often these past days and of the long kisses and secret looks they shared daily. The anticipation of what must surely come was utterly delicious, but wearing at times, so much so that she literally fled back to the haven of her own apartment in the late evenings. But one day, she told herself, one day that would not be necessary.

  She hopped out of bed and ground beans for coffee, letting it brew while she showered and dressed in red stirrup pants and a matching sweater embroidered with green and gold. She swept her hair back with a wide red band and clipped small gold hoops to her earlobes. While she sipped her coffee, she took out the presents that she had purchased for Morgan and took great pleasure in wrapping them in dark green paper printed with small red squares lined with gold. She attached a huge gold bow to the package containing the new racquet and case, a red one to the driving gloves and a green one to the engraved key chain and matching money clip. Radley’s gifts had been wrapped some days ago, but she’d saved Morgan’s for today, occasionally taking them out and looking at them in the interim. They weren’t anything special, but she had chosen them with love and care, taking great pleasure in doing so.

  As she filled Smithson’s bowl, the telephone rang.

  “Hello.”

  It was Morgan. “What’s keeping you? Breakfast is ready.” He sounded hungry and happy.

  She laughed. “I’m on my way.” She shoved the gifts into a bright red paper bag, stomped her feet into white snow boots and slung on a white parka with a rabbit-lined hood.

  Morgan opened the door before she got to it and came out to meet her on the porch. He threw his arms around her. “Merry Christmas! Wow, look at the loot!”

  They hurried into the house together. Radley was pouring orange juice and champagne in the dining room. Morgan had laid on the promised feast, providing everything from pecan waffles to eggs and hash browns, ham, bacon and sausage. There were biscuits as big as her fist, strawberries and pineapple and banana, maple and blueberry syrup, Irish oatmeal fragrant with cinnamon and brown sugar, and croissants drizzled with honey. “We can’t eat all this!” Denise exclaimed.

  “Speak for yourself,” Rad told her, grabbing a plate.

  They actually made quite a dent before adjourning to the parlor to divvy up the gifts. Denise was surprised at the haul she made, until she saw that her family had sent her gifts in care of Morgan. It was great fun. They took turns ripping open the packages, exclaiming over every gift like children. Radley’s gift to her was a beautifully framed photo of his father. Morgan’s was breathtaking, a narrow gold choker with what looked suspiciously like a diamond drop that could be easily transferred to a longer chain or a brooch. With it was a miniature version that she first took for a bracelet. A closer look showed that a name had been engraved inside, the name of her cat!

  “That one’s a fake,” he said, pointing at the “diamond” drop on the cat’s collar, “but don’t tell him. He’ll never forgive me.”

  She threw her arms around him. “You shouldn’t have!”

  “Oh, I’m not finished,” he promised her. “Get your coat. Rad will make the place presentable and keep brunch warm for the Fabers.”

  “They’re coming?”

  “They’re taking us out to dinner later,” Radley informed her. Shaking a finger at his father he said, “Don’t forget.”

  Morgan grinned. “Cross my heart.”

  Rad kissed Denise on the cheek and thanked her for the sweater and wallet. She noted a secretive twinkle in his blue eyes.

  Morgan made a point of tugging on his driving gloves as they walked out to the truck.

  “Where are we going?”

  He shook his head. “No questions. You’ll see.”

  When they turned back into the foothills above Fayetteville, she knew, but she wisely said nothing. Clearly he had a plan, and whatever else was afoot, he was ready for a return to the cabin. She hoped that she was, too, but she need not have worried. It was rather like going home, pulling up in that sloping yard. The snow was still deep and pristine here, except where someone had already been. Smoke wafted from the chimney, and the wonderful aroma of steaming apple cider reached her the instant she opened her door. Morgan took her hand and together they climbed up onto the porch, but instead of going inside, Morgan led her to the end of the porch looking out over the valley below. The sun had come out and a billowy white cloud floated upon the horizon above Fayetteville in the distance. The silence was absolute, the peace palpable.

  Denise squeezed his hand. “It’s so beautiful here.”

  He took a deep breath and blew it out again, frosting the air. “Yes. Yes, it is. That’s one reason I wanted to be here for this.”

  She wanted to ask him what “this” was, but something told her to let him come at it in his own way. He pulled her in front of him and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her against his chest.

  “This thing with Rad and Leanne is looking pretty serious.”

  “Yes, it is. How do you feel about that?”

  He shrugged. “Well, she’s not what I expected him to choose, but I can’t say I’m disappointed. She obviously adores him, and the Fabers certainly seem to approve. They’ve asked him to come into their business after he graduates next year.”

  “Have they? What business is that?”

  “Faber’s Furniture.”

  “Oh, my goodness! I never even put it together!”

  “I wondered, but I didn’t want to ask. Jess Faber made the offer
last night I rather expect an announcement at dinner tonight.”

  “An engagement, you mean?”

  He nodded. “That’s my guess.”

  She bit her lip. It was none of her business, but she couldn’t help saying it. “He’s awfully young.”

  “Yes, he is. Leanne is actually a couple years older than him. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on a long engagement, at least until he graduates.”

  “Think he’ll fight you?”

  “Actually, I don’t. Faber gave me the feeling that Leanne herself needs at least a year to finish her master’s in early childhood education. According to him, he’d hoped she’d come into the business, but she has her heart set on teaching kindergarten.”

  “So how are you feeling about all this?” she asked, turning within the circle of his arms.

  He smiled down at her. “Slow off the mark.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m not going to practice what I preach, at least not what I intend to preach to my son.”

  “Which is?”

  “Patience.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not following you.”

  He merely smiled and stroked his thumb over her bottom lip, the leather of his glove as soft as satin. “I wish Ben were here,” he said softly.

  She locked her arms about his waist. “I know. So do I.”

  “But maybe it’s better that he’s not, for what I have in mind.”

  She could only cock her head and admit, “Morgan, you’re confusing me.”

  His eyes roamed over her face, that oddly poignant smile still in place. Finally, he switched his gaze back to the valley below, saying, “I have a favor to ask, a large one.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “I want to spend my wedding night here.”