Boxer Next Door

by Summer Cooper

  With a huff, she shed her chemise and pulled on some cotton pajamas to sleep in. Bundling the seductive evening gown with her discarded silk robe and tucking them into their original drawer. Padding back to her bed and slipping under her covers, she was startled at how quickly exhaustion crept up on her. Try as she might, the weight on her eyelids grew too heavy for her to keep them open. Even as her jaw extended in a wide yawn and she snuggled deeper into her blankets, she noticed the bed felt just a little less empty, and smiled to herself for it.

  Chapter Forty-One

  With morning came dressing in more than her dress from the previous night (thankfully she kept spare clothes here for when she would stay the night,) gathering up her discarded clothes from the night before, and getting her car from the garage to drive home. The whole time, she felt as though she were floating, and was only certain that the events of the last night were real because when she woke, her phone had a message from him – 'I hope you slept well, and dreamt of me.' She still felt like she was floating on a cloud when she pulled her car into her house's garage, and began to walk to her front door.

  Upon reaching her front door, something out of place caught her eye: resting upon the door to her house was a white box, wrapped with a red ribbon. She frowned as she approached, not remembering expecting anything to be sent to her. Then again, perhaps her mother wanted to send a gift of some sort. As she neared, she saw a note tucked into the ribbon, folded. 'To my Goddess most Divine' was scrawled neatly on the top. Her lips thinned into a wry smile. There was sure to be gossip amongst her neighbors, if there wasn't before, even if all anyone might have seen was a gift box. She arched a brow, but brought the box in her house nonetheless.

  Setting the mystery package down and hanging her keys up on her key rack, she opted to ignore it in favor of unpinning her hair and setting the pins in her jewelry box. Next came her necklace, and it soon joined her ornate pins in the menagerie of baubles and finery. But even as she sat down to brush the tangles out of her hair once it was freed of its intricate hairstyle, she found it difficult to pull her gaze from the mysterious box. With a sigh, she set her hairbrush down. With nothing left to use as an excuse to keep ignoring it, she plucked the card from the top of it, and opened it to read what message she could see scrawled there.

  'Clara – I couldn't find golden roses to match your eyes, so please accept these blue ones that matched mine – Daryl P.S. No, I don't know your address, your brother promised he'd get these to you!' She tamped down on her excitement and pulled the ribbon free so she could lift the lid of the box. She gaped at the contents, lifting them for inspection. Tucked safely inside was a vase of beautiful bright blue and gray roses. The vase itself was an intricate gold swirled thing, clearly expensive. She eased them out of the box tenderly, her cheeks hurting from how wide her smile was.

  Going to the kitchen to fill the vase with water for the roses, she was struck by how very much like Daryl these flowers and this vase were. No, Daryl may not fit perfectly into her life, much in the same way that these roses and vase looked positively clashing against both each other and literally everything in her house, but even still, she could make it work. She could appreciate the way that the roses looked on her kitchen table, even though they didn't fit with her posters, or her rugs, or her walls in any way shape or form, because it was something she chose to have in her life in spite of that. She pulled her phone out to call Daryl immediately, to call him and thank him for the flowers.

  “Hello?” She heard him say after a few minutes of just hearing the dial tone.

  “You're no doubt going to be leaving soon,” she said softly, fingertips touching the petals of the roses, enjoying their soft texture.

  “I was actually about to gather my things to check out of my hotel, and go to the airport. Is everything alright?” He sounded so concerned, her heart hurt from how happy she felt.

  “Everything's fine,” she reassured him. “I just wanted to thank you for the roses. They're lovely.”

  “Ah,” he coughed, clearly embarrassed. “I wanted to send you something nice, but I didn't know what. Charles actually gave me the idea. I hope they aren't too out of place?” She could sense the double question, the implication of him being fearful of having no place in her life, of their relationship, still in its infancy, having no place in her busy schedule.

  “Not at all,” she decided on both counts, smiling so much that her cheeks were sore. “I think they're perfect.”

  The End

  Exclusive Novels

  Part I

  New Neighbors

  Chapter One

  I’ve always wanted to own a house. My grandmother owns one. It’s a hundred-year-old farm house, updated just enough for indoor plumbing, which clangs and sputters each time you turn the spigot on or flush the toilet. The floor boards are splintered, the varnish peeled back, but I think if you tried to sand down the floors to refinish them, there wouldn’t be much left of the wood.

  It has a hundred-year smell; cooking scents piled one over another, moldy corners, human and animal sweat, continuous living that never noticed the house was settling into old age. I grew up in her house after my dad abandoned me and my mom. I don’t remember a great deal about it except we had lived in a trailer park before and when we moved, the house felt like a huge, wonderful, mysterious castle to a six-year-old girl.

  I’ve always wanted a house, but at twenty-nine, it seemed a distant goal. There aren’t a lot of options growing up in rural North Carolina. I had attended the University for a while, earning a culinary arts degree, but truthfully, the greatest demand was for chicken fried steak and when it comes to southern cooking, there’s a whole lot of competition.

  My big dream was to live in a big city as a chef at a four-star restaurant, but that didn’t really seem possible either until something very surprising happened. I should say tragic, except I didn’t feel much tragedy, only complete amazement. My father died, leaving me, Jenna, the daughter who he never made contact with, the sole heir of his fortune.

  Most of his assets had been liquidated to pay outstanding debts and legal fees, including his bank account and his automobile, but once the executor had even eliminated a small collection of silver and gold coins to even up the balance, there was still the house, with only nineteen months of mortgage payments left.

  Mom wanted me to sell. According to the attorney’s calculations, if the house sold within the next six months, I stood to gain seventy thousand dollars. I thought this was somewhat low, but he explained to me it was an older house in one of the older districts of Seattle and needed a lot of renovation to meet with a bank’s lending specifications. Plus the real estate agents would want their cut.

  Maybe if I had been twenty-one, I would have considered it, but I was nearly thirty. From blowing it all on a tropical vacation, I had graduated to “how can I make good for the rest of my life?” It was a serious question, and I seriously discussed it with my two best friends, Briana and Linda.

  We had been friends since grade school. By high school, we’d earned the nickname, “the bounteous blondes”. That is to say, we’re big-boned girls, but we really know how to rock the night. We do it so well, we’ve never really had time to get married, which is just as well because, as it turned out, we all had our eyes set on the horizon.

  When all the particulars of my inheritance had been settled through that blessed invention called teleconference, I called the troops over and offered a proposal. “How would you like to move to Seattle?”

  “Are you kidding?” gushed Briana. “I have always, always wanted to be an airline stewardess and Seattle has an international airport. An international one. Can you imagine how many hot guys come through there? I could meet Jason Bourne.”

  “Jason Bourne isn’t a real person.”

  “Of course not! He always uses a pseudonym. Anyway, don’t spoil my fantasy. How are we going to move to Seattle?”

  “By pooling all our resources. I’ve got a house
. All we have to do is meet the last mortgage payments.”

  “How many are there?” Asked Linda, mixing another Kahlua and coffee before returning to her chair at the kitchen table. She always was the more economically inclined among us.

  “Nineteen at thirteen hundred a month.”

  “In less than two years it would be yours.”

  “In name, but really, it would be ours. We would all share in the blessing. The attorney says it’s large; two stories with four bedrooms and two baths. A big house in Seattle; how cool can it get?”

  Linda laced her fingers together. “I think it would be more fun than becoming a beautician in Raleigh.”

  I beamed at her. Poor Linda had put herself through beauty college and the only job she could find was at a salon in Sanford, giving conservative haircuts to middle aged women. She felt as restricted in her career’s future as I did.

  By unanimous vote, we sold everything we decently could, packed what we couldn’t bear to leave behind in an old travel trailer, and into the back and piled on the top of an old Ford Bronco. We felt like the Beverley Hillbillies, except we weren't rolling in dough and our destination was Washington, not California. We had, however, been notched up a bit on the pyramid from renters to land owners. That’s enough to make anyone feel wealthy.

  We had never really been travelers before, but we’d managed to leave some prints in the Carolina landscape. The Interstate was a breeze compared to some of our back roads, and we made pretty swift time, although I think the Bronco would have preferred to eat a little dirt and blunder through potholes. It was happiest when it found some secluded trail to wander into so we could spend the night.

  It wasn’t until we hit the first querulous bumps of the Rockies that we realized we were entering a whole different world. Evergreens clustered closer together and grew taller. The Bronco climbed harder than it had ever done, sometimes overwhelmed by the rock faces rolling away from us. Farms were smaller, towns more modern, but also more staggered out.

  There were also more campgrounds and a lot of outdoorsy good- looking men. We became distracted a few times before the strong call of the Northwest carried us onward.

  There isn’t any true flat land in the northwest, but it didn’t take us long to get used to zipping up and down hills, around dangerous curves riding alongside every inch of the way, a wall of stone-cut mountains.

  Seattle has an answer for its curvy roads. They swing wide, circle around each other in that terrifying maneuver known as a round-about, and overlap in arches that allow you a momentary unrestricted view of the city. The outskirts of Seattle contain the residential districts, cut neatly into the hills and tumbling over the top of each other. The roads flow gently around stone walls and picket fences.

  Our poor old Bronco was going through culture shock by the time we had finished the last leg of our journey. I’m sure it was absolutely amazed it had found no valleys or plains to coast through, no dirt to rub into its axel grease, no straight-away for the last several hundred miles. It huffed and puffed like an eighty-year-old running a marathon race. As we pulled into the drive of our new home, it sighed, letting off a cloud of steam.

  We jumped out of the car whooping and jiggling our breasts at each other as we slapped hands. The house wasn’t big by southern farmhouse standards but ample enough for the three of us. What was wonderful was that it had a sloping yard with several uncared for rose bushes, a front porch, and a garage. Our poor Bronco would receive some tender loving care as soon as we found a neighborhood mechanic. It was also a great place to store junk, which we were all in the habit of accumulating. Our “can’t bear to leave it” list had nearly included the kitchen sink.

  Singing and dancing to “Fat Bottomed Girls” on the music player, we bounced up the steps to our new home and opened the door. The living room and kitchen were both very large and occupied most of the first floor. The only other partitions were a bathroom, a laundry room, and a den. The four bedrooms were upstairs, along with the extra bathroom. Other than the fixtures, the built- in cabinets, closet, and bar, plus a stove and refrigerator, the house was completely empty of furniture or appliances.

  This was fine with us. We had our own preferences in décor and it was doubtful my father’s tastes would have served us well. After unloading the Bronco, we stood out on the porch, taking in our surroundings. Since the neighbors lived in layers up the hillside, there was plenty to see, but the most attractive sight was right next door.

  Briana said it first. “I’ve just died and gone to heaven. We’ve got a fox just turning to silver out in the field.”

  “What makes you think he’s single?” Asked Linda.

  “Look at the curtains in the window. They’re all man curtains, dark and straight. And seriously, girls, if someone owned that hunk of man, wouldn’t she be at least watching over her booty? He’s half-naked, pushing a lawn mower. Ladies, I do declare this is unclaimed territory and it’s our bound duty to claim it.”

  We called out to him and waved. He looked up a minute, scowled, then continued to mow. We called out again, gesturing, and finally, he shut down his machine and walked around the fence. “I’m going to tell you straight up I don’t have time for a lot of foolishness and I don’t like loud rock music. So, whatever your game is, ladies, I’m not a part of it.”

  “Don’t be cranky,” said Briana. “We just wanted to say hello.”

  “Hello,” he said, starting to leave.

  “We have a problem,” I called after him, somewhat surprised at my boldness. “Our Bronco died just as we pulled into the driveway and we need to push it into the garage.”

  Linda started to protest and I nudged her. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “The Bronco is quite dead. I don’t know what we will do without a little help.”

  He made a sour face, but at last, he came around to our side of the fence. “Put it in neutral,” he grumbled at Linda, who had already jumped into the driver’s seat. She did as she was told as though the proper gear would have been a complete mystery to her without instructions. Bianca and I flanked our neighbor on both sides to push from in back. The sweat popped out on his face quite a bit more than would usually be accompanied in a Bronco pushing effort, as two pairs of generous bosoms barely clad by their low-cut blouses, squeezed up against his shoulders. He squirmed a bit and we squeezed closer still.

  Briana and I are both strong women. If the Bronco had been truly broken, which it wasn’t, we would have been able to bump it into the garage in half the time we took with our neighbor, but we dallied. We pretended to slip and stumble, routinely requiring the neighbor’s assistance. We cheated. We didn’t really push that hard, leaving the neighbor to do most of the work.

  When it was parked, our new neighbor looked a little worse for the wear. “Thank ye,” I told him in my best Southern drawl. “I really don’t know what we would have done without you. We would have had to pay someone and goodness knows we’ve spent nearly our last penny getting here. Our kitchen isn’t set up yet, but we can at least offer you a beer.” He was too tired to resist.

  We set him up on the steps of the porch with a cold one and crowded in around him. He took several nervous gulps, then sat with the can gripped tightly in his hands. “Look, girls. I can see you are all friendly and very lively young women. But I have a far more serious line of work than any of you can probably imagine. I’m a doctor. My profession requires a lot of strenuous mental activity. I need peace and quiet when I return home. Mowing my lawn relaxes me. Bobbing up and down with three large, blonde women does not. It’s exhausting.”

  “Oh, you poor dear!” Said Briana sympathetically. “You’re all wound up.” She leaned down from an upper step, her breasts brushing close to his cheek. “We know just the things that will help you. Some chamomile tea, a head massage...”

  “What would help is if you maintain a low volume with your music and try to refrain from so much… exuberance. And I would hope you will keep things more orderly than my last neighbor.”<
br />
  “You knew Henry Lange?” I asked, without thinking.

  “Better than I would have preferred. Why? Did he owe you money, or did he promise you a diamond ring then run off?”

  “Neither. I never knew him.”

  “Good for you.” He stood and stretched. “Now that we’re clear, I don’t expect any trouble between us.”

  “Are we on a first name basis, doctor?” Breathed Briana. She pointed to herself. “Me, Briana. Her, Linda. Other her, Jenna. You?”

  “Lee. But I think you should probably call me Dr. Andrews.”

  He swung his damp tee shirt over his shoulder and sauntered back into his yard. We giggled among ourselves. It felt like the time we all had the same ninth grade teacher for English Literature. Seamus McCarthy absolutely breathed knock-down, good-looking Irish charm, and here he was, stuck in a classroom with three budding sirens with as much adrenaline as Vikings. Poor Mr. McCarthy must have gripped his rosary every night, praying for fortitude against temptation.

  The thing is, when you’re five-foot-nine, blonde as a daisy and haven’t had less than a thirty-eight-inch bust since you were fifteen, you read through men like their testosterone levels were captions. We didn’t learn much in English lit except that James Joyce was one messed up dude, but Mr. McCarthy learned that teaching ninth grade girls was a dangerous occupation.