One in a Million

by Susan Mallery

  Yes, JT thought with relief. Alone would be good. He attempted his goodbye again. “Well, thanks—”

  The elevator ding sounded, reminding him that Mrs. Sanchez had said she would bring Kenzie food and an official welcome today.

  “—forthemail,” he blurted. Then he shoved his door closed.

  He caught a glimpse of Kenzie’s mouth falling open. She was probably taken aback by his rudeness. If she’d known he was saving her from possible matchmaking attempts, she might have appreciated his efforts. A moment later, there was another knock. JT, trying to learn from his mistakes, was slow to answer.

  “It’s Sean,” his friend called from the hall. “I know you’re home. I just saw you shut the door in some poor woman’s face.”

  JT ushered him in. “Don’t judge me. It’s complicated. You want a beer? I could use a beer.”

  Sean, dapper in a button-down shirt and slacks, and making JT feel like the Wild Man of Borneo in comparison, frowned. “Do you even have beer in the apartment?”

  “Um…no.” On his wedding anniversary, back in February, JT had gotten stinking blind drunk. After that, the thought of booze had made him sick for months and he’d avoided keeping any around. “Can I get you some lemonade?”

  “All right, but only one, I have to drive,” Sean deadpanned. “Tell me about the hottie in the hall.”

  “You can’t call Kenzie a hottie,” JT objected as he pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. “She has two kids.”

  “The boy and girl? She doesn’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

  JT recalled what she’d said about marrying as a teenager, but didn’t share the information with his friend; it seemed like a violation of privacy. “Why exactly are you here? Please don’t tell me it’s to ask if I’m painting anything. I was up until dawn, sketching and mixing colors on a canvas until my vision blurred.”

  “About that.” Sean squirmed, looking uncomfortable, which was worrisome. Sean rarely let anything discomfit him. “Now, don’t be mad.”

  Lemonade missed its destination, splashing on the counter rather than into a glass. JT narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

  “I was thinking entirely of you,” Sean said. “Well, mostly of you. Partially. We are business partners. Financially linked?”

  “I’m aware. Cut to the chase.”

  Sean swallowed. “I accepted a commission for you.”

  “You what?”

  “This older couple, the Owenbys, came into the gallery last night. You’d like them. Real marine-life enthusiasts, big contributors to the aquarium—”

  “Sean!”

  “They saw the abstract seascape mural of yours in Tennessee and want to hire you to do a much smaller version for their home.”

  “No.”

  “I told them they could leave a down payment with me and that I’d work out the details with you. Think of me as your agent.”

  “Which you aren’t!”

  “Don’t you even want to know how much they’re paying?”

  “You had no business accepting that check!” JT thundered. He’d contact them and tell them no. Sean would refund their money. That would be that.

  “I’m trying to help.” Sean had raised his voice, too. It was unlike him to show such blatant emotion, which made his angry insistence doubly effective. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve bottomed out.”

  “Gee, that escaped my attention.”

  “JT, I’m the best friend you’ve got, so get your head out of your ass and think it over. This doesn’t even require the creativity of having a new idea. All you have to do is duplicate what already exists.”

  Pathetic. People were really willing to pay him money for that?

  He wondered absently what his checking account looked like these days. He’d been coasting on some previous investments, what he’d made on the house sale and his part of the gallery proceeds. Gallery earnings, according to what Sean told him at lunch the other day, had steadily dipped for the past quarter. God, he was pathetic. Sean essentially did all the work in what was supposed to be a joint venture, picking up JT’s slack for two years. Shame burned in his gut.

  Maybe this was a way for JT to step up to the plate. Skulking around his apartment and waiting for his next great idea hadn’t netted results.

  “I thought it would help get you back in the habit,” Sean pressed. “Kick-start your artistic drive.”

  “Oh, well then, I’ll just slap some blue squiggly lines on a canvas and we’ll all be happy, won’t we?” But JT’s sarcasm had lost its venomous edge. If he revisited a former painting, might it help him recapture what painting had been like back when he actually had inspiration?

  He would do the painting, but he was still infuriated by Sean’s high-handed techniques. Infuriated that he’d been reduced to this. He took a swig of his lemonade and walked past Sean, carrying both glasses.

  “Where are you going with those?”

  JT didn’t bother glancing back. “To my studio to see if I can find something toxic to mix into yours.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  “You should leave before I change my mind.”

  The front door opened before JT even finished his sentence, followed by a muffled whoop of triumph from the hall. JT was alone with two glasses of lemonade and the sudden fear that the only thing more pathetic than repainting something he’d already done would be painting a version that sucked.

  Then again, at this point, what did he have left to lose?

  Chapter 4

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Leslie said from the beanbag chair where she was rereading The Trumpet of the Swan. “It still looks crooked.”

  Kenzie paused at the top of her stepladder to shoot her daughter a mock glare. “She who decides she’d rather read than help does not get to offer criticism.”

  “Would you actually let us help?” Drew asked excitedly, temporarily forgetting his handheld video game. “I didn’t think I was allowed to climb up there or use a hammer.”

  “Well,” Kenzie said, backpedaling, “there are lots of other things you could be doing if you wanted to lend a hand. Like wiping the remaining cabinets and drawers with a wet paper towel so I can finish putting away kitchen stuff.”

  Drew scrunched up his nose. “Lame.”

  Lame, huh? Then she hated to think what it said about her that she’d experienced a thrill of heady satisfaction after applying shelf liner to the pantry and closets last night.

  Her moment of triumph, though, hadn’t held quite the zing as the visceral thrill that had shot through her body when she’d seen JT’s naked chest. That had been a much different sensation. Even now she tingled at the memory, glancing down guiltily to make sure the kids didn’t realize their mom was having premature hot flashes over the new neighbor. She fanned herself with the framed picture she held.

  “Mom?”

  She almost jumped—not the best reaction at the top of a ladder. “Yes, Drew?”

  “Why are you even hanging all this stuff?” he asked. “You’re just gonna have to take it down in a couple of months when we move again.”

  For a change, he didn’t sound bitter about relocating, merely curious.

  “It’s true that we won’t be here long, but I want us to be comfortable and happy in the meantime.” She indicated the pictures she’d already nailed into place. “This stuff makes me happy.”

  It was amazing how far some family pictures on the wall and colorful hand towels in the kitchen could go toward making a place cheerful and inviting. Mr. Carlyle had told them that residents in this particular building were allowed to make more changes than most, in terms of knobs, light fixtures and even painting the walls. Tenants were simply required either to return t
heir surroundings to their original condition when they left or to pay for management to do so. Her short time here wasn’t worth such effort, but she found herself imagining the difference she could make in the small apartment. It was cozier than it had first seemed when the atmosphere had been permeated with crankiness and the odor of damp cardboard.

  There was a single bathroom, unfortunately, and it only held the toilet and bathtub. They each had a mirrored vanity and small private sink in the corner of their rooms. Like a hotel, Drew had said. Leslie had been ecstatic to have counter space for her hair stuff and lip gloss, and that she didn’t have to share with her brother.

  Because she was hammering a nail into the wall, Kenzie didn’t realize there was someone at the door until Drew pointed it out to her. Leslie looked up with mild surprise, having been too engrossed in her novel to notice the knocking, either.

  “Coming!” Kenzie called, descending from the ladder.

  “Do you think it’s that tall man?” Leslie asked. “The one who lives across the hall?”

  “JT? I doubt it. I expect it’s Mr. C. He said he’d be over sometime this weekend to fix my ceiling fan,” Kenzie said. “What made you think of JT?”

  Leslie shrugged. “He seems weird. Opening and shutting his door yesterday without saying anything. Standing there with no shirt and messy hair today. Like this creepy professor I read about in a mystery once where—”

  “Les, later, okay?” Kenzie didn’t want to open the door while her daughter was cataloging what she perceived as JT’s eccentricities after only two brief encounters. My kid is either too quick to judge, or she’s bizarrely perceptive. After all, weren’t a lot of artists known for being eccentric?

  Like musicians.

  She told herself that her potent physical reaction to JT earlier was just the unexpected shock of being that close to undressed male flesh, quite a rarity for her. If Kenzie ever dated again, it wouldn’t be with a sleep-tousled artist sporting careless dabs of paint across his flat abdomen. No, she would take the smart route…someone like the attractive man in the shirt and slacks who’d appeared in the hallway just as JT fled into the recesses of his apartment with hardly a goodbye. Les is right. He’s a little weird.

  Luckily, not everyone in the building was mysterious, antisocial and averse to smiling. Kenzie opened the door to find a short, dark-haired woman beaming at her over the top of a foil-wrapped casserole dish.

  “I’m Roberta Sanchez,” the lady said in a faintly accented voice. “Welcome to Peachy Acres!”

  “Thank you,” Kenzie said, touched. The friendly gesture of hospitality reminded her of Raindrop; she hadn’t necessarily expected to find it so close to the heart of a city. “Please come in. I’m Kenzie Green, and these are my kids, Drew and Leslie.”

  Drew sniffed the air like a hound. “What kind of food did you bring?” he demanded.

  “Drew, don’t be rude.” The way her son acted, people probably thought Kenzie habitually starved him.

  “How was I rude?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you think she wants us to be interested in whatever she made?”

  Mrs. Sanchez gave him a look that convinced Kenzie the older woman had children of her own. “Regardless, you should not talk back to your mother.” Then she smiled, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it’s tamale pie.”

  It smelled incredible, and Kenzie’s stomach gurgled with appreciation. She’d been so caught up in the visual progress she was making in the apartment that she hadn’t realized how close it was getting to dinnertime. And heaven knew that when Leslie was lost in a book, she didn’t stop to eat or sleep unless prompted. Oops. In light of her sarcastic thoughts about Drew’s appetite, she experienced a little pinch of guilt.

  “So it’s a dessert?” Drew asked.

  “Different kind of pie.” Kenzie took the warm pan from Mrs. Sanchez. Breathing in the scent of spiced meat and melted cheeses, she feared she might start drooling. “Leslie, say hello to our visitor.” Which doesn’t mean a halfhearted wave without glancing up from the page, she added with telepathic sternness.

  Thankfully, the girl put the book down—after carefully saving her place with a bookmark bearing the wand-wielding image of Daniel Radcliffe. “Hi, I’m Leslie Green. You live in the building?”

  Mrs. Sanchez nodded. “You’ll love it here.”

  “We’re not staying long,” Drew said, his eyes locked on the dish in Kenzie’s hand as he practically vibrated with the unspoken question, When can we eat?

  “No?” Mrs. Sanchez looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s too bad. I already told some of my grandchildren that they might have kids to play with when they visited. And Jonathan—JT—could use some company. This floor is practically deserted.”

  “Are you sure he wants company?” Leslie asked. “He reminds me a little of this guy in a story who kept to himself and had crazy eyes. No one could prove anything, but the characters suspected—”

  “Leslie! Why don’t you find some plates? We should eat this wonderful-smelling tamale pie before it gets cold,” Kenzie said. Drew bounded toward the kitchen, eager to assist if it meant eating soon.

  Leslie was slower, heaving a sigh as she trudged after him. “No one ever wants to hear about my books. I thought parents were supposed to be happy when their children liked to read.”

  “Less attitude, more cooperation,” Kenzie admonished. Then she turned back to Mrs. Sanchez, who was trying not to smile. “Sorry. They’re not always like this.” Sometimes they’re worse.

  “I understand. I raised four.” The woman’s gaze held both amusement and empathy. “You seem like you have your hands full. It’s just you and the children?”

  Kenzie nodded. “They don’t see my ex on what you’d call a ‘regular’ basis.”

  Mrs. Sanchez clucked her tongue. Something about her made Kenzie want to brew a pot of tea, sit down with the other woman and confide all her problems and doubts. Kenzie blinked, surprised by the impulse. She was accustomed to being self-sufficient. Her mother and father, bless their well-intentioned hearts, hadn’t been big believers in hands-on parenting, afraid that too many guidelines and rules would “stifle” her individuality. So she’d made a lot of decisions from a young age…including the one to marry Mick.

  Getting pregnant hadn’t been a deliberate decision so much as a spontaneous celebration of a gig that was going to “put his band on the map.” She’d never regretted having the twins, but once they were born, she had not only herself to look after but two small, dependent babies. Mick’s failed attempts to be there for them had reinforced her determination to be independent. She must really be tired from the move if she was tempted to lean on a total stranger.

  Straightening, Kenzie regained her composure. “Will you stay and eat with us, or do you have family waiting for you to join them for dinner?”

  “Enrique and I ate early—he says waiting too late gives him heartburn at night—but I would love to stay for a few minutes and get to know you better.”

  Kenzie dished up three servings of the tamale pie and poured glasses of sweet tea. At her first bite of the dinner, she nearly moaned. “Oh, this is so good!” she told a delighted Mrs. Sanchez.

  Drew grunted acknowledgment, but refused to slow his eating long enough to vocalize praise. Leslie looked disgusted by his behavior.

  “Boys,” she muttered imperiously. “Mrs. Sanchez, would you give my mom and me the recipe for this? We probably couldn’t make it this good, but it might be fun to try.”

  “I’m pleased you like it!” Mrs. Sanchez said. “I’ll bring the recipe up sometime this week.”

  “No practicing cooking while I’m at work, though,” Kenzie told her daughter. “Sandwiches and microwaved snacks only.” The kids were maturing, but not enough that she wanted them messing with a gas stove unsuper
vised.

  When conversation revealed that Mrs. Sanchez was home most days, Kenzie thought about getting the woman’s phone number so that the kids had an emergency contact right here in the building. Mrs. Sanchez seemed to know every one of their neighbors. Along with Mr. C., the first-floor tenants were a young married couple with a two-year-old who begged them to take her for rides on the elevator, a Georgia Tech grad student and the crusty Wilders.

  “They’ve been married nearly forty years and have raised bickering to an art form,” Mrs. Sanchez told Kenzie after the kids had cleared the table and returned to their abandoned book and video game. “They tell anyone who will listen that they’re determined to outlive the other. If you ask me, though, they’re crazy about each other and smart enough to know nobody else would put up with either of them.”

  The second floor, where Mrs. Sanchez and her husband lived, included a woman with six cats—Kenzie hated to think about her pet-deposit bill—and a family with two teenage daughters. Mrs. Sanchez said that should Kenzie ever need a sitter, she could give fifteen-year-old Alicia a call.

  “Not her older sister, though. Boy crazy, that one. If she was thinking about a boy or on the phone with a boy—which she always is—she wouldn’t notice a child spurting arterial blood in front of her. Then there’s the third floor,” Mrs. Sanchez continued. “You, a flight attendant named Meegan and, of course, Jonathan. You’ve met him?”

  Kenzie nodded. Questions bubbled up inside her, trying to pop free, but she bit her tongue. Voicing any curiosity conflicted with her resolve as a practical single mother to have no interest in him.

  Mrs. Sanchez paused, her prolonged silence and dark eyes making Kenzie feel as if she had to say something.

  “He, uh, seems nice. We didn’t talk much, but he helped me carry some stuff to the apartment when I dropped a box on the stairs.”

  “He’s a good man,” Mrs. Sanchez said, her tone wistful. “Sometimes, I wish I could have known him before…”

  “Before what?” The question spilled out of its own volition. Ann would be so disappointed. Hadn’t Kenzie, approaching thirty, learned to temper her impulses with more discipline?