“Hell, that ain’t a dog!” Another burly mover rounded the truck to join my morning audience. “That’s just an overgrown rat!”
Indignation overcame humiliation. “He is not a rat. He is a Maltese—and he’s just a puppy.” Summoning the tatters of my remaining dignity, I marched up the steps and grabbed Makani. My face burned as I ignored the jeering laughter of the two movers and turned to leave the deck.
“What’s going on out there?” From within the darkness of the house, beyond the sliding glass door, I heard a husky voice. I squinted to make out a shape, but the man within didn’t move close enough to the doors to be more than a shadow.
“Hey, Mr. Reilly—nothing, just one of your new neighbors comin’ over to say hello.” Mover Number Two’s suggestive tone was barely veiled.
“No—my dog ran away over here—I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t realize anyone was living in the house. Not that my dog comes over here. Ever. Today was the first time—he heard people and just took off—” I realized I was babbling and shut my mouth with a snap. “Sorry.”
Mr. Reilly—for that was apparently the name of my new neighbor—moved just a bit closer to the open door. I could see now that he was tall and had light hair, but his face remained shadowed.
“No problem.” He spoke after a long silence. He turned to face the movers again, and through the shadows, I could see that while he wasn’t what my grandma would call skinny, he wasn’t a muscle-bound guy, either.
“If you don’t need anything else from me at the moment, I’ll be in the master bedroom, lying down. Just knock on the door when you’re finished.” He sounded tired, I thought. I wondered if he’d traveled a long way to get here. But before I could say anything or introduce myself properly, he disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.
The two moving men looked at each and shrugged. “Okay, whatever, boss,” the first one called. “We’ll take care of this.” Both of them trudged toward the front of the house where I could make out the front of a large moving truck. Makani and I were forgotten on the deck.
I looked down at the puppy in my arms. He’d stopped struggling to get down and was snuggled against me.
“Created enough trouble for one morning, huh?” I nuzzled the top of his head. “Great way to greet our new neighbor. Did it escape your notice that he was much closer to my age than anyone else around here? Hmmm?” I climbed down the few steps and headed back toward my own back door, where I caught sight of my reflection in the glass. I groaned. I’d just met this new guy looking like I wasn’t wearing any pants with my hair sticking out all over my head and pink night cream still in evidence below my eyes.
“Well, we made quite an impression, didn’t we?” I muttered to Makani as I hauled him inside and closed the door behind us. “The first man under seventy to move into the neighborhood, and I meet him looking like a skank. A skank with pink eye.”
The pup squirmed, and I let him down, watching absently as he scampered over the tile into the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder to see if I were following him to dish up the morning dose of wet food.
“I shouldn’t give you anything.” I tried to put on my stern face even as I walked toward the fridge. “After that stunt you pulled. . .it should be bread and water for you.”
The dog sat on his haunches and grinned up at me, his tongue lolling to one side.
“Oh, whatever.” I dug around for the canned food and spooned it into his plastic bowl. “Just don’t do that again. You can’t go running off to the neighbors’ houses. I’ll get a bad rep as a puppy mama.”
Makani barely spared me a glance as he gobbled up the food. Clearly good neighbor relations weren’t at the top of his priority list.
I waited until he’d finished eating and then put him into the crate so that I could shower in peace and dress in my daily uniform of shorts, a loose T-shirt and flip flops. Working at home in Florida definitely had its advantages; no suits, no high heel shoes and no frustrating commute. Just me, my laptop and my camera, and whatever ingredients had to go into the dish of the day.
Just as I was about to fire up the computer, my doorbell rang. I stood up fast, wondering if it could possibly be my new neighbor, stopping in for a cup of sugar. Or to declare his undying love for me. Or even just his unbridled lust. Whichever, I was cool with it.
Sadly, a peek out the window told me that my visitor was not of the hunky new neighbor variety. The person standing on my stoop was decidedly female and a good forty years my senior.
I opened the door, smiling. “Hey, Mrs. Mac. What’s up?”
She grinned up at me from below her fluffy gray bangs. “I just thought I’d stop by and make sure you had that terrifying monster dog of yours under control, you hussy, you!”
I swallowed a sigh. “So I take it that the story of my morning dash is already making the rounds, huh?”
“Sweetie, it was the hot topic at canasta this morning. Supposedly we have a new neighbor who’s right around your age, and you’re already throwing yourself at him. Dolores Sayers said she looked out her window and saw our very own Jackie O’Brien outside half-naked, flirting with the moving men. Becky Donavon said no, you forced your dog over there and tried to sweet-talk your way into the new fellow’s house, wearing nothing but a tight shirt and a smile.”
“Oh, for the love of Mike.” I stood back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, and I’ll set the record straight.”
She followed me back into the kitchen, huffing a little as her white sneakers squeaked on the tile. “Are you cooking today?”
“Yeah. I was just about to look at the recipe.” I pulled out a chair for her and pointed to the glossy hardcover book on the table. “Check out this one.”
“Oh, boy. What’s the title?” She reached for it and scanned the cover. “Feeling French and Frisky On The Cheap.” She rolled her eyes. “Good Lord, what next? What ever happened to the basics? When your grandmother and I were young marrieds, the cookbooks had practical names. Like Cooking on a Budget. Or Quick and Easy Meals for the New Wife.” She tapped the glossy cover on the table. “This sounds like it can’t decide whether it’s a recipe book or a sex manual.”
“Mrs. Mac!” I shook my head. “Honestly.”
She poked my arm. “When I was your age, being American and frisky was enough for us. And what does cheap have to do with it? Doesn’t cost anything to be frisky.”
“It’s these editors. They’re always looking for a more outrageous name than the last so they can sell more books.” I poured us each a cup of coffee and set down the mug in front my neighbor. “The chick who wrote this one has a show on the local cable station in Orlando. I guess she knows someone who knows someone at the magazine, and the next thing you know, I’m reviewing it.”
“Hmph. What’re you going to make?”
“Cute and Cocky Coq Au Vin.”
Mrs. Mac raised her eyebrows. “You’re putting me on. It’s not really called that.”
I laid my hand on my heart. “Swear to God. Can you believe it?” I sipped my coffee. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to be taken seriously as a food writer when I have to make stuff like this.”
“Maybe you don’t have to worry about that any more. Maybe you’ll hook yourself the man next door and be set for life.”
I snorted. “First of all, what makes you think I need a man to be set for life? Second, maybe he’s a total deadbeat, and he’d want me to support him, not the other way around. And last, with my luck he’s either taken or gay. Or he could be a lot older than he looked. I didn’t get a very clear view.”
“Nah, he’s not. I got the whole skinny on him from Poor Myrtle.” Poor Myrtle was thus called because many decades before, when she was only eighteen, she’d gotten married in haste and subsequently repented at leisure, as the saying went. Her erstwhile groom ran off after a month of marriage, and Myrtle never got over it. She didn’t ever remarry or even date, according to the Golden Rays scuttlebutt. Of course, what they didn’
t mention was that after her marriage debacle, she’d studied real estate and established her own agency in Pennsylvania. When retirement age rolled around, Poor Myrtle sold her business in a multi-million dollar deal and moved to Florida. She was bored down here, though, so she kept a desk in an agency and dabbled in the local housing market. Poor Myrtle, indeed.
“Oh, really? What does Poor Myrtle have to say? And why am I only hearing about this now? You could’ve told me before. I had no idea anyone was even moving in today.”
“I didn’t know, either. Apparently, his name is Lucas Reilly. He’s Ellen’s nephew. Poor Myrtle said Ellen left the house to him, and he told Myrtle he was moving down, but she figured he’d change his mind and just sell it. That’s why she didn’t say anything before now. She didn’t want to get our hopes up, since she never thought anyone as young as him would want to live down here with all us old fogeys.”
I tilted my head. “Hello? What does that say about me?”
She reached across and patted my hand. “Oh, honey, that’s different. You’re one of us.”
“Thanks.” Belonging was nice, sure, but being considered part of the crowd when the average age of that crowd was pushing ninety wasn’t what I was going for.
“Anyway, he decided to come down and live here.” She leaned forward, as thought someone might hear us in my kitchen with all the windows closed. “He’s a college professor. Or he was, but now he moved down here so he can write a book. Isn’t that a coincidence? He’s a writer, like you want to be.”
“Mrs. Mac, you know I am a writer already, right?”
“Of course I do. I just mean, he writes books. Or he will.” Mrs. Mac was of the opinion that the only writing that counted was inside two hard covers. My job as a cookbook reviewer for Food International didn’t qualify me for the title.
“Did Myrtle say anything. . .else about him?” I was trying to be subtle, which didn’t always work with my friend.
She cast her eyes upward, thinking. “He’s from New Jersey, he’s not married, and she’s pretty sure he’s straight. Hard to tell about that over the phone, though.”
“True enough.” But she’d at least delivered the single part. Or at least not married. Not that I was necessarily willing to take anyone’s word for that.
“So what do you think?” Mrs. Mac pushed her coffee cup to the side and leaned forward across the table.
“What do I think of what?” I knew damn well what she meant, but no way was I having it spread around that I was chasing after the new neighbor. Apparently enough rumors were already flying.
“This is your chance! How many times does the perfect guy move in right next to you? Not often, I’m here to say. Not often at all. Go for it.” She winked at me. “Unless you already have a plan in mind? Was that what this morning was all about?”
I flushed. “No. This morning was about Makani deciding to go on a mad run when he was supposed to be taking care of business in his own yard.”
“Were you really half-naked?”
“Of course not. I was wearing shorts and my Giants T-shirt.” I finished my coffee. “Not my first choice of attire for meeting new people, but definitely not half-naked. Not even a quarter naked.”
“That’s a shame.” Mrs. Mac wagged her head. “Might’ve worked in your favor. No one else in this block would have the guts to show up almost nude on the new guy’s deck.”
Even the thought of that scenario—my decidedly senior neighbors parading naked on anyone’s deck—made me mildly nauseated, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and stood up. “Besides, I’m not man-hunting. I’m sure he’s great, but I don’t need to stalk the guy the next door. I’ve got plenty of chances to meet people.”
“Sure, but men under 80 who’re unattached and practically fall right into your lap?” She raised her eyebrows. “And I know you’re not man-hunting, but Jackie, it’s been five years since Will. Four since Maureen passed. You’ve been languishing down here, and it’s time to move on. You don’t want to end up like Poor Myrtle, do you?”
“God, no! What a horrible thing to say to me. Don’t you know that’s what haunts my nightmares?” I shuddered. “But I’m still not desperate. I don’t need to jump the bones of the first available male who crosses my path.”
“Okay, whatever you say, sweet cheeks.” She pushed herself to stand up, too. “But if you were to decide to make a good impression, remember what my mama always said: the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And since you just happen to be cooking today. . .well, I guess you’ll figure it out. Right?”
“I’m sure. Thanks for stopping by.”
She waved her hand as she headed for the front door. “No, thank you for the coffee. And the scoop. I’ll make sure everyone understands you weren’t prancing around in your birthday suit. We have bingo tonight, so it should be easy to spread the word there.”
“Awesome.” The door slammed shut behind her, and I slumped back in my chair. Despite what I’d said to Mrs. Mac, I had to admit that the temptation of a single guy right next door who happened to be closer to my age than anyone else in a ten-block radius was pretty strong. And she did have a point: the kitchen was my happy place, and cooking was my secret weapon. Why not welcome my possibly-hot-new-neighbor by delivering a gourmet meal right to his door. . .and since I had to make this coq-au-vin recipe today anyway, there was apparently no time like the present.
“Watch out, Mr. Used-To-Be-College-Professor-Who-Now-Wants-To-Be-A-Writer.” I glanced out my kitchen window toward the house next door, where my two moving men buddies were still toting boxes. “Some Cute and Cocky Coq Au Vin is coming your way.”
***
MY KITCHEN SMELLED like heaven. Between the garlic and onions, the thyme and the wine. . .Mr. Lucas Reilly wouldn’t know what hit him when he tasted this dish. The names might’ve been corny, but the cookbook author had done a good job with the recipes themselves. She was getting a five-star review in my column.
With the aroma still surrounding me, I sat down in front of my laptop at the kitchen table and pounded out the article. Writing these things didn’t take long anymore; I’d perfected the balance of snark and self-deprecating humor, and my readers got a kick out of my food adventures. Nothing was off-limits, including my unplanned dash across the yard this morning.
. . .so imagine my surprise when the house next door wasn’t vacant as I’d thought. In fact, two big ol’ men were moving furniture into it from a truck parked at the curb. Yeah, those dudes got an eyeful of yours truly, prancing after the pup in just my PJs. My very scanty PJs. It’s enough to scar a girl.
So in my need to wipe this mortifying memory from my brain, I decided to indulge in a little culinary therapy. Today it took the form of an intriguing offering from Raya Johnson’s cheeky new cookbook Feeling French and Frisky On The Cheap. Since I was clearly feeling quite frisky, I tried out the Cute and Cocky Coq Au Vin. Oh. . .my. . .Julia Child. I wish I could send you each just a little bite. Of the chicken, you naughty girls and boys. Get your minds out of the gutter.
I shared the recipe, added the author’s bio and picture and then sprinkled in my own photos of the prep process. When my timer went off, I arranged one serving on the stark white plates I kept for food staging, added a little garnish and snapped a few last photos before I sent the whole kit and caboodle off to my editor.
Like many magazines, Food International had gone digital. A glossy edition went out once a quarter, while my column appeared on our website every week. I could do it in my sleep at this point. The writing wasn’t going to win me any Pulitzer prizes, but it was a living. Or at least part of a living: it paid me enough that I could make ends meet, thanks to my grandmother’s generosity in bequeathing me both this house and enough money to cover the annual taxes.
And clearly I’d been overlooking the perk of having gourmet food that I could share with potential hot guys. I arranged the chicken and vegetables in a white casserole dish and fastened the matching lid on t
op. I’d made one of my favorite loaves of crusty Italian bread, and I wrapped that in a wide linen napkin. Finally, I pulled a bag of washed greens from the fridge, tossed them in a small glass bowl with some chunky tomatoes, artichoke hearts and avocado and covered it with plastic wrap. My own homemade vinaigrette was in a small bottle, tucked next to the salad. Everything went into a sturdy wicker basket, along with a small bag of crunchy croutons.
Now that it was time to carry the meal over, nerves fluttered in my stomach. What if he thought I was crazy? And not in a fun, I-like-that-girl way? But more like obsessive-stalker-neighbor crazy? I caught sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror. My dark hair was up in a pony tail, my default style for cooking. My green eyes were serious and just a tad worried. I’d changed out of the cooking-splattered shirt I’d worn all day and into a clean black shirt with my denim shorts. I looked decent; not drop-dead, jaw-hanging gorgeous, but not completely repulsive either. Not bad for thirty-something, either.
I bit my lip, thinking, shifting the basket from one hand to the other. The house was silent; the entire neighborhood was quiet. It was late afternoon, and all of my senior friends were out catching early bird specials. In one of those rare moments of absolute clarity, I had a sudden image of my life, and what it might be if nothing changed. I’d live here in this house for the rest of my days, watching the people around me die one by one, until all the houses had turned over to new elderly folk. Eventually I’d stop being the young one in the neighborhood. I’d be part of the crowd. Just like Mrs. Mac had said today.
I’d grown lazy in the past few years. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone out with anyone close to my own age; my best friend still lived in New York, and it’d been months since we’d seen each other. I wasn’t above a game of canasta or bingo with the ladies on the block, but even those outings didn’t appeal to me lately. Since Will. . .I pushed away the thought of that particular betrayal. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t exactly pain, but what had gone down with my once-upon-a-time fiancé had definitely made me gun shy. Or maybe more accurately, guy shy.
Death Fricassee Page 2
