Next To You

by Sandra Antonelli

  It had become apparent earlier in the day that nothing inside the boxes matched the label on the outside. Shoes were in a box marked Dishes, dishes were in a box marked Sweaters, and the only set of pajamas she had managed to find to for this evening—a thin, cotton nightgown—had been in the box marked Jeans and Slacks.

  She had to sort out the mess of mismarked boxes. She had to find the stupid old mood ring. She had to find the coffee maker. She had to sort out her clothing because, even though September was just the start of autumn, autumn called for richer, deeper colors, and she was determined not to go to work Monday with a caffeine-withdrawal headache, wearing a bud-green cotton twin-set meant for summer.

  Chapter 2

  The tines of the fork speared a blood-red cherry. Alex raised the bite to his mouth and chewed. He waited for an infusion of sweetness, for a smooth, buttery melt to spread on his tongue. Yet the pie he’d baked with his own hands, and delivered to his café, tasted of nothing. He stared down at the plate and the pie looked beautiful. It was beautiful because he took pride in his food and painstaking care to ensure his cuisine was always exceptional, always perfect. The piecrust, he knew, was flaky, had substance without being chewy and, even though he couldn’t taste it, a buttery flavor balanced by sweet and salty that complemented the tart-sweet Ferrovia cherries. In the span of three days, life had lost its flavor and he’d lost whatever had been left of his good sense.

  The employees at Jonesing had noticed a difference in their boss too. He’d overheard their whispers. They all knew his story. He’d been stuck on a slope of glumness. Of course they’d known. Three years ago, he’d withdrawn from being a social animal schmoozing with clients and city big wigs. His gregarious nature had shrunk as his beard sprouted and his auburn hair grew down his back. Unlike Samson drawing strength from his locks, the longer Alex’s hair got, the more his energy was sapped, the more sullen, quiet, and withdrawn he became.

  But his business had never suffered a descent into the heavy blues like he did. The employees working alongside him, those apprentices preparing trays of finger food, the pastry chefs baking delectable cakes, pies and strudels, and the kitchen hands who lugged fresh produce from the wholesaler, had grown used to the time they spent with their morose boss. Slowly, he’d begun to turn that all around. There’d been glimpses of old Alexander Jones, the fun pastry chef and caterer. When he laughed, which had been seldom, his entire body laughed too, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide, slapping his thighs while his eyes watered.

  Then the weekend happened. Alex arrived at work and the weak, full-maned anti-Samson was no more. Depression had vanished from that man. A snarling, sarcastic, wool-faced pirate had replaced him, and word quickly got around the kitchen he did not have a rapier wit. Over a weekend, after four successful, lucrative and perfectly executed events downtown, Alex walked into the Jonesing kitchen a vicious, insufferable man.

  And he knew it.

  By Wednesday, the staff that had once loved him, or felt pity for the misery in his life, began to hate him. Alex knew this too. He knew he’d moved from being the life of every party to the guy who sulked in the corner, and now to glowering hellion.

  His mother had noticed yesterday. When she asked him to explain, he’d answered. He told her how he’d stumbled across Caroline at the Wellington Diner. Bethany had taken a seat, smoked an entire pack of Marlboros, and started on a second. Alex had sat across from her at the large French country table in her French country kitchen and cried.

  ‘I knew she was trouble the minute she walked into this house,’ his mother had said, ‘but nobody wanted to listen to me. Gus kept telling me it wasn’t my place.’

  Alex told her you couldn’t help who it was you fell in love with.

  She’d dragged long and hard on the tobacco at her lips, and exhaled smog the entire time she spoke, ‘Bullshit. You can help it. You all didn’t want to. What did you think I was trying to do? Did you think I wanted to stand between you and happiness? Did you think I was jealous? Is that what it was? I was trying to keep you safe. I knew that concerned wifely act of hers was always bullshit, but it was too late for you when you figured that out because she opened those legs for you. You happily swallowed that poison too. Now look at us. Look at you.’ Bethany’s steel mill smokestack mouth continued to emit wisps as she stabbed out the nub of her last cigarette, and lit another.

  ‘Mom, you have to stop smoking so much,’ he’d said, wiping his eyes.

  ‘What do you think Gus would have to say?’ she’d said, a white cloud above her silver-streaked red hair. ‘Do you think he’d still be preaching about forgiveness? Your father felt guilty. That’s why he went to see her all those times. That’s all he felt, guilt and pity, and that’s all you’re feeling now too.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m feeling, Mom.’

  ‘Look what she’s done to all of us.’ Bethany had opened her mouth and let venomous smoke curl out for a second before she sucked it back in, the craggy vertical lines above her thin top lip puckering. ‘Poor Drew. A mother should not outlive her child. Oh, that poor baby. A mother should never outlive her child. Now look what she’s reduced you to, you and your father, how could you have loved her?’

  Alex had loved her, irrationally, wildly, to the furthest reaches of his soul, in a way he never conceived as possible. He couldn’t explain that to his mother. He couldn’t explain it to himself. He’d left her smoking away her misery. Half an hour later, he sat in a booth at the Wellington Diner eating pie he couldn’t taste, and wondered what it was he felt.

  So long. Caroline had been gone for so long. He wondered if she knew his father had died. The obituary for Gustave ‘Gus’ Jones had been in the paper. Surely she’d seen it—old friends they’d both known had seen it, and those old friends showed up at the funeral, but Caroline hadn’t even sent a note of condolence. Her father-in-law, a man she’d adored, had died, and she hadn’t acknowledged the fact in any way.

  Nothing had changed. Back when Drew was dying, she’d disengaged from everyone they knew. Then everything had fallen apart. Not one of their friends seemed to know where she had disappeared to in the last five months. Some said they were glad the turmoil had finally come to an end. A few of them had confided to him, with some embarrassment, they were disappointed they hadn’t been better, more reliable friends and kept tabs on her.

  Alex had simply buried it all, like they’d buried his father and Drew, and he believed he didn’t cared anymore. While she was out of sight she hadn’t been a threat to anything. He didn’t have to think about her. He could just grieve one loss without addressing something that wasn’t there.

  He sat in this diner again, eating a slice of the cherry pie his catering company had made and he’d delivered himself. He didn’t know why he was waiting for her when he’d moved on with his life, only that it was obvious he’d never moved on from Caroline. Out of sight had merely been out of mind—temporarily. He’d seen her once and remembered everything about her, about her habits, about the things she liked, about the places she went. He knew Caroline would come back to the Wellington Diner. He knew this because she loved the cinnamon twists he made. He knew this because she had a thing for little diners.

  He’d thought about that rainy morning, when he suddenly found himself face to face with her. He thought about that Saturday a lot. He licked sticky cherry pie from a fork and replayed the events of that wet day and of days before. He’d gripped the flesh of her arms, and his memory began to blur with history, with fantasy. Had he lifted her up on the enamel surface, her hungry, coffee-flavored tongue in his mouth, his hands sliding under her thighs? Had her skirt bunched up as she balanced on edge of the cool white steel and she pulled at the buttons on his pants? Or had he simply shoved her against the counter?

  During the time she had been gone, the image of her skin warm beneath his hands periodically raided his dreams. He gotten used to the occasional occupation, but seeing her again shifted something. The images he h
ad now provoked him into thoughts he knew were irrational. He had changed again. Life had changed again. Drew’s death had changed everything before. But his dying wasn’t the hardest part to come to terms with. It was the way he died that had made life something to endure. The process had turned Caroline into a coolly detached, emotionless woman who pushed him away and shut him out. He’d been shocked, depressed, hollowed out, but he’d begun to overcome despair until he saw her again. He was different now. The thoughts that came into his mind and the images that burst into his daydreams were completely out of character and he knew it. He knew he’d become a smoldering haze of his former self.

  He stabbed another chunk of pie and lifted it to his mouth. A cherry dropped off his fork and stained his white shirt. His life had discolored the same way.

  ***

  Will took off his hat and checked his watch as he rode the Webb & Fairchild store escalator up to the second floor. He figured he had twenty minutes to pick out a new raincoat before his midafternoon meeting. Just outside Men’s Personal Shopping, Stuart, the trim sales associate from Designer Menswear greeted him as he passed by, ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Murphy.’

  ‘Hello, Stuart.’ Once inside the Personal Shopping Suite, Will found the replacement for Norelle, his old personal shopper. The new woman sat behind a small, English oak writing desk. A length of her hair, mixed hues of dark and light caramel, was tucked behind her left ear, while the rest dipped like a valance over the right side of her face. She rested her chin in her left hand, and scribbled notes on a pad of paper while she looked at the flat screen of a computer monitor.

  He took off his tinted glasses, squinting slightly in glare of the fluorescent lighting, and watched her. Something about her was familiar. Maybe it was her perfume, a verbena or citrus blossom scent, but he had walked through Women’s Fragrances on the ground floor just before he came up to the second level. The perfume sprayed downstairs might have drifted and clung to his clothes. He said, ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ As she set down the pen and looked up, she swept the hair from her eyes.

  Will chuckled. He’d seen her this morning, on his way back from the corner fruit market, at about six forty-five, when he’d been on his way home from picking up the paper and the very last of the summer nectarines. He’d passed her. She was running, lost in thought, and his ‘good morning’ had been lost as well. Now, instead of bleach-stained gray shorts and electric-orange running shoes, she was quite stylishly clothed, her outfit pale blue.

  ‘Well, this is nice.’ he smiled, tucking his glasses in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Pleasantly, she smiled back, stood, and came around the front of the desk. ‘How can I assist you today?’ she said, smoothing the front of her tailored dress.

  ‘I should introduce myself. William Murphy.’ He offered his hand and got another hint of lemony verbena as she returned the handshake. ‘So, you’re the new Norelle who’s going to help me shop.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m the old Norelle. I worked here before she did, and I’m happy to help you shop, but I don’t think you need my help choosing clothes,’ she said, eyes traveling from his feet to his wide shoulders. ‘You wear that suit beautifully.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and held her gaze.

  Caroline was surprised his direct regard was only minutely unnerving. His eyes were a light violet-blue, a cross somewhere between a pale tanzanite and iolite. She suspected he wore colored contact lenses, and guessed he was six-two, although with his extraordinarily fair Scandinavian complexion and satiny platinum hair he looked even taller. He was beefy, not fat or pumped up like some Mr. Universe contestant, but broad, solidly muscled, and very well dressed—Dolce & Gabbana well-dressed. He sported an original Heuer Monaco watch with a black leather band. There was a chunky gold signet ring on his equally chunky hands, and a beautiful pair of black, capped-toed Cole-Haan Oxfords on rather small feet. In his left hand he had a black fedora like Humphrey Bogart wore in the Maltese Falcon. Yes, he wore his clothes well. ‘I’m Caroline Jones,’ she said.

  ‘Like the actress who played Morticia on the old Addams Family TV show.’

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘she was Caro-lyn. I’m Caro-line, like the sweet one Neil Diamond sang about. It’s a pleasure, Mr. Murphy.’

  ‘No mister,’ he said. ‘Just William, Will, or plain Murphy, and please, never Bill, Billy, or Willie.’

  ‘I’d never be so rude to call you Billy or Bill, and you certainly don’t look like a Willie.’

  His mouth quirked as he tucked a hand into a trouser pocket and set his hat on the desk. ‘Be honest. Willie makes you think of how the British use it, doesn’t it?’

  She laughed. ‘It does now.’

  ‘William and Richard,’ he shook his head, ‘two perfectly nice names forever ruined by English language slang. But I digress into off-color jokes that may be inappropriate. Sorry to waste your time.’

  ‘I like off-color jokes that may be inappropriate.’

  ‘So tell me one.’

  ‘I said I liked them, not that I knew any.’

  His laugh was deep, a rolling baritone that would impress an opera singer. ‘In my experience, the people who look the most conservative usually tell the filthiest jokes.’

  ‘Then your jokes must be absolutely vile.’

  His hand came out of his pockets and he looked down at himself, running fingers down the along the front edges of his jacket. ‘You think I’m dressed conservatively? You told me I wore this suit beautifully.’

  ‘I think you’re dressed magnificently. You see so few men wear ties these days. I like your little conservative holdover.’

  ‘I’m willing to let you guide me in another direction. You are, after all the professional here and I’m just the man-nequin.’

  She winced. ‘Oh, that was bad.’

  ‘You didn’t like the pun?’

  ‘No, but I like your tie. And your cufflinks. How did Norelle assist you, William?’ She leaned over the desk for her iPad and scrolled through it, searching for his name in the client list. ‘Was she your stylist, or did she assist you with your general shopping, gift shopping, or was it only when you had something particular in mind, like a specific designer, and wanted her to find sizes for you?’

  ‘A little of everything. I’m here today because I need a new raincoat. Also I’m retiring my old tuxedo, so I’ll need a new one soon. Maybe we could have coffee and get to know one another a little better, since we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.’

  Caroline stopped reading. Well, shit. She’d misread the social cues and been too enthusiastic in trying to grab life by the balls. She’d kept the veneer professional and friendly—at least, she thought she’d been professional, flattering, and friendly, but he thought flattery was flirty. Had she flirted? Warmth crept up her neck as she glanced up at him and tried to determine exactly what he thought and what he meant by have coffee. ‘Umm, well … would you like regular brewed coffee or a cappuccino, or espresso? I’ll have some sent up from the coffee shop downstairs.’

  ‘No, no, I’m good for now. To be honest, I’m a little pressed for time so may I suggest we get together this weekend?’

  The rabbi she’d worked for had tried too, and while it was always unexpected, it wasn’t the first time a client had asked her out. She needed to circumvent the suggestion. She needed to head off this man politely, instead of tripping over her feet in a dash to get away from unwanted attention. ‘I’m sorry, you’re very kind to ask, but store policy frowns on socializing with clients. I can make a note of what kind of coffee you like. The next time you come in I can have one sent up for you. Shall I show you some raincoats now? There’s a nice lightweight navy one with a zip-out lining. I think it will look smart on you.’ She set the iPad on the desk beside his hat, and the warmth hit her face.

  Will was strangely flattered by her blushing. ‘I beg your pardon. I see that came out oddly. I must apol
ogize if it seemed as if I was asking you out.’

  ‘You weren’t?’

  ‘No, but you handled it most politely and professionally.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Pink-cheeked, she looked at him, a half-smiled, puzzled frown forming, dimming her blush slightly. ‘It’s not déjà vu. We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘It’s good I made some impression, but usually it’s for an altogether different reason and not my misinterpreted geniality.’

  ‘What reason is that?’

  ‘I tend to stand out in a crowd.’

  She stared at him now. She had pretty hazel eyes. ‘Do you?’ she said.

  ‘As you see, I am rather fair-skinned.’

  ‘Yes, you are, but that’s not it. I know you from someplace.’

  ‘Come on, Caroline.’ He waited a moment for her to connect the dots. When she didn’t, he drew a line in the air with his finger. ‘I live across the landing from you.’

  ‘You do?’

  He chuckled. ‘I delivered an envelope to you last Saturday.’

  Her frown collapsed, she shook her head. ‘That … was you?’

  ‘Yes. You were a little … flustered. Popcorn burned, the smoke alarm was going off, your little dog was going nuts, but thanks for the five-dollar tip.’

  With a sheepish laugh, Caroline looked away. She shoved her hair behind her ears. ‘Oh, the popcorn. I haven’t been able to get rid of that smell, but have to say I don’t recall you from that that disaster. I remember you from the other disaster, the one at the diner over on Wellington. My … my … Alex spilled chocolate milk all over your shoes. Look, if he damaged your shoes I’d like to pay for having them cleaned or something.’

  ‘That was the first and last time I’ll watch a man treat a woman like that and not do something about it.’ He frowned. ‘I tried to go after you, but you left so quickly, much faster than I managed to move. I’m embarrassed I was so slow to respond.’