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Our next-door neighbor hates us.
She bowed her head as she recalled those words. Her sharp tongue and personal sensitivity had given him that notion. Indeed, what else could he think when she jumped all over him for every innocent remark he made in her presence. She was too ashamed to apologize, but she made up her mind to be a good deal more pleasant in the future—provided he ever spoke to her again. She couldn’t blame him if he didn’t. In fact, she’d be amazed if he did.
It was ninety-five degrees in the shade, and she wanted to get home in time for the early-evening news, so of course her six-year-old domestic sedan overheated while she was waiting at the red light at the intersection of 81 and Main. Making matters worse, she had just come from the grocery store and could already hear her cottage cheese spoiling, her lettuce wilting and her new low-cal frozen dinners melting. So much for the new diet. Naturally, she was in the inside lane, intending to turn left onto Main Street when a high, whining noise first alerted her to the problem, and that was exactly where the car engine died. She knew the moment she lifted the hood that the problem was well beyond her scope of experience and knowledge. In fact, all she could do was slam the hood down again to keep boiling water from spewing in every direction.
She was standing in front of the car, watching the water from her radiator roll down the street, while other cars whizzed by and an attendant from a nearby service station watched from the doorway of his business. She supposed she’d have to walk over there and ask his advice, though how she could get her car into his service bay was beyond her. It would have to be pushed backward, going in the wrong direction on that side of the street. And pushing that heavy, full-size sedan was certainly more than she could ever manage alone. She didn’t see any other alternative, however—until a red, late-model, one-ton pickup pulled up in the lane behind her, and the tinted window on the driver’s side silently lowered.
“Blow your radiator cap?”
Amy looked at Evans Kincaid’s handsome face and felt her heart drop. “Hi. Um, I don’t know. It seems to be coming from behind the radiator.”
He nodded and drew back inside. For a moment she thought he would leave, now that he knew who the motorist in distress was, but then the hazard lights on the pickup truck began to blink, the door opened, and Kincaid stepped out onto the curb. He was wearing a red-and-white ball cap and black sunshades, faded blue jeans without a belt and a plain white T-shirt with the tail tucked in. On his feet were black, round-toed cowboy boots. He carried an open cola can in one hand and a rolled up length of leather in the other. As he drew near, Amy could see that he needed a shave. He was the best-looking and the most welcome thing she’d ever seen. He hadn’t even done anything, and she felt inordinately grateful.
“Let’s take a look,” he said. “It ought to be blown out by now, judging by the size of that puddle.”
He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, for he handed her the can, walked to the driver’s door, opened it, ducked inside and pushed the hood release. He took the can back as he strolled around to the front of the car and lifted the hood. Amy could hear a high-pitched whine and see a tiny fountain of water spewing up.
“Hose,” he said succinctly. “It’ll have to be replaced.”
Amy wrung her hands at that news. “How am I going to do that?”
“No problem,” he said. He tilted his head back and took a long drink of the cola, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “Wait here,” he said, thrusting the rolled piece of leather at her, “and hold this.”
It was inordinately heavy, and she realized as he strolled back toward his truck that some sort of tools were rolled up inside. She held the bundle in both hands and stood there perspiring on the side of the road while he disappeared through the opened door of his truck. After several minutes, he emerged again and walked back toward her.
“Okay,” he said, “it’s coming.”
“What’s coming?” She looked up into the opaque black lenses of his glasses.
“The hose and enough antifreeze to replace what’s on the ground.”
For a long moment she could only stare. “How on earth did you manage that?”
He shrugged. “I used my car phone to call a fellow I know at one of the parts houses in town. Hope you can pay for it when it gets here.”
She bit her lip. “Suppose he’ll take a check?”
Evans Kincaid grinned. “Oh, I think we can persuade him. It’s not like he couldn’t find you if it bounced.”
“I guess not,” she muttered, “living next door to a cop.”
He tilted his head. “Has its advantages.” She opened her mouth to say she was aware of that fact, but he turned and walked away, saying, “Next order of business is to clear this street.”
While she watched, he went to the light pole at the side of the intersection, inserted something from his pocket into a metal box mounted on the side and moved something. The light began to blink red in all directions, bringing traffic to a complete halt. Everything happened quickly after that. Suddenly there were three young men pushing her car through the intersection and onto the parking lot of a car wash. Evans pulled his truck up beside it. The traffic light was reset, and the normal flow of traffic resumed. The man from the parts store came and took Amy’s check without the slightest hesitation, saying that from the looks of the puddle in the street, she had diluted her antifreeze too much. She nodded, wondering how she had managed that, then watched as Evans flushed out the radiator with a water hose borrowed from the car wash before exchanging the new radiator hose for the busted one. When that was done, he poured half a container of antifreeze fluid into the radiator, filled the container with water and emptied the whole of it into the system.
“Now then,” he said, fixing the cap in place and lowering the hood. “Next time it needs more fluid, you mix two parts antifreeze and one part water and put that in. You don’t just add plain water. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“Has it been getting hot fairly often?”
“Occasionally.”
“And when it did, you put plain water in it,” he stated matter-of-factly. “That’s how it got too diluted.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she told him meekly.
“If it happens again, you may want to look into having your thermostat replaced,” he advised. Wiping his small wrenches clean with a handkerchief from his back pocket, he slid them back into the proper pockets, rolled up the leather case and tied it closed. “That ought to do for now.”
Without another word he walked over to his truck and got in. Amy hurried after, catching the door before he could close it.
“Evans!”
He slid his shades off and dropped them into a console between the bucket seats. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I mean, I’m sorry for…well, for everything, and thank you for helping me out today. I don’t know what I’d have done if you had passed me by—and you had every right to.”
He dropped his gaze. “Well, I just always figured that neighbors were supposed help out one another.”
“You’re right, of course,” she told him softly. “I’ve behaved terribly. I hope this means that you’ve forgiven me.”
He flashed her a grin. “I always forgive pretty ladies.” He settled himself behind the wheel then, while her mouth hung open, he said, “I’ve got to run. Got to shave off this sandpaper before I report to the station.” He rubbed his jaw.
She backed up, and he closed the door. Only as the truck was moving did she think to call out, “Thank you!” She doubted that he heard her. The truck had already wheeled out into the street and was accelerating through a green light. In another moment it disappeared over a slight rise in the street.
She stood in the parking lot, her groceries ruining in the back of her car, and wondered if he’d realized what he’d said. He didn’t really think she was pretty…did he?
Chapter Three
Amy stared at the open pack of cigarettes on the coffee table and imagined herself slipping the filter tip between her lips. She could almost smell the oily fragrance of the flame as she struck the lighter. She could almost feel the swirl of smoke expanding in her lungs, the shiver of nicotine euphoria that seemed alternately to tighten then relax her skin. She closed her eyes and pulled again, shocked to feel pressure on the tip of her little finger rather than the soothing inhalation of smoke. With a groan of disgust, she jerked her hand from her mouth and thrust it through her hair as the hard twang of a rock guitar throbbed through the night. Was it her imagination again, or had the volume been cranked up another notch?
Sighing, she leaned forward on the couch, laid her forehead against her knees and folded her arms over the back of her head. Why was she doing this? Why in blue blazes didn’t she just pick up the phone and get Kincaid to come home and take care of this insanity? But she already knew the answer to that. She didn’t want to fight with him anymore. She owed him for fixing her car that afternoon…and he had implied that he thought she was pretty, darn him. But that was just casual talk, the sort of thing an attractive, confident man tossed about whenever a woman was around.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since any man had commented favorably on her looks. Even Mark hadn’t been given to easy compliments. That being so, she would treasure them all the more, he had told her, and of course, Mark was right, which meant that she was being an idiot about this. No meaningless compliment was worth enduring the nerve-jangling blasts from the house next door. She had to do something before she started climbing the walls. It was bad enough to want a smoke at this time of night. No one should have to endure this screeching nonsense on top of that.
She got up off the couch, full of righteous indignation, and marched toward the door. On the way she did something she never did, she glanced in the gold-framed mirror on the living room wall, the one Mark’s aunt had given them. She shuddered at what she saw. Her hair had grown limp with perspiration. Her cheeks were reddened from being out in the sun, and she had no eyebrows or eyelashes at all. Had she been walking around like this all the time? Maybe she didn’t have anybody to impress, but it didn’t hurt to take pride in one’s appearance. In fact, someone had recently told her that it was healthy to do so. Her sister maybe? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she not go out this way, no, not even to put that little freak next door in her place.
She made an about-face and marched straight into the bathroom. By the time she rinsed and dried her hair, slapped on a little foundation, brushed color on her lashes and brows—which turned out to need a little plucking—and stroked on some lip gloss, the music from next door was threatening to break the glass in the windows. What on earth did that child think she was doing? She was practically begging for trouble. Well, trouble was on its way.
Head high, Amy stomped out of the house. This time when she glanced in the mirror, she gave herself a congratulatory nod. Maybe she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but at least she was relatively well groomed. She walked across the lawn and Kincaid’s drive, then onto the grass in his yard and up onto the porch. She couldn’t help noticing that the lawn was clipped and edged. Moreover, the grayish-blue-and-white house was freshly painted and in good repair. The welcome mat was clean, and the porch light was free of insect remains and cobwebs. Somebody had been busy. It was a wonder, though, that the windows weren’t in shards and the roof bouncing a foot or so above the walls. How did that kid stand it?
Without bothering to knock, Amy tried the doorknob. It turned freely, and she pushed it open, shouting, “Mattie? Mattie!”
Her hands over her ears, she hurried through the graceful entry and into the living room. Her feet sank into lush softness as she stepped onto the pale gray carpet. A quick scan of the room showed her two things, an impressive stereo system arranged on shelving mounted on one wall and Mattie curled up in a ball in big, comfy club chair, her arms wrapped around her head. Amy launched across the room and started hitting buttons and dials until blessed silence descended. The relief was almost physical.
“Oh, you’re home,” Mattie said sullenly and lifted her head, which showed definite highlights of green around the face this night. The shock on that face when she saw Amy rather than her father, coupled with the black and green makeup on her eyes and the coral lipstick on her mouth, was downright comical. “What are you doing here?” she asked Amy.
“Saving your hearing. What in heaven’s name did you think you were doing?”
Mattie stuck her chin out at a belligerent angle. “You can’t just walk in here,” she insisted.
Amy chuckled. “Like you’d have heard me if I’d knocked, especially since I screamed for you before I came in.”
Mattie glared. “Where’s my father?”
“I wouldn’t know. Why do you ask?”
Mattie’s eyes grew round and shimmering. She’s lonely, Amy found herself thinking.
“Didn’t you call him?” she asked Amy.
“No, I didn’t call him. I figure he has enough to do at the moment, keeping the city safe from delinquents like you.”
Suddenly Mattie’s eyes were flowing with tears. She ducked her head on a strangled sob. Amy melted like butter in summer sunlight. “Hey, now, I was only kidding.”
“I’m not a delinquent! I’m not!” Mattie sobbed.
The poor kid’s misery pulled Amy across the room. Soon she was standing beside the big jewel-toned chair. “I said I was only kidding. Listen, I won’t say a word to your father, I promise.”
“Oh, swell!” Mattie snapped, lifting her head and swiping at tears. “Just let him ignore me, see if I care!”
Amy’s freshly drawn brows rose straight up. “Is that what this is all about? You wanted me to call him, didn’t you? You wanted him to come home.”
Mattie instantly sobered and matured. “Don’t be silly. I was just enjoying my music. I don’t know why everybody makes such a big deal about it.”
Amy folded her arms, smirking. “Right. You always enjoy your music with your ears covered.”
The child was back, eyes wide, chin wobbling. “I—I just fell asleep, that’s all.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s some trick. Maybe you could market your secret to a grateful world of insomniacs.”
That wobbling chin jutted up stubbornly. “Why are you being so mean to me?”
Amy dropped her jaw in comic outrage. “Me, be mean to you? Have I tried to burst your ear drums? Have I filed public nuisance charges? Have I purposefully blasted you out of your own house?” The operative word, and they both knew it, was purposefully.
Mattie dropped her chin to her chest. For some time she said nothing, and Amy sensed that this was a moment when she ought to keep her own mouth shut. Even when Mattie began to quietly cry, Amy kept her silence, and finally Mattie came out with it.
“I don’t know what the matter is with me. I don’t really want to go back to L.A. To tell you the truth, it really wasn’t much better. I just get so lonely sometimes.”
Amy felt an instant, unexpected kinship with this odd girl. If anyone understood loneliness, Amy did. She resisted the uncommon urge to lay a hand on Mattie’s head and said, “I suppose that’s to be expected, but you’ll get used to it.”
“Get used to being lonely?” Mattie said with some surprise.
Amy was taken aback. Had she really said that? Was that what she’d done, resigned herself to loneliness? She shook her head, as much in answer to her own thoughts as Mattie’s. “What I meant to say was that you’ll get used to living in a new place a-and that in a couple weeks you’ll make some new friends and—”
Mattie threw up her hands and uncurled, sending both feet to the floor. “You’re talking about school, but school is so lame! I wouldn’t even go if I didn’t have to.”
“Well, you do have to,” Amy said, sounding for all the world like her own mother, “so why don’t you make the best of it? You might be surprised.”
“Don’t you understand?” Mattie said desperately. “I need more than school chums!”
“That’s right,” Amy said. “You need an education.” Mattie snorted inelegantly at that, and Amy found herself feeding her the same line adults always fed teenagers. “You can’t do anything without an education.” Mattie pressed her mouth into a thin line as if refusing a dose of bitter medicine. Amy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Don’t you have any plans, any dreams? What do you want to do with your life?”
Mattie shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that I’m not going to find what I need in some high school.”
“Just give it a chance,” Amy urged.
“I need something more than most kids my age,” Mattie went on. “I need…”
“A mother?” Amy asked softly. Boy, did she know how it felt to need someone who just wasn’t there and never would be.
Mattie got a faraway look in her eye, a look tinged with sadness and laden with memories, a look that spoke volumes about her feelings for and need of her mother, but then she shook her head. “It’s even more than that,” she said huskily. “See, Mom’s always with me.” She tapped her chest. “She’s in here, and nothing can ever take her away. In fact, you could say that she’s more ‘with me’ than Dad is most of the time.”
Aha, thought Amy, we come to the crux of the problem. And she knew just what to do about it, but it wouldn’t do to be too obvious. She put her hands on her hips and looked around her, noting the neatness and cleanliness of the room. Not only did it look clean, it felt clean, even smelled clean, and yet it had a comfortable, homey feel about it. Maybe she ought to move halfway across the country, she thought wryly, but something told her that there was more to it than that. “On second thought,” she said, keeping her face as expressionless as possible, “I really don’t think I can just let this go by. Maybe you’d better show me where the phone is.”
Mattie’s expression was one of confusion. Amy could see that having her father brought home was what Mattie wanted, but the fact that the homecoming was apt to bring acrimony now mattered to her when it hadn’t before. Then the confusion cleared, and Amy saw real regret…and pride. Mattie wasn’t about to beg her not to call. Instead, she lifted a hand and pointed across the room to the formal dining area. “Through there to the kitchen. It’s on the right side of the door.”
Amy nodded her thanks and went off on her own into the other part of the house. The kitchen was larger and brighter than hers and spotless. A bowl of fruit sat in the middle of the table, and decorative tea towels were draped over the handles of the double wall oven. The place smelled of cinnamon and coffee, just as her mother’s kitchen had always done. You didn’t get that by moving.
She turned to the telephone and lifted the receiver. Several numbers were listed on the interior pad beneath. Beside each was a single boxed digit. Evans’s work number was the first. Amy pushed the star button and the number one. When the other party answered, she explained merely that she was Evans’s next-door neighbor and that she needed to speak to him. When the man on the other end of the line asked if she wanted to be “patched through,” she said that she did. Seconds later she was talking to Evans Kincaid himself.
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