The Good Neighbor (6 page)

CHAPTER NINE

By the time I woke in the morning, Johnny had returned from his run. I sat at the breakfast nook in my pajamas while he made bagels and cream cheese. The neighborhood appeared safe, benign, the trees benevolent, wrens chattering in the underbrush. No smoke rose from the neighbors’ chimney.

Johnny handed me a cup of coffee. The liquid in the mug looked darker than usual and tasted unusually sweet.

“It’s the soy milk,” he said. “I accidentally picked up vanilla instead of plain.”

“It’s great,” I said. “I didn’t hear you get up last night.”

“You were in a deep sleep. Moaning and mumbling.”

“No, I wasn’t.” I laughed.

“Snoring, too. Loud as a motor.”

“I never snore. Maybe it’s the concussion. I feel all right.”

“Are you sure?” His brow furrowed, his expression shifting to concern.

“I’m sure.” I looked down into the coffee, then up at him. “Did you talk to them?”

“To whom?” He made himself busy at the kitchen counter. He still wore his running shoes, Nike T-shirt, and Lycra exercise pants, which accentuated the muscles in his thighs.

“The neighbors. Last night.”

He hesitated. “Nope. Just looked. Saw the smoke.”

I sipped more sickly-sweet coffee. “How long had you been over there when I got up?”

“I dunno, a few minutes.”

“I didn’t hear you get dressed.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” I said.

“You take me for granted.”

“I know I do. You always make me breakfast.”

“Because I love you only.”

“Me, too. I love you only.”

He came to me and gently kissed my forehead. “If you want the car today, you have to drive me to work.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” My smoke-damaged Camry was in the shop. I finished my coffee and rushed to the bedroom to get changed.

As I drove him downtown through a crisp, bright autumn day, a mild headache pushed at my temples. I tried to ignore the pain—the neurologist had warned me about the aftereffects of my injury. But how long would they last?

In the clinic parking lot, Johnny gave me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, not his usual kiss on the lips.

“Are you okay?” I asked, pulling back.

“It’s going to be a hard day. Difficult cases.”

“The dermabrasion guy?”

“That’s an easy one.”

I squeezed his arm.

He got out and strode briskly into the clinic. As he looked at his cell phone screen, I thought of an article Natalie had shown me, when she’d worried Dan might be having an affair.

Signs your husband is cheating:

He makes phone calls in private.

You notice a new scent on him.

He travels more for work.

His behavior changes.

Not the normal kiss good-bye.

Dan was faithful to Natalie, but I realized now that Johnny fit the pattern. He’d smelled different when we’d arrived at the cottage. He traveled more these days, wandered outside in the night, pecked me on the cheek.

Before my father had moved out, he’d been away more often and for longer periods of time. He’d come home carrying new soap smells from the cities he’d visited and gifts for me and my mother—perhaps to assuage his guilt. My mother had remained willfully oblivious until she could no longer ignore the evidence.

I’m never going to hurt you,
Johnny had told me.
You can always trust me.
And I did. A peck on the cheek meant nothing. Neither did quiet calls while I was in the bath or a walk down the street at two a.m. I would not let my deadbeat father’s affairs determine my attitude toward men for the rest of my life.

I drove out of the lot, stopped for supplies at the hardware store, then headed straight to Sitka Lane and parked at the curb. I sat in the driver’s seat, unable to tear my gaze from the bombed-out war zone that had once been our home. But the headache had begun to recede, and I felt stronger today, determined to salvage anything I could from the ash.

Mr. Calassis came out onto his porch across the street, training his binoculars high in a fir tree. He suffered from the beginnings of dementia, his memory disappearing in thin slices. He spotted me and hurried across the street, his pants billowing in the breeze. As usual, his binoculars hung around his neck.

I got out of the car, a rush of warmth infusing me as he pulled me into a wordless hug, the binoculars bumping against my chest. He pulled away and patted my cheek. His sparse white hair was combed back, his face ruddy, and he smelled mildly of pipe tobacco. “Good to see you alive and kicking.”

“Likewise.”

He glanced toward the rubble and shook his head. “The fire was no accident.”

“Arson, I know. Did you see anything?”

“Of course I did.”

“What did you see?” The breeze grew colder on my face.

“Felix!” Maude Calassis stepped out on her porch. “We’ll be late!”

“Coming!” He waved at her and frowned, then turned back to me. “You be careful now.”

“Careful of what?”

He glanced toward the Kimballs’ rubble again. “I always knew that woman was trouble.”

“Who, Monique?” I said, but he was already heading for home. “Mr. Calassis?” But he didn’t turn around. I ran after him and tugged at his sleeve.

He turned to look at me and smiled. “Sarah, glad to see you alive and kicking.”

“You said I should be careful—about a woman?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze shifted upward, familiar blankness in his eyes. I let go of his sleeve, my heart plummeting, and watched him shuffle home.

Back at the car, I put on the gloves, mask, and protective booties I’d bought at the hardware store, and I grabbed two large plastic bags. Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the space where the front door had stood. The foyer was unrecognizable. I could roughly tell where the hallway had been, as well as the outline of the living room and family room. Half a sink remained in the downstairs bathroom. Debris from the second floor had fallen through the ceiling.

Even through the mask, I could smell the burned fabric and plastic. As I picked my way across the rubble, my breathing grew loud in my ears. The ghosts of our past life drifted through me. The dining table was gone, and all the stuffing had burst out of the charred blue couch. But I uncovered a warped paperback copy of Daphne du Maurier’s
Rebecca
, smoke damaged but intact.

In my study, I found no trace of the painting of Miracle Mouse, not even a scrap of canvas. But I discovered the useless remains of the monitor and printer; the computer hard drive had melted. How many days had I spent in here, writing? I could see the room as it had once been, awash in afternoon sunlight.

In Johnny’s office, three jagged walls still stood. I kneeled to brush away ash, picked up various recognizable objects—stapler, flashlight, pens—before I glimpsed the edge of an envelope sticking out from beneath a warped metal shelf.

I retrieved the envelope and pulled out a set of singed photographs depicting rivers, beaches, Mount Rainier—and one of Johnny sitting on a dock in swimming trunks, dangling his feet in a lake, a forest in the background. A ramshackle fisherman’s hut rose from the dock, the glass missing from its windows. A woman sat next to Johnny, her bare, tanned shoulder touching his, the picture ending at the black strap of her bikini.

Johnny’s blue Speedo swimming trunks looked familiar. He’d owned them before I’d met him. He’d worn them several times since. In the picture, he looked muscular, his hair windswept, the way it was now. He didn’t look any younger than he did today, but then, the picture had been taken from a distance. The fine lines on his face were not discernible. On the back of the photo, someone had handwritten in beautiful script,
For Johnny, my love.

For a moment, I stopped breathing. The words reached up and slapped me in the face. The photograph had been taken before I’d met him. Had to have been. He’d been in love before, so what? Or at least, a woman had loved
him.
But of course. Johnny was irresistibly masculine, if not classically handsome. And he was smart, and loving, and thoughtful. What woman wouldn’t want him? He had a past, so what? What did I expect?

I found many things I couldn’t remember ever seeing—a pair of reading glasses, a designer pen, a silver bracelet. In the remains of other rooms, I picked up more charred objects—a cup; a hand-painted, cracked ceramic bowl; a gold necklace. But no more photographs.

Finally, exhausted, I returned to the car and stowed the bags in the back. As I closed the trunk, Pedra Ramirez burst out of her house and scurried down her driveway in a red linen shirt, khaki Capris, and bright red sandals. She hurried across the road. “Sarah!
Díos mio.
You’re never going to believe what’s happened.”

CHAPTER TEN

Pedra rushed up and hugged me, exuding her characteristic gardenia scent.
“Lo que es una tragedia.”
She shook her head, her hoop earrings glinting in the sunlight. “First the fire, and now . . .”

“Now what? What’s going on?”

“It’s Mia,” Jessie shouted, racing outside in bare feet. She threw herself at me with abandon, embracing me in a tight, desperate hug, giving off smells of lemon shampoo and bubble gum. Her eyes were rimmed with black kohl.

“What about Mia?” I said, pulling away. “Is she okay?”

“I called her grandma,” Pedra said. “You know, to see how they’re doing.”

“She got hold of the scissors,” Jessie said.

“She what? Is she hurt?” I thought of all the hazards in a home that could harm a vulnerable child.

“She cut off her hair,” Jessie said.

“Kids sometimes do that,” I said.

Pedra shook her head. “But her grandma, she is too old. She doesn’t pay attention, or she falls asleep.”

“We’re worried,” Jessie said. “We’re about to go over there—”

“I’ll go,” I said. “Where do they live?”

“Ferndale Glen. I can give you the address.” Jessie copied the address from her cell phone to mine. Her dangling copper leaf earrings shone in the light. Something nagged at me about her, but I couldn’t figure out what.

“Don’t say I told you,” she said, stepping away from me and biting her lip. “You know, about her hair.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”

As I drove up the road, I passed Adrian’s black Buick on its way to Jessie’s house. Had I heard his car that night? Impossible to know for sure. As we passed each other, he looked at me through his open window. He was powerfully built, his long hair tied back. His eyes were devoid of expression. Almost creepy. I pressed the accelerator, hit the speaker button on my cell phone and the speed dial for Johnny. He answered almost immediately. “Tough day here. You caught me between appointments.”

“I’m on my way to see Mia. She cut off her hair. Pedra told me.”

Johnny’s voice sharpened. “You went by the house without me?”

“I found a picture of you with an old girlfriend. Sitting on a dock at a lake. There’s an old building on the dock. Who’s the woman?”

“I would have to see the picture. There were so many women.” He seemed to think this was banter.

“I thought I knew everything about you.” But I had to admit, I’d held on to a few pictures of old boyfriends, too. At least, before the fire.

“Does anyone ever know everything about anyone else?”

“Is that a tongue twister?”

“You’ve still got a lot to learn about me and vice versa. I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

“Anything?”

“Ask away, and I’ll answer. I used to wear boxers before I switched to tighty-whiteys. I have nothing to hide, except
. . .
well, maybe a few small things.”

“Like what?” My heartbeat sped up.

“Like, I had acne when I was twelve. Gigantic cysts. That’s the real reason I became a dermatologist.”

“You’re making this up.”

“You’re right. The truth is, my grandfather died of melanoma.”

“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” I knew his grandfather had died in his fifties, but I hadn’t known how. What else was Johnny keeping from me?

“I didn’t want to talk about it. I wish I could’ve saved him.”

“Now you’re spending your life making up for it, trying to save others.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re doing a great job. Oh, I’m almost here. Gotta go.”

I hung up as I turned onto Ferndale Glen and parked in front of Harriet Kimball’s house, a pink bungalow with a double garage and thick lace curtains in the windows. Well-tended, dormant rosebushes dotted the front garden, waiting for the sun to return in spring.

I strode up the driveway and knocked on Harriet’s front door. When she answered, she looked as if she had worked hard to unwind her years. Her face appeared smooth but not young, as if she’d ironed every wrinkle into submission. A layer of powdered foundation covered her cheeks. She wore the same auburn wig that I remembered from her visits to Sitka Lane. Only now it was clear that the wig was actually her own hair, growing from her very own scalp. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

“Sarah,” she said in a throaty voice.

“I’m so sorry . . .”

Harriet’s lips trembled, and she wiped away tears, smearing her makeup. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry about your home. I can’t thank you enough for saving Mia.”

“I wish I could’ve done more.” My skin felt thin, my insides vulnerable. Without thinking, I pulled Harriet into a tight hug, surprised at the woman’s frailty. How cruel life could be, how senseless. A son wasn’t supposed to leave his elderly mother with only her memories and a grandchild to care for alone.

“You did more than enough.” Harriet ushered me inside, closed the door, and pressed a finger to her lips. “She’s asleep,” she said softly.

I mouthed “Oh” and looked around at the comfortable furniture, everything lived-in, plush. Harriet’s home reflected her love for roses—rose-print couch, rose-colored chair, plastic roses in a vase. Dolls, picture books, and balled-up tissues were strewn here and there among the roses.