The Perfect Neighbor (8 page)

“Okay. So.” Cybil swiveled so they were face to face. “You know how Mrs. Wolinsky’s always trying to fix me up with her nephew?”

“Not again?” Jody rolled her dark eyes. “Why can’t she see you two are totally wrong for each other?”

Vast affection prevented Cybil from mentioning that it might be the same selective blindness that prevented Jody from seeing the flaws in the Cybil-Frank match.

“She just loves him. But anyway, she’d cooked up another date for me for last night, and I just couldn’t face it. You have to swear you won’t tell her—or anyone.”

“Except Chuck.”

“Husbands are excluded from the vow of silence in this case. I told her I already had a date—with McQuinn.”

“You had a date with 3B?”

“No, I just told her I did because I was flustered. You know how I start babbling when I lie.”

“You should practice.” Nodding, Jody bit into a muffin. “You’d get better at it.”

“Maybe. So after I tell her, I realize she’s going to be looking for us to leave together, and I have to cut some kind of deal with McQuinn to go along with it. I gave him a hundred and bought him dinner.”

“You paid him.” Jody’s eyes widened, then narrowed in speculation. “That’s brilliant. The whole time I was dating—especially during that drought period I told you about my sophomore year in college?—I never thought about just offering a guy some money to have dinner with me. How’d you settle on the hundred? Do you think that’s, like, the going rate?”

“It seemed right. He’s not working regularly, you know. And I figured he could use the money and a hot meal. We had a good time,” she added with a new smile. “Really good. Just spaghetti and conversation. Well, mostly one-sided conversation, as McQuinn doesn’t say a lot.”

“McQuinn.” Jody let the name roll over her tongue. “Still sounds mysterious. You don’t know his first name.”

“It never came up. Anyway, it gets better. We’re walking back. I think I loosened him up, Jody. He really seemed relaxed, almost friendly. Then I see Johnny Wolinsky’s car, and I panicked. I’m figuring she’s not going to stop trying to shove him at me unless she thinks I’ve got a guy. So I cut another deal with McQuinn and offered him fifty bucks to kiss me.”

Jody pursed her lips, then sipped coffee. “I think you should’ve said that was included in the hundred.”

“No, we’d already defined terms, and there wasn’t time to renegotiate. She was looking out the window. So he did, right there on the sidewalk.”

“Wow.” Jody grabbed the rest of her muffin. “What move did he use?”

“He just sort of
yanked
me against him.”

“Oh, man. The yank. I really like the yank.”

“Then I was plastered there, up on my toes because he’s tall.”

“Yeah.” Jody chewed, licked crumbs off her lips. “He’s tall. And built.”

“Really built, Jody. I mean the man is like a rock.”

“Oh, God.” On the moan, Jody rubbed her stomach. “Wow. Okay, so you’re plastered up there, on your toes. What next?”

“Then he just … swooped.”

“Oh-oh, the yank and swoop.” Crumbs scattered as Jody waved her hands. “It’s a classic. Hardly any guy can really pull it off, though. Chuck did on date six. That’s how we ended up back at my apartment, eating Chinese in bed.”

“McQuinn pulled it off. He really, really pulled it off. Then, while my head was exploding, he yanked me back, just looked at me.”

“Man. Man.”

“Then he just … did it all again.”

“A double.” Near tears with vicarious excitement, Jody gripped Cybil’s hand. “You got a double. There are women who go all their lives without a double. Dreaming of, yes, but never achieving the double yank and swoop.”

“It was my first,” Cybil confessed. “It … was …
great!
”

“Okay, okay, just the kiss part, okay? Just the lips and tongues and teeth thing. How was that?”

“It was very hot.”

“Oh … I’m going to have to open the window. I’m starting to sweat.”

She jumped up, shoved up the window and took a deep gulp of air. “So, it was hot. Very hot. Keep going.”

“It was like being, well, devoured. When your system just goes …” At a loss, she lifted her hands, wiggled them wildly. “And your head’s circling around about a foot above your shoulders, and … I don’t know how to describe it.”

“You’ve got to.” Desperate, Jody squeezed Cybil’s shoulders. “I’m on the edge here. Try this—on the one-to-ten scale, where did it hit?”

Cybil closed her eyes. “There is no scale.”

“There’s always a scale—you can say off the scale, but there’s always a scale.”

“No, Jody, there is no scale.”

Eyeing Cybil, Jody stepped back. “The no-scale is an urban myth.”

“It exists,” Cybil said soberly. “The no-scale exists, my friend, and has now been documented.”

“Sweet Lord. I have to sit down.” She did so, her eyes never leaving Cybil’s face. “You experienced a no-scale. I believe you, Cyb. Thousands wouldn’t. Millions would scoff, but I believe you.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“You know what this means, don’t you? He’s ruined you for anything less. Even a ten won’t satisfy you now. You’ll always be looking for the next no-scale.”

“I’ve thought of that.” Considering, Cybil picked up her pencil to tap. “I believe it’s possible to live a full and happy life, hitting with some regularity between seven and ten, even after this experience. Man goes to the moon, Jody. Travels through space and time, finds himself on another world, but only briefly. He must come back to earth and live.”

“That’s so wise,” Jody murmured, and had to dig a tissue out of her pocket. “So brave.”

“Thank you. But in the meantime,” Cybil added with a grin, “there’s no harm in knocking on the door across the hall from time to time.”

* * *

Because she didn’t want to appear overanxious, Cybil put in a full morning’s work. She didn’t break until after two, when she thought her neighbor might enjoy sharing a cup of coffee, maybe a nice walk in the April sunshine.

He really had to get out of that apartment more, she decided. Take advantage of all the city had to offer. She imagined him brooding behind his locked door, worried about his lack of employment, the bills.

She was certain she could help him with that. There was no reason she couldn’t put a buzz in a few ears and get him a few gigs to tide him over.

She heard the sax begin to weep as she stood in her bedroom fussing with her makeup. It made her tingle again, the low, sexy throb of it.

He deserved a break, something to take that cynical gleam out of his eyes. Something that would prove to him life was full of surprises. She wanted to help him. There was a quality about him—an underlying unhappiness she was driven to smooth away.

After all, she’d made him laugh. She’d helped him relax. If she could do it once, she could do it again. She badly wanted to see him laugh again, to hear that sardonic edge to his voice when he made some pithy comment, to see that grin flash when she said or did something that got through his cynical shield.

And if they lit a few sexual sparks between them while she was at it, what was wrong with that?

She was on her way downstairs, and singing again, when the buzzer from the entrance door sounded on her intercom.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for McQuinn. 3A?”

“No, he’s 3B.”

“Well, damn it. Why doesn’t he answer?”

“Oh, he probably doesn’t hear you. He’s practicing.”

“Buzz me in, will you, sweetie? I’m his agent and I’m running way behind.”

“His agent.” Cybil perked up. If he had an agent, Cybil wanted to meet her. She’d already thought of half a dozen names to pass on for possible jobs. “Sure. Come on up.”

She released the door, then opened her own and waited.

The woman who stepped out of the little-used elevator looked very professional, very successful, Cybil noted with some surprise, in her snazzy power suit of drop-dead red. She was thin and wiry, with a sharp-featured face, dark-blue eyes that were snapping with annoyance and an incredibly fabulous mane of streaked blond hair.

She moved with the precision of a bullet and carried a leather briefcase that Cybil estimated cost the equivalent of a month’s rent on a good uptown apartment.

So, she mused, why was her client scrambling for work if his agent could afford designer duds and pricey accessories?

“3A?”

“Yes, I’m Cybil.”

“Amanda Dresher. Thanks, Cybil. Our boy here isn’t answering his phone, and apparently forgot we had a one o’clock at the Four Seasons.”

“The Four Seasons?” Baffled, Cybil stared. “On Park?”

“Is there another?” With a laugh, Mandy pressed the buzzer on 3B and—knowing her prey—held it down. “Our Preston’s loaded with talent, but he’s my biggest pain in the butt.”

“Preston.” It only took a minute for the confusion to form, settle, then clear away. “Preston McQuinn.” She let out a shaky breath that was equal parts betrayal and mortification. “
A Tangle of Souls.
”

“That’s our boy,” Mandy said cheerfully. “Come on, come on, McQuinn, answer the damn door. I thought when he decided to stay in the city for a couple months I’d be able to keep better track of him. But it’s still an obstacle course. Ah, here we go.”

They both heard the bad-tempered snick of locks being turned. Then he yanked open the door. “What the hell do you … Mandy?”

“You missed lunch,” she snapped. “You’re not answering the phone.”

“I forgot lunch. The phone didn’t ring.”

“Did you charge the battery?”

“Probably not.” He stood where he was, staring across the hall to where Cybil watched him with wounded eyes in a pale face. “Come on in. Just give me a minute.”

“I’ve already given you an hour.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder as she walked inside. “Thanks for buzzing me up, sweetie.”

“No problem. No problem at all.” Then Cybil looked Preston dead in the eye. “You bastard,” she said quietly, and closed her door.

“Don’t you have any place to sit in here?” Mandy complained behind him.

“No. Yes. Upstairs. Damn it,” he muttered, despising the slide of guilt. Doing his best to shrug it off, he closed his door. “I don’t use the space down here much.”

“No kidding. So who’s the kid across the hall?” she asked as she set her briefcase on the kitchen counter.

“Nobody. Campbell, Cybil Campbell.”

“I thought she looked familiar. ‘Friends and Neighbors.’ I know her agent. He’s crazy about her. Claims she’s the only ego-proof, neurosis-free client he’s ever had. Never whines, doesn’t miss deadlines, never demands coddling, and is currently making him a fat pile of money on the sales of her trade books and calendars, plus the merchandising tie-ins.”

She sent Preston a baleful look. “I wonder what it’s like to have a neurosis-free client who remembers lunch dates and sends me gifts on my birthday.”

“The neuroses are part of the package, but I’m sorry about lunch.”

Annoyance faded into concern. “What’s up, Preston? You look ragged out. Is the play stalled?”

“No, it’s moving. Better than I expected. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“Out playing your horn till all hours again?”

“No.” Thinking of the woman in 3A, he thought. Pacing the floor. Wanting the woman in 3A. The woman who now, undoubtedly, considered him a slightly lower life-form than slime.

“Just a bad night, Mandy.”

“Okay.” Because as irritated as he could make her, she cared about him. She crossed the room to give his tensed shoulders a brisk rub. “But you owe me lunch. How about some coffee?”

“There’s some on the stove. It was fresh at six this morning.”

“Let’s start over, then. I’ll make it.” She moved behind the counter. After she had the coffee going, she poked into the cupboards. She considered Preston’s welfare part of her job.

“God, McQuinn, are you on a hunger strike? There’s nothing in here but potato chip crumbs and what once might have been cracked-wheat bread and is now a science project.”

“I didn’t make it to the market yesterday.” Again his gaze flicked to the door and his mind to Cybil. “Mostly I call in dinner.”

“On the phone you don’t answer?”

“I’ll recharge the battery, Mandy.”

“See that you do. If you’d remembered sooner, we’d be sitting in the Four Seasons right now, drinking Cristal to celebrate.” She grinned as she leaned on the counter toward him. “I closed the deal, Preston.
A Tangle of Souls
is going to be a major motion picture. You got the producers you wanted, the director you wanted and the option to do the screenplay yourself. All that plus a tidy little fee.”

She gave him an amount in seven figures.

“I don’t want them to screw it up,” was Preston’s first reaction.

“Leave it to you.” Mandy sighed. “If there’s a downside, you find it. So do the screenplay.”

“No.” He shook his head, walking to the window to try to absorb the news. A film would change the intimacy the play had achieved in the theater. But it would also take his work to millions. And the work mattered to him.

“I don’t want to go back there, Mandy. Not that deep.”

She poured two cups of coffee and joined him at the window. “Supervisory capacity. Consultant?”

“Yeah, that works for me. Fix it, will you?”

“I can do that. Now, if you’ll stop turning cartwheels and dancing on the ceiling, we can talk about your work in progress.”

Her dry tone got through, made his lips twitch. He set his coffee on the windowsill, turned and took her sharp-boned face in his hands. “You’re the best, and certainly the most patient agent in the business.”

“You’re so right. I hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am. Are you going to call your family?”

“Let me sit on it a couple days.”

“It’s going to hit the trades, Preston. You don’t want them to hear about it that way.”

“No, you’re right. I’ll call them.” Finally, he smiled. “After I charge the phone. Why don’t I clean up and take you out for that champagne.”

“Why don’t you. Oh, one more thing,” she added as he started for the stairs. “Pretty Miss 3A? Are you going to tell me what’s going on between you?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything to tell,” he murmured.