Джеймс Паттерсон - The House Next Door

“That’s him,” Ben says, pointing. Then he scoots down in his seat so none of the other middle school kids can see him. I pull closer to Vincent Kelso Junior and roll down the window.

“You must be Vinny,” I say. “I’m Mrs. Sherman. Hop in.”

Vinny walks slowly. Behind me, the honking grows louder.

“A little faster,” I say sweetly. He has some trouble opening the door. A nice kid, I think. But not too swift.

“Perhaps you two can help?” I say. Ben, still crouched down out of sight, groans. He opens the door handle with his foot. Vinny slides in and fastens his seat belt.

I begin to pull out of the Circle of Doom. Once we’re safely away from the school, Ben sits up straight.

“So how do you like Copain Woods?” I ask Vinny.

“It’s okay, I guess,” he says. I turn around and look at him. He’s a little guy, a few inches smaller than Ben. He has thick brown hair and a nose the size of a small turnip. Cute kid.

“What’s your favorite subject?” I ask.

“They’re all okay.” He shrugs and looks out the window.

“But I bet you really like soccer.”

“I kind of did. In my old school.”

“And where was that?” I ask. Suddenly, he looks frightened.

“I don’t know. Pretty far from here.”

“Oh,” I say.

We pull up in front of the high school to pick up Joey. He’s standing at the curb, checking something on his cell phone. He looks up and gives me his usual warm greeting.

“Did you bring my racquet?”

“It’s in the back,” I say.

“Where are my ballet shoes?” asks Caroline.

“On the floor in front with me. Next to the backup sneakers, water, snacks, and oboe. Am I missing anything?”

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Mr. Wellman says I have to bring a pencil.”

“Don’t you have one? I bought you a few hundred before school started.”

“All the erasers are chewed,” he says with a shrug.

“He can have one of mine,” says Caroline. She opens her backpack. Her pencils, like everything else about her, are perfect: impeccably sharpened and lined up like wooden soldiers in her Fancy Nancy pencil case.

“I don’t want yours. Yours have cooties.”

She gives him a dirty look. All three boys begin laughing as I gun the car around and head for the tennis court.

I pull into the Roger Raymond Recreation Center, a low, white cement building surrounded by willow trees. Joey jumps out and gets his racquet from the back.

“Next stop, soccer field.”

Caroline makes a face. “But, Mom…”

“You can be a little late to ballet,” I say. “Vinny needs to get there on time.”

She stews quietly as I turn the car around and head back.

We drop Vinny at the playing field. The minute he’s out of the car, Ben leans forward and grabs my seat.

“Why are you so nice to him?”

“His father is paying me a lot of money.”

“Really?” he asks.

“No. Jeez . To think I gave up a promising career in theater for a chance to mold young minds, and this is how they turn out. Don’t you remember the story of the Good Samaritan?”

“I thought that was just for muggings.”

“You’re hopeless. It’s for anybody who’s in trouble, who needs a helping hand. And that little boy…”

“He’s in trouble?” Caroline asks.

“Well, I’m not sure. But…something’s not right.”

“Who cares,” Ben says. He crosses his arms and sulks silently as I make my way through the afternoon to ballet and to oboe. After the drop-offs, I sit in my car and check my emails ( $350K in life insurance for as little as $153 a month!…Storm windows, 50% off!…5 Things You Should Watch Before They Expire From Netflix ). Then I head back to tennis, back to ballet, back to oboe, and back to soccer.

Vinny is waiting out in front, covered in mud from the knees down. He’s got a big smile on his face.

“We won!” he yells. He jumps into the car and smears mud all over my upholstery. “Seven–zip.”

And I shift into drive for the final leg of my Thursday journey.

We’re going to Vinny’s house.

Chapter 8

Thirty-seven Maple Lane. The house next door. A small gray house with a bay window.

Vinny jumps out with a quick wave and a polite “thank you.” I park in my driveway and decide I’ll walk over and introduce myself.

Two small ironstone flowerpots flank the front door. Each one holds a miniature pine tree that’s turning brown. As I get close, I realize everything about the house is turning brown. Several gray clapboards are rotting on the corners. I am about to ring the bell when the door opens.

Vincent Kelso Senior is standing in front of me, smiling. He is wearing jeans, a light brown cashmere sweater the same color as his hair, and tasseled loafers.

He’s in his mid- to late forties. Great smile. Great teeth.

“Laura,” he says. He takes my hand and holds it briefly between both of his. His whole face relaxes. Not a bad-looking face, I think. And for a split second, I sense that he might be thinking the very same thing about me.

He keeps his sky-blue eyes locked on mine, except for one brief moment when they dart to the area where he thinks my breasts might be. But of course, they are so hidden under layers of sweatshirts and turtlenecks, he isn’t even close.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says. “I owe you, big-time.”

“Glad I could help. You’ve got enough on your mind,” I say. He looks confused.

“Your wife…?” I add.

“Oh, right,” he says. “That sure made moving more complicated. Not knowing the town at all. Or where things are.”

“I could put together a list for you,” I say. “Local merchants. Plumbers. That sort of thing.” The sooner the better, I think, as I let my eyes wander to the hallway behind him. Paint is peeling from the walls, and there is a huge brown water spot creeping across the ceiling.

“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to go to that trouble.”

“No trouble, really. It would give me something to do.”

“Ah. A little bored out here, are we?”

“Is it that obvious?” I say.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Like the comedian says: You feel like the whole world is a tuxedo. And you’re a pair of brown shoes.”

I laugh. “Exactly.”

“Well, if you don’t mind doing that list…I sure would appreciate it. Any local people I can trust. Or people to avoid.”

“Harry at H & M Cleaners, for one,” I say. “He’s sort of rude and abrasive. I just had a bit of a run-in with him myself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, frowning. “A nice woman like you…”

“Yeah. Well. On the list of life’s problems…”

I let the end of my sentence linger in the air.

“Vinny’s a great kid,” I say. “He really seemed to enjoy himself today.”

“I’m glad,” he says.

“And Coach Mike is always welcoming to new team members.”

“I’ll have to remember to thank him. What’s his last name?”

“Janowicz,” I say. “I’ll add his contact info to the list.”

“This is so kind of you,” he says. “I sure got lucky to find an angel like you.”

Angel . That’s only the second time I’ve ever been called that. The first was him, this morning, on the phone.

He stares at me for a moment. He smiles.

“I’ve got to go,” I say too quickly. “Gotta start dinner for the kids. I’ve got three. Ben’s in the fourth grade. Joey’s a junior in high school. And my daughter, Caroline. That’s her out there now.”

I point. Caroline is standing in front of our house, chatting with a neighbor who’s walking her dog.

“She’s lovely,” Vince says. “I can see where she gets it from. What was the name of that dry cleaner again?”