Джеймс Паттерсон - The House Next Door

I say no. I’m still angry from last night.

I park across from Harry’s. As usual, Harry is alone behind the cash register. When he sees me, he does something he’s never done before: he comes out from behind the counter and opens the door for me.

“Hi, Harry. Listen. I was wondering if you could…”

“Mrs. Sherman! I have your tie ready. Crisp and clean. Like brand-new.”

He reaches under the counter and pulls out Ned’s tie, spot-free in a cellophane wrapper.

“You need it in a hurry, I do it in a hurry. Harry does his job!” he says. “You tell your friends.”

“That’s great. But I’m not here about the tie.”

I pull the stained scarf out of Ben’s shopping bag and hold it up for him.

He screams.

All the color drains out of his face. He puts his hands out in front of him, palms up, and slowly takes a step back.

“Blood?” he whispers.

“What? Oh, no,” I reply with a laugh. “Food coloring.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it out.”

“You think you can? I’ve heard food coloring is a permanent stain.”

“Is tomorrow okay?”

“Well, there’s no rush, really. The weather’s still warm, so I don’t think he’ll be needing it for a while. Besides,” I add, “tomorrow is Sunday. You’re closed Sunday.”

“For you, I open.”

“No, really. Monday is fine. Thanks. What do I owe you for the tie?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.

“Nothing?”

“My way of saying sorry. Very sorry.” For what? I want to ask. Being an asshole?

“Well, that’s very nice of you. But really, it’s not necessary.”

“No, I insist. You leave it to me. I’ll get this…this… red …out.”

“Well, all right. Thank you again.”

“And tell your friends,” he says. “You make sure you tell them!”

I don’t get it. Overnight, he’s gone from a dybbuk to Miss Congeniality.

I pull out of my parking space and head home. As I pass Harry’s window, I see him standing behind his counter, watching me.

Chapter 13

The guys at the Emissions Center tell me I can have my car back in a couple of hours. As I get out and hand them the keys, I see Vince’s car pull up in front.

He waves. I’m about to open the door and slide in, when he gets out of the car and opens it for me. He is wearing a gray sweater, chukka boots, and jeans. I laugh.

“What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing,” I say.

A lie. I am thinking about what a friend of mine once said: If a man opens a car door for his wife, it’s either a new car or a new wife.

“Thanks for coming along,” he says. “We’ve got a dreary hour or two ahead of us. Think you can manage it?”

“I’ll try,” I say. But once we’re on our way, the conversation comes easily.

“I thought you drove a Volvo,” he says.

“I do. That was Ned’s car. And he’s…”

“…too busy to bring it in himself? Yeah. We men are like that. My wife used to complain about the same thing.”

I wonder if I should ask about his wife again. Well, of course I should. But I decide not to. Not yet.

“So what sort of errands are we running?” I ask.

“I need to see a few clients.”

“What exactly do you do?” I ask. “I mean, for a living?”

“I sell medical supplies,” he says.

“What kind?”

“Mostly ostomy products,” he says “Colostomy bags, barrier strips, moldable rings. I’m a sales rep for a company that makes ’em.”

I shrug. It sounds depressing. Then we talk about movies we’ve seen…rock groups we like…our kids…the high price of real estate (why they’re renting instead of buying)…and where we grew up. (Me: Milburn, New Jersey. Him: Highwood, outside of Chicago.)

Our first stop is a pharmacy a few towns away. Then another one in the next town. I sit in the car and watch through the window. At both places, the scenario is the same: Vince goes in and talks to someone. There’s a lot of hand shaking and head shaking. Then he gives them a card and leaves.

“Well, that’s it,” he says, getting back into the car.

That’s it? I think. Just those two stops? That took all of twenty minutes.

“So…maybe we could grab a little lunch?” he asks. “That is…if you have the time.”

Of course I have the time. He knows it. I know he knows it. And he knows I know. Whatever little game he’s playing…I decide I’m going to play, too.

“Well, there’s some leftover tuna waiting for me in my refrigerator,” I say.

“Do you think we could convince it to wait a little longer?”

I laugh. “Sure.”

“I was thinking of La Lavande,” he adds. Of course he was. La Lavande is the newest, chicest restaurant within fifty miles. I’ve been wanting to go there, but it’s been totally booked. Some people wait months for a reservation.

I mention this to Vince.

“Yes,” he says. “ Some people.”

Chapter 14

The La Lavande parking lot is filled with bumper-to-bumper BMWs and Mercedes and, every so often, a lone Porsche or Ferrari.

Inside, every table has a sprig of lavender in a small glass vase.

The maître d’ seems to know Vince. They shake hands. He ushers us to a table in the back.

I excuse myself and go to the ladies’ room.

I look in the mirror. Not terrible, I think. Not terrible at all. It took forever to get dressed this morning. I finally settled on my go-to outfit: a black cashmere sweater and black slacks. I like the look. It clings nicely to my backside, which sometimes seems too big, and it perfectly frames my breasts, which sometimes seem too small. But not today.

Did I mention a brand-new black push-up bra? Victoria’s Secret . Mine, too.

I put on more lip gloss and comb my hair.

I smile at my reflection. Okay. So he really didn’t need company for two short errands, and maybe this whole lunch thing was in the back of his mind all along. Is that so terrible? I’m having a good time, I think. I can’t remember the last time I thought that. It isn’t a date. But, damn, it sure feels like one. I’m nervous. I’m excited.

As I head back to my seat, Vince is studying a leather-bound wine list that’s almost the size of the table. “I thought we could start with some wine. This is a nice little Médoc,” he says, pointing out one of the wines. I take a look. All my eyes register is the name, “St. Julien,” and the price, “$85.”

“You up for it?” asks Vince.

“Sure,” I say. This may be the first eighty-five-dollar bottle of wine I’ve ever had.

The waiter comes and takes our drink order. Soon he returns with a bottle and two wineglasses. He pours a taste for Vince. Vince takes a sip, swirls it around in his mouth, and nods. The waiter fills both our glasses.

“What shall we drink to?” I ask, lifting my glass. Vince shrugs and smiles sweetly, brushing a boyish lock of hair out of his eyes.

“To friendship. To autumn. And, of course, to you.”

I feel my heart clutch. Then again, it could just be my stomach growling.

We clink glasses. I take a sip. Vince speaks.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I nod and nervously slide my wineglass on the tablecloth.

“Vinny had such a good time at soccer. I was wondering—do you think you could drive him there every week?”

Impossible, I think.

“Sure,” I say. I can’t say no. I don’t want to say no.

“You’re a peach,” he says. We clink glasses again and I take another sip. The wine tastes warm and thick and gorgeous. I feel like I’m floating. I look around. The restaurant is fairly empty now; the lunch crowd has left. And the waiter is back with menus.