Джеймс Паттерсон - The House Next Door

I order a quiche ( with apple-smoked Canadian bacon ) and a salad ( endive with toasted hazelnuts ).

“Very good, madam,” the waiter says, with a small bow in my direction. “And for monsieur?”

“Hmmm,” Vince says, studying the menu. “I was thinking about elk.”

Say, what ?

I look at the menu again. Seared New England Elk Tenderloin with Parsnip Mousseline.

“I’ve never seen anybody order elk before,” I say.

“Well, you’ve probably never been with anybody born in Montana.”

“I thought you grew up in Illinois.”

A beat. “I did. After we moved from Montana.”

For dessert we share Praline Chicory Coffee Soufflé, Coffee Anglaise, and Warm Beignets . He pours me another glass of Médoc. Every time I look up, Vince is looking at me and smiling. I tell myself he is just being friendly. Neighborly. Another glass of Médoc and I have almost talked myself into it.

“So why were you so down in the dumps Friday night?” he asks.

“You go first,” I say.

“Okay. Vinny doesn’t seem very happy at school.”

And, of course, he misses his mother, I want to add. But I don’t.

“It’s a pretty jock-oriented place,” I say, remembering what Ben said: He’s a nerd. “And it takes a while to find your level.”

“Yes,” he says. “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you…”

If I hadn’t found you? The phrase has a hundred layers of meaning.

Vince continues.“I can’t even meet other men, ” he says with a smirk. “They all work normal hours. Okay. Now it’s your turn.”

I think back to Friday night. Caroline’s ring. Joey’s test. Ned’s scarf.

“Well—a bunch of things went wrong. And Ned’s been in a pretty crappy mood lately,” I begin.

“It’s that seasonal affective disorder thing he suffers from.”

How does he know that?

“A lot of men do,” he adds quickly. “They miss the whole summer macho thing. You know. Golfing. Barbecues…”

“That’s what we should do!” I say. “Ned loves to barbecue. And you can meet a couple of the neighbors. What do you think?”

“Well…if it’s not a problem…”

“Not at all,” I say, wondering if that’s really true.

The waiter comes by, bows, and drops off the check.

Vince reaches in his pocket. He pulls out a stack of cash, neatly folded with a sterling silver money clip around it. He peels off two hundred-dollar bills. I must look surprised.

“I don’t use credit cards,” he says, and shrugs. “Cards are for people who don’t have cash.”

The waiter takes the money. Vince says, “No change, please.” And then what I really hoped might happen, but that I also hoped would not happen…happens.

He moves his hand to my hand. He touches my fingertips with his fingertips. Then he turns one of my hands right-side up and studies the lines on it. Slowly, he traces them with his index finger.

“This is your life line,” he says, running his finger along a line on the fleshy part of my hand. “See how it curves around your thumb? Means you’re a rock. People count on you. I can believe that,” he says.

He moves his finger up a bit. It tickles. I try not to giggle.

“Now this one here?” he says. “That’s the head line. Yours splits in half. That says you’re sensitive to others. Willing to listen to both sides. Is that the case?”

“I guess,” I say.

“Now this one…the heart line…”

I hold my breath as he traces it slowly, back and forth. “Yours starts high, ends low.”

“And that means…?”

He catches my eye and smiles.

“Lot of feelings and emotions under the surface, waiting to break free.”

I try to think of something—anything—clever to say. I can’t.

“You are a lovely woman,” he says. He lets go of my hands.

“But now I guess it’s time to let you get back to your life.”

Chapter 15

Maggie’s office is in a gray cement building. I take the elevator up to the fourth floor and enter. The brass nameplate on the door says it all:

MAGGIE TRELEVEN, MSW,

ADOLESCENT AND FAMILY THERAPY

I’m a few minutes early. And it looks as if Ned is going to be late. I sit there and look around at the artwork on Maggie’s walls. It is all modern, vague, brightly colored—swoops and swirls that cry out for interpretation. Kind of like therapy itself, I think.

Maggie opens her office door and sees that it’s just me. “Why don’t we give Ned a few more minutes,” she says. I am still angry at him for our big blowout last week, but she’s probably right: we are here to make peace. I nod.

Six minutes later Ned enters, looking frazzled. “Lot of traffic,” he says.

I nod again and we enter Maggie’s inner office. Maggie is in her late thirties, slim, pretty, with dark hair pulled back into a professional-looking bun. As usual, she is dressed simply but elegantly: a white silk blouse tucked into a navy pleated skirt.

Ned and I take our usual seats on opposite ends of her aqua sofa.

“So. How are things?” she asks, as if she’s a neighbor who just happened to bump into us at the supermarket.

I say nothing. Ned shrugs and says, “Fine.” Typical.

“We had a terrible fight last week,” I start.

“Tell me about it,” she says. And I do.

And then I tell her what happened just last night, when I suggested we invite a few friends over for a barbecue. “He practically bit my head off. He loves barbecuing,” I say. “I thought he’d enjoy a chance to do it one more time, while we still have the weather for grilling.”

But even as I say it, I’m wondering if it’s true. Was I really doing it for Ned’s benefit? Or was I just trying to be nice to Vince? The one person who’s been nice to me. I keep this thought to myself.

“It struck me as a dumb idea,” he says. “A waste of a Sunday. I work hard all week. Can’t I have at least one day to myself?”

“You can have every day to yourself, for all I care,” I say, feeling my blood boil.

“Do you really mean that?” Maggie asks.

Yes. No.

“Sometimes,” I say.

It goes on like that for quite a while. Neither one of us thinks we get enough respect…enough understanding…enough attention. Maggie just listens.

“The fight, the barbecue idea…” Maggie finally says, her eyes darting between the two of us. “I wonder if those are just symptoms of something else.”

Ned and I look at each other. Neither of us says anything.

“What’s bothering you the most, Laura?’

I take a deep breath. Where to begin? “Well, I don’t know why he…”

“No,” Maggie interrupts. “Don’t tell me . Tell him .”

I swivel on the couch to face him.

“Okay. I don’t know why you even bother coming home anymore, Ned. You’re always in a bad mood.”

“That’s because…”

“I don’t care why!”

Maggie stops me. “Let him finish.”

“…because my job is making me crazy,” he says. “Managing other people’s money. Even the smallest mistake can mean millions. And now the place is talking about making cuts.”

Maggie nods slowly, sympathetically. “That’s a lot of pressure. Laura, do you agree?”

I shrug. Maggie speaks.

“No. Don’t just shrug. Tell him.”

“Okay. I’m sorry your work is so stressful.” I take a deep breath. “But I hate how you take it out on me and the kids.”

Maggie taps her index finger on her desk, as she always does when she is about to make an important point. “I think it’s important you hear that, Ned. Did you hear it?”