Джеймс Паттерсон - The House Next Door

“Yes,” he says. And then he does the one thing guaranteed to make me melt: He makes his cute little-boy face—pouty lips, eyes downcast, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A face that’s hard to hate.

“You’re right,” he says, quietly. “I have been…a dick. And I’m sorry.”

Case closed. Sort of.

“And another thing,” I say. “You always…”

“No.” She stops me. “No more blaming. We go forward from now on. Both of you need to listen to the other, and then disagree in positive terms. We have to stop now,” she says, looking at the clock behind us. “But I want you to remember the things we talked about today.”

I schedule an appointment for the following week. Ned looks annoyed. Did he think this session was going to cure everything that’s wrong with us? But in the car going home, he seems more relaxed.

“I guess I have been a bit of a jerk,” he says. A bit? “Want to grab a bite before we head home?”

“Well, I told the kids…”

“Call and tell them to fend for themselves,” he says.

“It’s better if I text them,” I say. “When I call, they don’t pick up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he says. We both laugh.

So we stop for a burger and beer at Shenanigan’s, our favorite local haunt, then sit and talk till ten. It’s like the old days—sort of. When we get home, I rummage through my dresser drawer and pull out something Ned gave me years ago—a lacy red negligee—instead of the ripped cotton “Go Huskies” nightshirt I usually sleep in. To my surprise and delight, Ned remembers. “Wow! You still have that?” he asks.

When I come out of the bathroom wearing it, he’s waiting in bed with his arms crossed. He smiles. He whistles appreciatively. I crawl in beside him, and we begin to make love—slowly, carefully.

Is this what the women’s magazines call makeup sex? If so, I’m all for it. For a while, I can blot out all thoughts of kids, chores, errands—even Vince.

Chapter 16

I’m in the shower. Washing my hair, shaving my legs. Kiehl’s coriander body wash. I’m going to smell nice and natural.

Today is my first official day as Vinny’s soccer mom. I haven’t seen or spoken to Vince since our lunch.

I step out of the shower. Then the distinctive ping of a text message on my cell.

From Vince comes this: I’m bringing snacks 4 team. C U soon.

A few minutes later Vince is at the front door. He’s holding three shopping bags. And I’m wearing nothing but a bathrobe, admittedly the most modest bathrobe I could grab—a navy-blue terry cloth that Ned wears, when he bothers to wear one at all. And nothing underneath.

“Is that what you wear to pick up the kids?” Vince says with a very wide smile on his face.

I ignore his comment, and hope I’m not blushing. Then I say, “Those bags are the snacks? Are you feeding the team…or the whole school?”

“It’s my salesman background,” he says. “Get the prospect to smile, and you can sell them anything.”

“And what exactly are you selling?” I ask.

“Quite honestly? My son. I want the other kids to like Vinny. So if it means bribing the team with fancy snacks and drinks…I’m down with that. How’s your week been?”

I think about the makeup sex with Ned and look away. Great. It’s bad enough that I feel guilty about Vince when I’m with Ned. Now I’m feeling guilty about Ned when I’m with Vince. The bathrobe doesn’t help.

“My week was…not terrible,” I say.

Vince says, “I’m going to put these bags in the trunk of your car.”

“And I’m going to go get dressed,” I say.

“Don’t have to do that for me,” Vince says, the same smile lighting his face.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

When I return I’m wearing fairly baggy jeans and a fairly baggy T-shirt.

“I liked your other look better,” Vince says.

“Gotta go,” I say, ignoring his comment. “I don’t want to make Vinny late.”

Vince holds out his hand to me, as if to shake. But when his hand touches mine, his hold is gentle and there is no shaking.

“Listen…” he begins, and then it feels like he’s changed his mind about whatever he planned on saying. He lets go of my hand and says, “We’re really looking forward to the barbecue on Sunday. Anything I can bring?”

“Nope. Just yourself and Vinny.” I pause. “Well—see you Sunday.”

Then Vince says, “I’ve missed you.”

I don’t remember driving over the speed limit, but I make it to the school in record time. All four kids are waiting for me.

“My dad bought me the shoes and everything else I need,” Vinny says, jumping in and tossing a lumpy gym bag onto the seat.

“Great,” I say. “And your dad dropped off snacks for the team.”

“I know,” Vinny says. Then he adds good-naturedly, “He’s trying to get the other kids to like me.”

I drive my kids to oboe, ballet, and tennis. Then I swing around to the rec center. Coach Mike sees me pull in, waves, and comes running over. Mike is a sweetheart—craggy-faced, built like a fireplug. And he’s a great coach. He’s been doing it for twenty-five years. Tough and demanding, but patient.

“Your dad called and said he’s packed us up a feast,” Mike says to Vinny. Vinny beams as Mike takes the three bags from the trunk and carries them over to the sidelines.

It’s a beautiful autumn day and I’ve got some time to kill. So I park the car and head to the bleachers. Vinny sits on a bench, puts on his shoes, cleats, kneesocks, and shin guards. He is high-fiving two other teammates. I can’t wait to tell Vince that his son is fitting in perfectly.

I whip out my cell phone and check my email. Every so often, I glance up to see how Vinny is doing. He’s trying hard to do the warm-up exercises, but he’s always a beat or two behind. My heart goes out to him. It’s clear he’s not a natural-born athlete. But it’s also clear that he’s having a good time.

A half hour into the exercise routine, I decide to leave. At the same time Coach Mike decides it’s time for refreshments. He blows a whistle, and the team runs over and starts rummaging around two bags.

Two bags?

“Where’s the third bag?” I ask Mike as I pass him on my way to the car.

“What third bag?”

“There were three. Three bags.”

He cocks his head and smirks. He makes a joke. “Maybe it felt like three!”

“No. I never lifted them. But I’m sure I saw Vinny’s father put three bags in my car.”

“Nope,” he insists. “It was just two.”

Am I going crazy? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my mind is playing tricks. Maybe…?

I don’t know what another “maybe” could be. Oh, well. I guess I made a mistake. And yet…

I don’t get to finish my thought. My phone beeps. It’s a text from Joey.

Ur late!!! Where r u??? What’s going on???

Yeah. What’s going on?

Chapter 17

When I wake up Sunday morning, the sun is shining. The perfect day for a barbecue, I think.

But then I start to panic.

My mind is suddenly filled with a million what-ifs: What if Vince says something about our outing or about our lunch, which I never told Ned about? What if I slip and do or say something, and Ned realizes how I feel about Vince?

How do I feel about him?

On and on I go. I’m making myself crazy. I feel like a teenager again, self-conscious and awkward around boys. And I hate the feeling.

At two fifteen, everything is cooked, cooling, coming to room temperature, or marinating. I go upstairs to get dressed. Then there’s another text from Vince: Positive you don’t need anything?