Anne Ha - Husband Next Door

“Noticed what?” she said defensively.

“Nothing.” He headed for the front door again.

“What’s wrong with my poster? You think it’s stupid?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s very tasteful. Now, if the woman’s neckline were any lower it might be a bit risqué, but…”

Shelly groaned and followed him out onto their shared stoop, waiting while he fished out his key ring.

He paused after unlocking his door. “Are you coming in?”

“Not if you’re having company.”

Aaron took the bowl from her hands and set it on the sideboard just inside his door. He faced her. “Shelly, there’s no one in there.”

She shivered in the damp air. “But there will be, and then there’ll be a scene. It’s the same story every time I run into one of your girlfriends. They think I’m competition and they get catty.”

Aaron sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re still worked up about Marcia. That was ages ago.”

She kept her mouth shut.

“Look, Shel, my dinner date’s not due until tomorrow evening. If she shows up tonight, she deserves whatever she finds.”

Shelly stepped back toward her apartment.

“Wait,” said Aaron, reaching for her hand. “Let’s compromise. If you come in, I’ll save the cabbage for another night. Just keep me company while I cook.” He flashed a persuasive grin.

She wavered.

“Come on. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“You make it sound as if somebody died. But, yes, I will come in for a few minutes….”

Shelly liked Aaron’s apartment. It was larger than her own, with original paintings hanging in the hallway and over the mantelpiece. His furniture was modern but very comfortable, upholstered in dark tones of maroon and navy blue.

Most importantly, though, the place felt like a home. It had an air of comfort and continuity that was completely different from the houses she’d lived in as a child, and it smelled like a home should, of warm cinnamon spice and even the subtle masculine scent of Aaron himself.

Shelly followed him into the kitchen and pulled up a stool by the cooking island, resting her elbows on the tile countertop.

Aaron poured a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and set it before her. “I have a letter of yours, by the way.” He pointed to a small drop-front desk in the corner.

She slid off the stool and crossed the room. The letter, addressed to “S. Carpenter,” was an offer for a credit card at a low annual percentage rate. Shelly ripped it in two without reading it.

It was crazy, she thought, that they were still getting pieces of each other’s mail. The postal service simply couldn’t figure out that they weren’t related and lived in separate apartments. It was pure coincidence that they shared the same last name.

The confusion didn’t really bother her, though. After all, she never would have gotten to know Aaron so well without it. Almost a year ago, right after she’d moved to San Francisco, Aaron had knocked on her door. He’d introduced himself, handed her two misdelivered letters and asked if he could kiss her.

Despite the instant response that had run through her— Aaron, with his tousled black hair and dazzling blue eyes, was quite a heartthrob—she’d kept her common sense and refused him. He’d never made another pass. He hadn’t needed to, Shelly realized during the following weeks. There’d been plenty of other women ready to fall at his feet, and he rarely lacked female companionship.

He’d still found time, however, to stop by her place almost nightly, in order to deliver more letters that had gone astray. Homesick and lonely after her move to the West Coast, she’d begun to look forward to their brief encounters.

And then one night he’d invited her over for dinner. His date had canceled at the last minute, he’d said, and if she wasn’t doing anything else, he would love to have her over to chat and share the food he’d prepared.

She’d been somewhat unsettled by the romantic meal that had greeted her when she’d entered his dining room, but Aaron had quickly allayed her concerns.

“I’d already set out the candles when Laura called to cancel,” he’d explained. “We might as well enjoy them.” It had been the first of many pleasant, platonic evenings they’d spent together.

Shelly returned to her stool and took another sip of orange juice. While she’d been thinking of the past, Aaron had chopped a tomato and beaten the eggs he’d borrowed from her refrigerator. He put a pan on the stove and poured some olive oil into it, stirring it briefly before consulting his cookbook.

“Tell me what you’re making,” Shelly said, “since it isn’t cabbage quiche.”

“Tomato basil frittata,” he replied.

“Another experiment?”

He nodded.

“And you thought you’d try it out on me.”

“What? You’re staying for dinner?”

“Of course I am. That’s been your plan all along, hasn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, “yes.”

Shelly smiled to herself as she set the kitchen table with her favorite place mats and napkins.

She poured him a drink and lit the taper candles she’d picked up last week, then sat at the table enjoying the sweet fragrance of beeswax wafting from the candles and the muted clatter of Aaron selecting dinnerware and serving out their meal.

Aaron’s frittata was similar to the omelets he occasionally cooked for her on weekend mornings. It was smooth and creamy with a delightful blend of flavors.

“That was pretty good,” she said when they’d finished.

“Thank you. I want to serve it as a side dish. Do you think it’ll go with steak? And do you think Amanda will like it?”

She looked up. “Amanda? Is this a new one?”

Aaron carried their plates to the sink and set them in the basin. “You know, Shelly, you almost sound jealous.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “What you’re hearing is my disapproval of your life-style.”

He grinned at her, unrepentant.

She rolled her eyes. “About the steak,” she continued. “I think that’s an unconventional combination. But you just might be able to carry it off. I mean, people eat steak and eggs, right? Steak and frittata isn’t much different.”

He returned to the table. “You’re not saying that just to get me into trouble, are you? I could make salmon, instead.”

Shelly grimaced. “No. Stick with the steak. That way you can get Alison tipsy on a nice red wine.”

“Amanda.”

She stared at him. “Are you sure?”

Aaron paused. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Shelly watched while he dug into his back pocket and pulled a business card from his wallet, checking it quickly before giving it to her. It was his own card, but on the reverse was the name Amanda James and a telephone number, all written in a flowing, feminine hand.

“Lucky you,” she said pithily as she handed back the card.

Aaron tossed it onto the island, where it would no doubt stay until his next girlfriend found it and went into a jealous rage. “I’ll make coffee,” he said.

“No, it’s my turn.” She stood and crossed to the machine. “You made it last time, didn’t you? Fair’s fair.”

They both took their coffee black. Aaron sipped his appreciatively and leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. “So, Carpenter, aside from that marriage proposal, how was your day at the office?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Oh, that’s right. The April open house is tomorrow.”

“Exactly.” Every month, legal aid invited low-income and homeless people to come in for help with legal problems. If a lawyer could take the case, and if the person qualified, then the services were free. It was an effective way to reach those in need of assistance, but the days leading up to it were always hectic.