The Widow Next Door – by Marianne H. Donley #2
He looked different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, sharper somehow and more intense.
Up close, she understood why even the very-married Alexis took note.
With dark hair tousled and that three-day scruffy beard look, any number of women were probably noticing.
Not that she noticed. No, she absolutely was not noticing.
Right now, his eyes were closed, and he leaned against the door jamb as if it were the only thing in the world keeping him upright.
Ellie felt sorry for him. He looked as tired as she was, and then she remembered why she didn’t sleep well last night, and the night before, too. Her sympathy meter took a dip below zero. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Yates?”
His eyes snapped open. He stood up straight. “Yes, I think one of the kids out here broke his leg.”
Neill was confused and wished he had a detailed recipe with annotated pictures because what was in front of him wasn’t adding up.
He’d expected to find a doddering old lady next door, not a curvy, thirty-something brunette who seemed to love kids and hate him.
Serious contempt. He wasn’t used to women hating him.
He couldn’t figure out what he had done.
She didn’t even know he’d yelled at the kids.
He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.
He’d offered to call 911, but she snapped at him, so he helped get the kid, Roy, into her SUV for the trip to the ER.
It was the least he could do, but he felt like a jerk.
He hadn’t meant to scare the kids. Hell, two of the girls took off as if he were a crazed troll. He wanted them to be quiet so he could sleep. He hadn’t realized they were screaming because one of them was hurt.
He surveyed the area. All the kids who needed to be in the SUV were, and all the other kids sat on his neighbor’s front lawn. He could feel their wide eyes on him as if they were waiting for him to grow devil horns and skewer them all with his pitchfork and eat them for breakfast.
The brunette ignored him. He wanted to ask her: Where the hell was Old Widow Raynes? And who are all these kids? And who the heck are you? Instead, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Yates. I think we have this under control.” She turned to the gang sitting on the lawn. “Paige has her cell, so as soon as we know, she’ll text. Okay, guys?”
“He’s not in trouble?” one of them asked.
“Of course not, Zack. No one’s in trouble.” She smiled at each of the kids. “Go on home. We promise to text”
She didn’t smile at him. But she did seem to be considering something. “Mr. Yates, we don’t seem to have hit it off as neighbors, but could I ask you to check to see if I turned off my oven and then lock up my house?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
“Should I check on your grandmother?”
She flashed him a look that made him feel she was sending him to the principal’s office for smoking in the bathroom. Okay. Grandma was off limits, so he asked, “Can you call or text me and let me know how Roy is?”
“I don’t have your number on speed dial.” She stopped, pursued her lips, and shook her head. “Sorry, that was rude. Give your number to Zack. He can text it to me.”
“Okay, right. Go. Don’t worry about your house. I’ll take care of the house.” He was babbling. One day in his new house, and he was babbling. He watched the SUV until it turned the corner and then asked, “Which one of you is Zack?”
A skinny kid, all arms and legs, unfolded himself from the grass. “Me.”
“Got your cell?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s my number for you to text her.”
“There’s a please in that, right, dude?”
“Yes. Please.” Neill scrubbed his face while he counted to ten. “Please, text my number.”
“Okay,” Zack said. “Can we still have the enchiladas?”
“What enchiladas?”
“The ones Mrs. Raynes just made. She wants us to taste them. We even get to tell if we don’t like them.” Zack flashed him a charming grin.
The children behind him were nodding and grinning as well. Neill tried to decide if he was being played when it hit him . . . the kid said Mrs. Raynes .
“Who lives in there?” He pointed to his neighbor’s house. He had this itching feeling along the back of his neck that he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Roy and Paige, their mom, and Dory, and their aunt and uncle.”
“That,” he pointed in the direction the SUV traveled, “was the aunt?” Please let her be the aunt.
“Dude. That was Mrs. Raynes.”
“Where does the grandma live?”
“Don’t know.” Zack shrugged and looked at the other kids for help answering.
One of the girls raised her hand as if she were in school. He nodded at her.
“She used to live there,” she said pointing to his house, “but now she’s on a cruise.”
Old Widow Raynes. Neill felt like his head was going to explode. Once it did, he would have to clean up the mess; then he was going to kill Murry. Just to make sure, he asked, “Is there a Mr. Raynes?”
The kids all shifted around suddenly uncomfortable. None of them would make eye contact with him. Finally, Zack said, “He’s dead. Totally dead.”
Neill walked through the Raynes’ tidy living room and back to the kitchen.
Her kitchen was small, but she’d used the space well, with double ovens, a gas cooktop, a big sink, and a fair amount of counter space.
The white cabinets and a giant window over the sink made the room look open and bright.
Herbs growing in shiny copper pots along the windowsill added a cheerful note. He wanted to cook in this kitchen.
He looked out the window into the backyard.
The kids had migrated from the front lawn and were sitting, more or less quietly, waiting for him to bring them their food.
God, he hoped they weren’t playing him like Murry had with “Old Widow Raynes.” He had a lot of making up to do with his new neighbor.
He didn’t want to add to it by giving away her dinner.
She had turned the ovens off, but she had left the bottom one wide open. Cheese and sauce had bubbled over and made a nasty mess. Not a huge mess, so it couldn’t have been what he smelled this morning. It didn’t look bad enough to attract the attention of the fire department.
Weird.
He shut the oven door. On the counter by the cooktop, he found a stack of paper plates, plastic forks, and napkins next to two pans of enticing, cheesy enchiladas. He cut into one of the baking dishes and placed an enchilada on a plate. Out oozed tomatoes, onions, chilies, cilantro, and shrimp.
She’d made shrimp enchiladas, and hell if they didn’t smell almost as good as his own.
Then he remembered the kids in the backyard waiting for food. He counted up the children, divided the enchiladas accordingly, and then called them to the kitchen door. Each kid took a plate, thanking him politely, before inhaling the food.
There was one enchilada left, so he dished it up and took a bite. Tangy, spicy, and good. Damn. She must have made her own red sauce. No way this was from a can.
He took another bite. They tasted like his shrimp enchiladas but with a little something extra.
Another taste. What else had she put in the filling?
A hint of garlic. Cumin. But that could have been from the red sauce.
Ah ha, he had it now. Tomatillos. Why hadn’t he thought of putting tomatillos in his shrimp enchiladas?
His shrimp enchiladas.
He looked down at his food. These were his shrimp enchiladas.
He put down the plate and fork and smacked his forehead. He was such an idiot. He was tired and overworked but how many times would he fall for Murry’s BS? Old Widow Raynes , indeed. Murry had known exactly who his neighbor was, and he sold him the house anyway.
Neill had moved next door to Ellie Raynes, the blogger who wrote “Raynes Restaurant Reviews.” The blogger who was making everyone crazy by suggesting how to improve their recipes.
And for some reason, she hated him. So, she would hate his restaurant.
Hell. His cookbook. She was reviewing his cookbook.
He looked around the kitchen. There it was. Sitting there like a snake on the counter, the uncorrected galley of his new cookbook.
He walked over to the book. She bookmarked the recipe with a page of handwritten notes. In neat, precise, bold letters she had written: recipe wrong.
A bolt of anger straightened his spine. Then he remembered the fire department. He lifted her notes to check the cookbook.
He was so screwed.
When Ellie pulled into her driveway, she disrupted a mean game of roller-hockey.
“Look, Aunt Ellie, the Incredible Hulk is playing hockey with the guys.” Dory kicked the back of her seat.
Ellie looked into her rearview mirror at her niece. “You shouldn’t call him that, Dory.”
“But mommy said . . .”
“Mommy was teasing, honey.”
When the hockey kids and Neill Yates moved to the grass, Ellie drove down her long driveway and parked the car in the garage.
The kids didn’t wait for them to get out; they crowded around her SUV to see Roy, his bandaged foot, and his cool crutches.
Her neighbor hung back as if he wasn’t sure how welcome he would be.
“All right, guys,” Ellie said. “Let’s get Roy into the house. He has to rest for a while. You can all come back tomorrow.”
“Can’t we finish our hockey game?” Zack looked at Neill as if he hoped another adult would talk Ellie into letting them play.
“You heard her, Zack,” Neill said. “We can finish the game tomorrow.”
She nodded her thanks as the kids schlepped away, dragging hockey sticks behind them. She herded her kids toward the back door.
“Mrs. Raynes, can we talk for a few minutes?”
“I really need to get Roy settled.”
He nodded. “Sure, but you need to know . . .”
“Mom, geeze,” Roy said. “I’m fifteen. I don’t need you to tuck me in. I can do it myself.”
The doctor said it was a clean, simple break. But Ellie knew he was hurting, so she forgave his grumpiness. “Okay, kiddo. Get yourself settled. I’ll be in to check on you.”
“Mom.” His voice was high and whiny.
“I’m checking for me, Roy. I just need to know you’re all right.”
He shrugged and, with his crutches, plonked along the driveway to the back door. Paige and Dory followed him, chatting quietly.
“Is he okay?” Neill asked.
She nodded.
“Before I say anything else, you need to know I’m the chef and owner of ‘After Five’ and I saw the galley of my cookbook on your counter.”
“Ah,” she said. “Worried about your review.”
“More than you know.” He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
“I guess you would have been nicer the last few nights.”
“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Ellie gazed at him. He did look different in the daylight. She pushed the thought away and said, “When you had your wild housewarming parties in your spa.”
“I work at night.”
“Is that what you call it?” She folded her arms and gave him one of her looks.
He didn’t back down like most people did. “I’m the chef. I was at work until three in the morning.”
“So, what? Your evil twin told me what he does in his backyard is his business, not mine?”
“Yep. Exactly. I have an evil twin.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a snapshot. “See. Here we are. His name is Murry.”
She took the picture from him. Sure enough. Identical twins. She handed the photo back.
“I have a lot of other stuff to apologize for,” he said.
“Like what?”
“The fire department this morning. I’m assuming that was your first batch of shrimp enchiladas. Major typo in the recipe. My entire fault.”
“Okay.”
“For believing Murry when he told me about ‘Old Widow Raynes.’”
“Okay, why would he tell you that?” she asked.
“Selling point for the house. I wanted a quiet neighborhood with lots of quiet, old people. I sleep most days.” He rubbed his face. “Don’t worry. I called a bunch of contractors about installing soundproofing.”
“Okay,” she said.
“And for yelling at your son when he was hurt. I’m truly sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare the kids. I wanted them to be quiet so I could sleep.”
“That one might not be totally your fault.” Ellie smiled. “Make sure you ask my sister-in-law to explain why the kids think you’re the Incredible Hulk.”
“You can’t explain?”
“Not on your life.”
He took a deep breath. “So, do you think we could pretend this whole day never happened?”
“Maybe,” Ellie said.
“Hi. I’m Neill Yates. I just moved in next door.”
“Hi, Neill. I’m Ellie Raynes. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He held out his hand, and Ellie took it. He smiled at her, and maybe, just maybe, she noticed.