The Widow Next Door – by Marianne H. Donley
THE WIDOW NEXT DOOR
BY MARIANNE H. DONLEY
The stench of burning cheese awoke Neill Yates.
But the shouting, doors banging, trash cans clattering, and dogs barking kept him from going back to sleep.
He stumbled from his bed, slammed his window shut, then pulled the drapes.
Hard. He fell back in bed and squashed a pillow over his head. It didn’t help.
What the hell is my neighbor doing at this ungodly hour of the morning?
He tossed the pillow on the floor and glared at the clock. Only four hours of sleep. He couldn’t function on only four hours of sleep.
Neill scanned his darkened room. Where in the blazes did I put the white noise machine? Damn it, he wasn’t supposed to need it here. His neighbor was an old widow. This whole neighborhood was supposed to be established, stuffed with nice quiet seniors.
He didn’t care so much about nice, but he wanted quiet.
Ah-ha. He spotted the white noise machine on the top shelf of his bookcase.
Neill yawned, then got out of bed again to set up the device.
He tripped over the pillow he’d thrown on the floor, hitting his shoulder on the nightstand as he went down.
He grabbed his shoulder and lay still for a beat, trying to decide if he were injured or annoyed at his clumsiness, when the blaring of an alarm interrupted his thoughts.
Is that a smoke detector going off? From next door? It sounds close enough to be coming from my house. He groaned. Neill knew the alarm and smell of burned cheese weren’t his problems, but sleep would elude him until he checked. He threw the pillow back onto his bed and walked out of his bedroom.
He didn’t get far. The open side windows in his living room gave him a great view of his neighbor’s front yard. What had Murry called her? Old Widow Raynes.
How had he missed the fire department arriving?
Two fire trucks sat in front of the old lady’s house, lights still strobing, doors open, but no firefighters around.
He decided they must already be inside the house.
Sure enough, the front screen door opened as he watched; several guys jogged across the porch and down the front steps.
Neill leaned closer to the window. Are they laughing?
Yep, they glanced back at the open door, laughed, and waved at whoever stood there before getting into their truck, turning everything flashing off, and driving away.
Okay. False alarm. He smacked his forehead. Of course—the smell. The poor old lady must have burned breakfast.
He glanced at his mantle clock. Just after seven.
He’d call his buddy, Carl. He’d be out delivering his boxed breakfasts.
Carl wouldn’t mind bringing one to Old Widow Raynes.
She’d appreciate not having to cook for herself, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her burning down her house on his first day in the neighborhood.
He grabbed his cell and scrolled through his contacts. Breakfast arranged, he stretched and went back to bed. He had to be at his restaurant by three. He had prospective employees to interview, and the galleys of his new cookbook to correct.
He needed his sleep.
Old Widow Raynes.
Ellie Raynes stared at the label on the box in her hand, and then up at the man on the porch.
He couldn’t be much over forty, a bit older than she was.
He looked like an upscale waiter, dressed in all black except for the red logo on his breast pocket.
The logo matched the design on the box she held.
She shook her head. “I didn’t order this. ”
“It’s not for you. It’s for old Widow Raynes.” The guy winked at her. “Your grandma, right?”
“What?”
“Neill Yates, her new neighbor, called and arranged it. Evidently, she totally burned breakfast.”
“What?”
He laughed. “Yeah, Neill said the stench was nasty. Did she tell you the fire department showed up?”
Ellie felt the heat rising from her back, up her neck and across her cheeks.
The nerve of that jerk next door. After the run-ins I’ve had with him the last few nights—now this?
Old Widow Raynes. And it wasn’t her fault the blasted dish burned.
She followed the recipe exactly as written—one hour at four hundred degrees.
Too bad the idiot next door hadn’t written the cookbook because then she would enjoy writing a scathing review and watching him eat the charred mess.
The guy in front of her shifted on his feet and interrupted her fantasy. He said, “Neill thought she would appreciate not having to make herself breakfast. I was wondering if you would. . .”
“I’m sorry,” she interrupted while giving herself a mental slap. This wasn’t his fault. He was just the delivery guy who was probably expecting a tip. “Let me put this down and get your tip.”
“Oh, no,” he said. He waved his hands back and forth, then took a step closer to her and rubbed his hair.
“I’m not doing this well. I’m Carl McGraw.
I own McGraw’s.” He pointed at the box she was holding.
“We do boxed breakfasts and sit-down lunches. And well . . . I know you don’t know me.
But, I’d like to . . . Okay look, why don’t you and your granny have lunch on the house. ”
“My grandmother is on a Caribbean cruise and has been for the past two weeks.” As she finished, she heard the pounding of giant teenage feet on hardwood stairs, so she knew Roy and Paige were finally awake.
She noticed Carl looking over her shoulder with a puzzled frown on his face, so she figured the kids were behind her, holding up the walls, looking all bleary-eyed and wild-haired as they did most mornings. “How about I take my kids?”
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. You’re married. Look, bring your . . .”
“It’s worse than that.” She smiled at him. She knew it wasn’t a friendly smile because he backed up. “My husband died ten years ago.”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite understand what she was talking about.
She said nothing for a beat while he added up the evidence: missing granny, teenagers, and deceased husband.
He looked at the box in her hands with Old Widow Raynes in bold black letters.
He lost all color in his face and looked ill. “I’m sorry. Neill . . .”
“Tell Old Mr. Yates that Old Widow Raynes isn’t interested in handouts.
” Ellie shoved the box back into his hands.
“He told me last night what he does in his backyard is his business, not mine. So, you tell him what’s sauce for the goose is definitely sauce for the gander.
I like burning breakfast. I’ll probably do it again tomorrow. ”
She slammed the door before she could add words she didn’t want her kids repeating.
When the oven-timer sounded, Ellie left the kids playing roller-hockey on the driveway and hurried inside.
Too late. Smoke billowed from the oven like a malevolent, burnt-cheese-smelling genie and rushed toward the smoke detector.
She climbed a kitchen chair to unhook the battery.
The fool thing automatically connected to the fire department, and as much as the kids would enjoy the drama, she didn’t want them showing up. Again.
She waved the smoke away from her face. Damn. She had cut the time the recipe called for by thirty minutes, and she had lowered the temperature to 375. What had gone wrong this time? Maybe the whole recipe was a bust?
Ellie stepped off the chair and turned off the oven. Then she flicked on the fan over the stove, the ceiling fan in the family room, and opened the kitchen door and all the windows. Finally, she peeked at her dishes.
Okay, not what she imagined.
The filling had bubbled over the sides of both pans and missed the cookie sheet she had placed underneath them. She would have to clean the oven, but at least she had not burned another batch of shrimp enchiladas.
Using hot pad holders, she pulled the pans out one at a time and set them on the cooktop.
The cheese looked golden brown. Now that the smoke had cleared, the red sauce bubbling in the corners sent the yummy aroma of chili powder and cumin throughout the kitchen.
She smiled. If the dishes tasted as good as they looked and smelled, they would both be keepers.
She took several pictures, jotted down notes while she could still remember her modifications, and then went to fetch the driveway hockey players to serve as taste-testing victims.
Before she took two steps, noise exploded in the front room. The sounds of the door slamming and roller-skating on hardwood floors and children yelling preceded the entrance of two girls.
“Mom, Mom, Mom,” shouted Paige. Her face was bright red; her hair matted and sweaty.
Not to be left out of the commotion, Dory, her six-year-old niece, hollered, “Aunt Ellie, the Hulk. Aunt Ellie, the Hulk.”
“Skates off in the house,” she said. When no one moved, she added, “Off. Now.”
“But, Mom, this is an emergency.” Paige took a deep shuddering breath and grabbed her arm. “You have to come.”
The doorbell rang, and both kids jerked their heads toward the living room and back to her. Ellie read panic all over their faces.
“The Incredible Hulk.” Dory wrapped her arms around Ellie’s waist. She peeked at the front door. “He’s going to smash Roy.”
“Don’t worry, Dory.” Ellie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
This was her sister-in-law’s fault. Alexis started calling the new neighbor “the incredible hunk ” and the kids had misunderstood.
Ellie had no intentions of setting them straight.
She gave herself a mental shake and opened her eyes.
The kids were still panicked, and the doorbell rang again, several sharp, quick bongs. “Is he on the front porch?”
The kids nodded as the door swung open, and there he was . . . the hulk, the hunk, the neighbor.