Mr. Right Next Door

Morgan laughed. “What’d you say his name was?”

“Smithson.”

“Smithson?”

“Yeah, as in ‘son of Smith.”’

“Ah, so his father’s name was Smith.”

Denise lifted both brows in a gesture of surprise. “Very good. Most people don’t get it.”

“That you had a cat named Smith,” Morgan clarified, “and now have raised one of his kittens.”

“Exactly.”

He smiled. “There, see, we have more in common than racquetball and residence.”

“And that would be?”

“Obviously we’re both animal lovers.”

Denise made a doubtful face. “I imagine we’re about as compatible as cats and dogs.”

He laughed. “You never know.”

But she did. She felt certain that she did, and instinctively she began turning away.

“Uh, about this,” he said, holding aloft the steaming ceramic dish. “It’s an apology. I shouldn’t have used your name to get into the gym without your permission. I’m sorry. Sort of.”

She couldn’t help smiling. Sorry, sort of? What kind of apology was that? She said, “Funny, it doesn’t seem much like an apology. Actually, it looks and smells like a casserole.”

He laughed. “An apology casserole. I thought...I hoped... Well, let’s just say I’m reconciled to being friends. Casual friends.”

Denise was unprepared for the disappointment that arrowed through her, but she instantly dismissed it, seizing instead on the peace offering. Friends, even casual friends, was something of a compromise, but she wouldn’t let herself think of that, not tonight. She peered down into the casserole dish. “What is it?”

“Chicken,” he said, “all white meat, cheese, rice, broccoli and cauliflower. Very low fat.”

It smelled wonderful, but she lifted an eyebrow at the low-fat part. “Low-fat cheese?”

He sketched a cross over his heart. “And skim milk. Scout’s honor.”

She eyed him warily. He didn’t look much like he needed to worry about things like fat in his diet. She remembered the hard, well-defined muscles of his bare chest and thighs, and for some reason the memory made her uncomfortable. She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, saying, “Am I suppose to believe that you eat so sensibly all the time?”

He slid the casserole and the hot pad on which he carried it onto the countertop, slapping his flat middle. “Hey, keeping in shape at forty-five isn’t as easy as you might think. You’ll find out one of these days.”

Forty-five. She blurted, “You’re older than I thought.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

She quickly washed her hands before pulling a plate out of the cupboard, then she reached up and pulled out another. What the heck. Even casual friendship required some reciprocation. She took out glasses, flatware, and napkins and set the table in silence. When she looked up, he said, “Am I being invited to dinner?”

“Friends do that, don’t they? On occasion.”

He chuckled. “On occasion. But what about the paperwork?”

She halted, ashamed suddenly of the lie, and stammered, “Uh, i-it c-can wait.”

He shrugged and clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly. “Okay, so, got any bread? A little salad maybe?”

She pointed to a cabinet door, then opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “I’ve got some greens, but there doesn’t seem to be any dressing.”

He took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet along with the bread, hefted it in one hand lightly and said, “I think I can take care of that. May I?” He indicated her pantry with a jerk of his head.

She took out the salad and set it on the counter, saying, “Knock yourself out.”

He went to work, and it became quickly obvious that he knew very well what he was doing and enjoyed it. To her, cooking was a chore that she often chose not to perform. Morgan not only enjoyed it but reveled in it, and the results reflected that. Sitting at the table with seasoned toast, salad dressed with red wine and spices, and a cheesy chicken casserole, Denise found herself smiling for the first time in days. Her smile turned into a hum of pleasure as she forked casserole into her mouth.

Morgan smiled knowingly and said, “Good isn’t it? Want the recipe?”

She shook her head then said, “Yes, it’s good. No, I don’t want the recipe.”

“Don’t like to cook, huh?”

She shrugged. “Don’t have the time.”

He ate thoughtfully for a few seconds, then laid aside his fork and said, “I know what you mean. I always enjoyed cooking, but then I got so caught up in that whole corporate career thing that cooking-and just about everything else I enjoyed—fell by the wayside.”

“Well, but if you enjoyed your career—”

“I didn’t. Oh, it had its moments. I got addicted in a way to the thrill of the deal, you know, the one-upmanship, the winning. Then one day it occurred to me that if I, quote, won, unquote, someone else had to lose, and in so many cases it just wasn’t necessary. I started wondering why it couldn’t be a win-win situation at least some of the time, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I had lost my edge, that business always was and always would be about, and again I quote, going in for the kill.”

He went back to eating, but she couldn’t help feeling that he’d left the story unfinished. “So what happened?” she prodded, irritated when he took his time chewing and swallowing.

“What happened was, my wife insisted I go in for counseling. She couldn’t understand why I was unhappy, and she was convinced that the problem was all in my head.”

“And?”

“And the counselor possessed a very open mind. It only took a few sessions for both of us to understand that I’d been trying for years to fit a mold fashioned for me by someone else.”

Denise couldn’t help a spurt of resentment. She flattened her lips. “So it was all the wife’s fault, I suppose?”

He shook his head. “No, it was all my fault. I should have stood on my own values and principles from the beginning, but I wanted to make her happy. I didn’t see that mutual love, real love, accepts. Eventually we both realized that we didn’t really love each other. I was dazzled by her sophistication in the beginning, and what attracted her to me was my willingness to let her mold me into what she thought she ought to have in a husband. When I was no longer dazzled and no longer willing...”

Denise finished for him, “The marriage fell apart.”

He nodded, leaned both elbows on the table and linked his hands over his plate. “What about you?”

Denise immediately felt the old wariness rise. “Me?”