The Man Next Door

“Ms. Bennett,” he said. “Let me guess. You want your bush back.”

Kim flushed. “Of course not. Although I don’t know why on earth you took it or what you’re going to do with it.”

Apparently he didn’t care to enlighten her. He just stood there leaning in his doorway, observing her with subtle amusement. He didn’t smile—nothing so overt as that—but still she had the uncomfortable suspicion he found her humorous.

She heartily regretted the impulse that had brought her over here. She knew she ought to make up some excuse or other and then return as quickly as possible to the safety of her house. But a contrary pride made her stay where she was. At last Michael stood aside from the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Kim hesitated only a second or two. If she was going to make a royal fool of herself, she might as well go all the way. She brushed past him, stepping inside the house.

Evening light spilled over the Mexican tiles of the entryway and burnished the oak floors of the living room beyond. Kim had been in the place a few times before, calling on the previous tenants. The furnishings were the same—sofa and wall hangings in desert hues of sage and sienna—but already Michael and Andy had managed to leave their own imprint: books scattered on the carved chest that served as a coffee table, a single shoe cast off by itself in a corner, a shirt dangling from a chair post. It seemed the two bachelors were settling in.

“Where’s Andy?” she asked.

Michael gave her a look of mock disappointment. “You only came to see my son?”

“Not exactly,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous about coming over here. What had gotten into her? Usually she was so much more self—assured. All those years of playing hostess at Stan’s dinner parties had at least taught her to pretend sophistication. Why was she unraveling now?

Michael spoke. “After supper, a few kids from the neighborhood came by and invited Andy for a game of kick—ball. Maybe he’ll make some new friends.”

Just as she had that morning, Kim sensed Michael’s concern for his son. She heard it in his quiet tone and saw it in the troubled expression that crossed his face.

“Some nice kids live on this block,” she said. “I’m sure Andy will do fine.”

“Parenthood doesn’t make you sure of anything,” he answered.

“I guess I wouldn’t know.” Kim tried for a light tone and failed. “Stan and I—we never had children.” Now her dead husband’s name seemed to weight the air. It brought too many memories with it, such as the humiliating reason she and Stan hadn’t become parents. Futilely Kim tried not to remember all the secret shame. The silence only grew heavier.

Michael Turner didn’t make things any better. He didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t try to cover up the empty spots in the conversation. He stood there, regarding her silently. But that couldn’t be a hint of compassion in his eyes—surely not.

“Do you know about Stan?” she asked, her throat tight. “About the way he died. When my mother—inlaw rented the house to you, she must have said something. She can’t stop talking about him.”

Michael didn’t speak for a moment. Then he nodded, almost with reluctance. “Yes. She told me.”

Maybe it was pity she saw in his expression. She couldn’t tolerate that, and she needed something—anything—to distract her. Operating on a hunch, she crossed the living room, found a button under one of the wall hangings and pressed it. Smoothly and soundlessly, a portion of the paneling opened up to reveal a bar, complete with pitchers, decanters, ice bucket and tongs. She glanced at Michael.

“I have one just like it,” she said. “Both these houses were built at the same time, and I always wondered. Well, the people who lived here before were a very sedate older couple. I couldn’t very well ask them if they were hiding liquor behind the wall.” Kim listened to herself, feeling more absurd than ever. “I’m trying to say that I don’t usually go snooping around the neighbor’s—”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Michael said. “Your mother-in-law said something about a bar, but I never did find it.” He stepped next to her and picked up a bottle of vermouth. “Care for a drink?”

“That’s not why I came,” she said.

“Have one, anyway.” He took ice from the small fridge, mixing vermouth and whiskey. Kim’s gaze lingered on him again. This evening he wore a polo shirt and jeans, and they subtly emphasized his lean yet powerful build. He finished the drinks and offered her one—a Manhattan. Automatically she reached out and took it from him. As she did so, her fingers brushed his. That accidental touch evoked a flicker of warmth inside her, like the quick flare of an ember before it died. Kim had to remind herself that she’d lost the talent for appreciating a good—looking man. That wasn’t going to change just because Michael Turner had moved in next door.

She held her drink without sipping it and examined the well—stocked bar—gin, scotch, sherry, tonic water, even a jar of stuffed olives.

“How very thoughtful of my mother-in-law,” she said. “She’s supplied you with everything. What did you do to get her approval?”

Michael was impassive. “Can’t say, but I refused to flatter her. Perhaps that did the trick.”

Kim shook her head. “I never flatter her and it gets me nowhere. Must be something else.” She paused. “Are you a friend of Sophie’s?”

Michael appeared to think this over. “Would it matter?” he asked as he sipped his drink.

“Sophie is particular about her tenants. She won’t rent to just anyone. Either you’d have to be her friend or come with damn good references.” Suddenly restless, Kim wandered to a window and gazed out at the courtyard, where a native garden flourished—asters, poppies, devil’s claw. But she couldn’t delay any longer.

“Mr. Turner,” she said, facing him, “let me get to the point. The reason I’m here is that…well, I need a date. For tomorrow night.” How ludicrous the words sounded once they were out. Michael looked slightly surprised at first, then intrigued. My, he did have an expressive face. She also saw that glimmer of amusement in his eyes again.

“No doubt you’re thinking it’s a very peculiar request,” she said stiffly. “I don’t even know you. I mean, I only met you this morning. Of course it seems peculiar.” She took a sip of her drink. It was inescapable: she really was making a colossal fool of herself.

“Have a seat,” he said in a solemn voice. “I’m all ears.”

She went to the sofa, sat down, then realized that wasn’t going to help at all. She stood up again.

“I need a date for a business function,” she said defensively. “Very well, a family function, too. The Bennetts always mix business and family. It’s a volatile combination, but I suppose that’s beside the point.”

Michael continued to look both interested and quietly amused. He sat down in an armchair across from her, appearing completely at ease. To remain standing would only put Kim at a disadvantage. She perched on the edge of the sofa again.

“Perhaps ‘ate’ is the wrong word,” she said. “What I need is…an escort.” That sounded even worse, and she hurried on, “It’s a tradition, in a way. At these Bennett affairs, you never show up alone. You gather your forces, so to speak. But you’re probably wondering why I don’t ask someone else. Some male friend. Nonetheless. I thought of you. I mean, you don’t seem the sort to be eyebrowed under the couch by a roomful of pompous, insufferable Bennetts. That was the deciding factor.”

Michael inclined his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose. So I’m your last—ditch choice?”

She gazed back at him as resolutely as possible. “It’s just that…after eight years of marriage, I find I don’t have a whole lot of male friends.” Oh, Lord. As long as she was confessing humiliating details, why not to ahead and tell Michael Turner what a miserable travesty her marriage had been? Why spare herself? “Anyway,” she continued more forcefully, “the Bennetts thrive on despising each other—and everyone else. Family get—togethers aren’t exactly restful.”

He swirled his drink reflectively. “Sounds like this thing could be entertaining.”

Kim wondered if his answer qualified as a yes or a no. Either way, she’d disgraced herself enough for one evening. She set down her drink and rose from the sofa.

“I’ll understand if you want to pass. It’s very short notice, and it’s true that I hardly know you, and—”

“Tux?” he asked.

She frowned at him.

“Tux,” he repeated. “Do you want me in a tux?”

Kim felt an idiotic sense of relief. “Nothing quite so formal,” she said. “The Bennetts pretend to be casual. Mr. Turner—”

“If I’m going to be your date,” he interjected seriously, “don’t you think you’d better start calling me something else? Something less. formal.”

After a second or two she tried his name. “Michael.” It had an intimate sound to it, and she wished she could go back to calling him Mr. Turner. But unfortunately he was right. If they were going to get through tomorrow evening with any aplomb, Michael it would have to be. “Eight o’clock,” she said briskly. “And if you need a baby—sitter for Andy, I know someone.”

“It’s a good thing Andy didn’t hear you say that. He hates that word—baby—sitter. He’s much too old for baby—sitters. But I have a friend he can stay with.”

“Well. Then it’s settled.” There didn’t seem any more to say. Except one thing perhaps. “Thank you for doing this. I know the whole thing’s rather awkward and silly, but—”

“Kim,” he said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”