Too Good to Be True

“Yes, General Jackson. Whatever you say.” I saluted, he returned the gesture, kissed me on the cheek and headed for his place.

Watching my old friend walk away, I imagined with an unpleasant jolt what it would be like to have Julian as half of a happy couple. Imagined him not coming over once or twice a week, not asking me to help at his Dancin’ with the Oldies class at Golden Meadows, not going shopping with me on Saturday mornings. Instead of me, some gorgeous man would be sitting in my place.

Now that would really suck. “Not that we’re selfish or anything,” I muttered. Angus chewed on the hem of my jeans in response. We headed for home, down the narrow path that followed the river, Angus straining on the leash and getting tangled in my bags. My dog wanted to investigate the Farmington, but it was so fat and full and loud that it would sweep him away. Red buds swelled on the swamp maples, but only a few bushes had any actual green on them. The earth was damp, the birds twittered and hopped in their annual search for a mate.

The last man I’d been in love with was Andrew, and try though I might, I couldn’t remember how it had felt when we first fell in love. All my memories of him were tainted, obviously, but still…to belong to someone again, someone right this time. Really meant for me.

Julian had a point. It was time to start over. Sure, I’d tried to scare up a date for Kitty’s wedding. But a relationship was different. I wanted to meet someone. I needed to meet someone, a man I could really love. Surely, somewhere out there, there was a man who would see me as the most beautiful creature on earth, the one who made his very heart beat, made the breath in his lungs sweet and all that sappy garbage. Someone who would help me put the final nail in the Andrew coffin.

It was time.

MY ANSWERING MACHINE LIGHT was blinking when I got home. “You have five messages,” the mechanical voice announced. Wow. That was unusual for me. One each from Nat and Margaret—Nat was dying to get together and hear about Wyatt; Margaret sounded a bit more sardonic. Number three was from Mom, reminding me about her upcoming art show and suggesting I bring my lovely doctor. Number four was from Dad, giving me my assignment for next week’s battle and also suggesting I bring Wyatt, as Brother Against Brother was low on Yankees.

Looked like my family had swallowed my tale of Wyatt pretty well.

The final message was from Officer Butch Martinelli of the Peterston Police Department asking me to return his call. Oh, crap. I’d almost forgotten about that. The clubbing. Beads of sweat jumped out on my forehead. I dialed the number immediately and asked for the good sergeant.

“Yes, Ms. Emerson. I have some information on the man you assaulted last night.”

Assaulted. I assaulted someone. The guy was a burglar last night; now he was the vic. “Right,” I said, my voice squeaking. “I didn’t exactly assault him—more of a… misplaced act of self-defense.” Because he said hi, and we can’t have that, can we?

“He’s legit,” the officer continued, ignoring me. “Apparently, he just bought the house, long-distance, and the key was supposed to be left for him, but it wasn’t. He was looking for it—that’s why he was wandering around.” The officer paused. “We kept him overnight, because we couldn’t verify the story until this morning. We just released him about an hour ago.”

I closed my eyes. “Um… is he okay?”

“Well, nothing’s broken, though he does have quite a shiner.”

“Oh, good God!” What a way to make friends! Another thought occurred to me. “Um, Officer Butch?”

“Yes?”

“If he was legit, why did you arrest him? And keep him overnight? That’s kind of above and beyond the call, isn’t it?”

Officer Butch didn’t answer.

“Well, I guess you can do a whole bunch of things without just cause now, right?” I babbled. “Patriot Act, the death of civil liberties. Well, I mean…”

“We take 911 calls very seriously, ma’am. It appeared that you were engaged in a physical dispute with the man. We felt it was worth checking out.” Disapproval dripped from his tone. “Ma’am.”

“Right. Of course, Officer. Sorry. Thanks for calling.”

I peered out my dining-room window toward the house next door. No signs of life. That was good, because though I clearly needed to apologize, the idea of seeing my new neighbor made me nervous. I hit him. He spent the night in jail because of me. Not exactly my best foot forward.

So, okay, I’d have to apologize. I’d make the poor man some brownies. Not just any brownies, but my Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies, a sure way to soothe any wounded soul.

I opted against calling any of my family members back. They could think that I was with Wyatt, as I’d been with Julian. Except instead of parting ways, Wyatt and I had gone to the movies. Yes. We’d seen a flick, come home and were now, in fact, shagging. Then perhaps we were planning to go out for an early dinner. Which would be, I admitted, a very nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

“Come on, Angus, me boy-o,” I said. He followed me into the kitchen and flopped on the floor, rolling on his back to watch me upside down as I got to work on those brownies. Ghirardelli’s chocolate, nothing but the best for the man I sent to jail, a pound of butter, six eggs. I melted, stirred, blended, then set the timer. Spent thirty minutes checking my e-mail and responding to three parents who were protesting their kids’ grades and wanting to know what their little prodigy would have to do to get an A in my class. “Work harder?” I suggested to the computer. “Think more?” I typed in a more politically correct response and hit Send.

When the brownies were done, I took them out of the oven. Looking over at the house next door, I decided that, yes, I could wait a little longer. I had papers to correct, after all. The bathroom could use a scrubbing. The brownies needed to cool, anyway. No need to race over and face the music.

Somewhere around 8:00 p.m., I woke up from where I’d dozed off over Suresh Onabi’s paper on the Declaration of Independence, Angus asleep on my chest, half of a page damp and chewed in his mouth. “Down we go, boy,” I said, setting him to the floor and retrieving what he’d eaten. Drat. My policy was that if my dog ate the homework, I’d have to assume the kid did perfectly.

Standing up, I peered out the dining-room window. There were no lights on next door. My heart seemed to be beating rather fast, my palms a little sweaty. I reminded myself that last night was simply an unfortunate misunderstanding. Surely we could all just get along. I arranged the brownies on a nice plate and took a bottle of wine from the kitchen rack, stashed Angus in the cellar so he wouldn’t get out and bite the guy and headed over with my peace offerings. Brownies and wine. Breakfast of champions. What man could resist?

Walking up to 36 Maple Street was quite intimidating, really… the crumbling walkway, the broken-down house, the long grass which, who knew, could be full of snakes or something, the utter silence that hovered over the house like a malevolent, hungry animal. Relax, Grace. Nothing to fear. Just being a good neighbor and apologizing for the head-whacking.

The front porch of the house sagged wearily, the steps soft and rotting. Still, they supported my weight as I carefully and quietly negotiated them. I gave the front door a little knock with my elbow, as my hands were full, and waited. My heart clattered in my chest. I remembered that little… tug… I felt when I took a look at the not-burglar as he sat handcuffed on my porch… his boyish cowlick, the broad shoulders. And in that second before I hit him… he had a nice face. Hi, he’d said. Hi.

There was no answer to my feeble knock. I imagined what I most wanted to happen. That he’d open the door, and some soft music—let’s make it South American guitar, shall we?—would drift out. My neighbor’s face, which will sport only the slightest bruise under one eye, barely noticeable, will light in recognition. “Oh, hey, my neighbor!” he’ll exclaim with a grin. I’ll apologize, he’ll laugh it off. The scent of roasting chicken and garlic will waft out. “Would you like to come in?” I’ll agree, apologizing once more for my unfortunate mistake, which he’ll simply wave off. “It could happen to anyone,” he’ll say. We’ll chat, immediately comfortable with each other. He’ll mention that he loves dogs, even hyperactive terriers with behavior issues. A glass of wine will be poured for the lovely girl next door.

See? In my mind, this guy and I were well on the way to becoming great friends, quite possibly more. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be home right now, so he remained unaware of this pleasant fact.

I knocked again, albeit quietly, because I actually felt a little relieved that I didn’t have to see him, pleasant fantasies aside. Setting my offerings in front of the door, I eased back down the rotting steps.

Now that I knew he wasn’t home, I took a better look around. The streetlight gave an eerie, peachy glow to the yard. I’d never been over here before, but obviously, I’d wondered about the house. It had been neglected for a while… roof tiles were missing, and plastic covered an upstairs window. The latticework under the porch gapped like a mouthful of missing teeth.

It was a beautiful, soft night. The damp smell of distant rain filled the air, mixing with the coppery smell of the river, and far away, the song of springtime peepers graced the night. This house could be really charming, I thought, if someone restored it. Maybe my neighbor was here to do that very thing. Maybe it would become a gem.

The crumbling cement path that led from the street continued around the side of the house. No sign of the guy. However, a rake lay right across the walkway. Someone could trip over that, I thought. Trip, fall, hit head on the concrete birdbath just a few feet away, lie bleeding in the grass… Hadn’t he suffered enough?

I went over and picked it up. See? Already being a great neighbor.

“Are these from you?”

The voice so startled me that I whirled around. Unfortunately, I was still holding the rake in my hand. Even more unfortunately, the wooden handle caught him right along the side of his face. He staggered back, stunned, the bottle of wine I’d just left at his door slipping from his grasp and shattering on the path with a crash. The scent of merlot drifted up around us, canceling out the smells of spring.

“Oops,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” my new neighbor cursed, rubbing his cheek. “What is your problem?”

I winced as I looked him in the face. His eye was still swollen, and even in the dim light, I could see the bruise. Pretty damn impressive.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he bit out.

“Uh, well… Welcome to the neighborhood,” I squeaked. “Um… Are you… are you okay?”

“No, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you need some ice?” I asked, taking a step toward him.

“No.” He took a defensive step back.

“Look,” I said, “I’m so, so sorry. I just came over to… well, to say I’m sorry.” The irony of further wounding him while on a mission of mercy hit me, and I gave a nervous laugh, sounding remarkably like Angus when he vomited up grass.

The man said nothing, merely glared, and I found myself thinking that the beat-up look was kind of… hot. He was wearing jeans and a light-colored T-shirt, and, yes, he had very nice arms. Big, powerful, thick muscles, not the overly defined, ripped kind that smacked of too many hours at a heavily mirrored gym. No. These were blue-collar arms. Iron-worker arms. Man-who-can-fix-car arms. An image of Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential flashed to mind. Remember when he’s sitting in the backseat at the very end of the movie, and his jaw is wired shut and he can’t talk? I found that very horny.