ThisTimeNextDoor (2 page)

“Blair can be such a wimp. If John can’t man up now, why expect him to later?”

“It’s not your place.”

“Sure it is. I’m her best friend.”

“He’s the father of her baby. Stay out of it.”

“How can I?” Rose asked. “I moved to the other side of the country to live with her while she figures this out. I’m not allowed to give my opinion?”

“Since when does sharing living quarters give you the right to make the biggest decision of her life?”

“Like Grandmother did with you? Or me?”

“Exactly,” her mother said. “That’s exactly right.”

“I’m not her mother. I’m her friend.”

“Right again.”

Rose shoved the dark purple nail polish back onto the shelf and picked a glittery crimson instead. “I’m taking her out clubbing. Finding her a new guy. To hell with John.”

“Good idea. There’s no harm in her proclaiming her independence.”

Rose strode toward the register at the front of the store. “You give such great advice. How come you can’t ever apply any of it to yourself?”

“You went with the red again, didn’t you?”

“You know it.”

“Good choice.”

Unloading her basket on the belt, Rose nodded hello to the cashier and readjusted the phone at her ear. “I’m mailing you the purple.”

“I’ll never use it.”

“Maybe Grandmother will.”

Laughing, her mom said goodbye and Rose swiped her debit card, hoping she had more than twenty bucks in her account. That modeling job would’ve made her life a lot easier. She was signed up with a temp agency, but nothing had come through yet.

Secretarial work. How depressing. Pre-med wasn’t much use if you didn’t follow through on the “med” part after graduation. Unfortunately, she knew now she didn’t want to be a doctor, or a vet, or a nurse, or a psychiatrist, or a long list of things. What she
did
want to be was an elusive, invisible cloud of mystery.

The cashier, a thirty-something woman with hair like a brown pyramid and thin, heavily lined lips, handed her the bag. Rose studied her while she worked.

At least she knew she didn’t want to work behind a cash register. She’d worked retail through high school and college, enough for a lifetime. Unfortunately, retail didn’t do much for her résumé, any more than selling used books, baby clothes, or antiques on the Internet did.

She checked the time on her phone. She’d agreed to meet Blair at Bloomingdale’s. As if she could afford to buy anything right now. It was masochistic to get within fifty feet of a department store.
 

Besides, Blair was a size 4, at least for another month or two; shopping with her was a spectator sport. The plus sizes were kept far away from the skinny stuff, in quarantine on another floor, as though the extra inches were contagious. Which is why, since they were teenagers, Rose and Blair met in the sock department. Socks were cheap and they fit. Though everything seemed expensive these days.

“Oh my God, look at you,” Blair said ten minutes later when Rose waved at her across a display of terrycloth slippers. She dropped the package she was holding and stared. “You’re a vision. Where did you get that sweater?”

Rose looked down at herself, stroked the vivid pink knit hugging her curves. “This old thing?” She smiled. “I made it.”

“Really? Oh my God, it’s so beautiful. I didn’t realize you could knit that well. I knew you could make scarves and things, but—” Blair stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”

Rose grinned. “Sucker.”

“How can you lie to me? I told you I don’t like it.”

“How can you believe me? I told you I can’t help it.”

Blair shook her head. “It’s amazing I ever believe anything you say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It is. It really is,” Blair said, picking up the package she’d dropped. Then her eyes widened. “Hey, how’d it go? I wasn’t sure we wanted to trust Ellen about the modeling job, but John said she’d never do anything to hurt Fite Fitness. He said she’s given her life to that place.” Fite Fitness was John’s family’s business.

“Well, they don’t want me. Said I’m too fat.”

Blair froze. “I’m sorry. God. I shouldn’t have—”

“What are you apologizing for? It would’ve been great if I’d been right for them, but I wasn’t, so there you go. Nothing for you to feel bad about.”

“But it was my idea. Did you have to… never mind. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked for more information before you had to expose yourself like that.”

Rose smiled, reached for a package of lacy red thigh-highs. “You know me. I like the attention.” She held the package out to Blair. “Speaking of which, I think that’s just what you need. Pregnant chicks are sexy. Show it off, baby.”

Rolling her eyes at the red tights, Blair said, “Don’t change the subject.”

“Blair, it was no big deal. Years of telling off my anorexic grandmother has made me invincible.”

Blair snorted. “You’re not as tough as you seem.”

“I am about this.” She patted Blair on the shoulder. “Really. I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Why’d you suddenly need to go to CVS? Which made you late to meet me?”

“Tampons.”

In a flash, Blair snatched the bag away, pulled it open. “Just what I thought. You always go for manicure therapy when you’re upset.”

“I was missing my mother, that’s all. I was talking to her on the phone and got homesick.”

Blair’s triumphant smile faded. “That’s my fault. You being here.”

“No moping. Let’s go upstairs and get your eyebrows sculpted.”

“Right. As if that’s my top budget priority right now.”

“Come on.” Rose reclaimed her bag, tucked it under her arm. “It’s twenty bucks. You’ve got gorgeous eyebrows. Dark, arched, dramatic—give them a little love.”

“You can. I’ll watch.”

“There’s no point doing mine. They’re invisible. I could shave them off and nobody would notice the difference.”

Blair licked her lips. “I shouldn’t. What if I have to raise this baby alone? I’ll need every penny I’ve got and I don’t even have a job. Who’s going to hire a pregnant English major?”

“They aren’t hiring English majors who
aren’t
pregnant, so there’s no point dwelling on that. Besides, maybe they’ll be afraid of looking like they’re violating your rights and hire you because of it. Not that you look pregnant.”

“I’m totally poofing out. Look at his.” Blair put her hands on her hips and arched her back. “I can barely button my jeans.”

Rose glanced at her concave abdomen. “Must be twins.”

“Shut up.”

“I should give you that phone number at Fite Fitness. I hear they’re looking for a plus-size fit model.”

Blair shoved her in the arm, biting back a smile. “All right. I won’t do eyebrows, but we can check out the dresses. Something stretchy and cheap.”

“Just like your roommate sophomore year. What was her name, the gymnast?”

With a laugh, Blair took off for the elevator. “Come on, let’s do it. If just to get you to shut up.”

“Dream on,” Rose said.

* * *

“Damn, Mark,” Jared’s voice said in his ear, “I’ve been trying to fix that bug for seven months. You do it in a week and now I look like an idiot.”

Mark Johnson tore open a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos while he stared at the computer screen in his bedroom. His new job writing code was going pretty well. He was making four times what he’d made as a teacher and he didn’t even have to leave home. Or put on pants.

“No problem,” he told Jared, glad he hadn’t let on that the chore had only taken him a few hours. Best not to show off. “What else you got for me?”

While Jared launched into a description of another project, Mark covered the mic of his phone’s headset with one hand so he could politely munch on his Cheetos.

“So what do you think?” Jared asked after a few minutes.

Mark mulled it over. “Two weeks?”

“Really? You think you can get it done that fast? QA wants a full month to test it before the release.”

“I think so,” Mark said. “I’ll have to look at it for a couple days to be sure.”

“That would be awesome,” Jared said. “I’ll tell the big guy, okay?”

Mark swallowed another mouthful of Cheetos. “Okay.”

“Awesome. You sure?”

“No problem,” Mark said.

When Jared finally hung up, Mark peeled off the headset, careful not to get Cheeto dust on his keyboard, and got to his feet.

What time was it, anyway? He glanced at his monitor and recoiled. Already 5:24 p.m. and he hadn’t even gotten dressed yet. With blackout shades on his windows to reduce the glare on the trio of monitors on his desk, sometimes he lost track of the world outside.

Sometimes? More like always. Was this what he wanted when he quit teaching? Living with his mother at twenty-nine years of age, never leaving the house, never seeing a soul who wasn’t related to him?

He went over and flipped up the shade. Bright sun shining over the Golden Gate made him squint.

What a waste. He had a million-dollar view from his own bedroom and he didn’t even look at it. His mother’s house in the hills of Oakland, the one he’d grown up in, had most of its windows facing west to enjoy the panorama of San Francisco to Marin spreading out from left to right. The sky was clear, the fog blanket only beginning its creep over San Francisco.

It was September now; days were getting shorter.

Practically thirty
. How was that possible? He still got carded when he bought beer. How could he be so old?

He leaned his forehead against the window and peered at the house to the left, telling himself he was just enjoying the way the sun was lighting up the modern windows with platinum streaks.

Was
she
home? He flattened his cheek against the glass so get a better look. The house looked quiet, but she seemed like the quiet type.

Quiet was good.

Indulging in a memory of the new neighbor waving at him over the bushes in the front yard, Mark closed his eyes and conjured her up in his mind.

He pushed away from the window. Of all the women to fixate on, he picked one who’s involved with a future in-law of his. His brother was finally getting married, which was great, but his fiancée, Bev, had not-so-great relatives. Like the dude who knocked up his neighbor.

Groaning, he strode across the room. He had to get out. Just a walk, a run, maybe shoot some hoops in the driveway, anything to remind him of the real world.

His clothes were in a pile on the floor where he’d dumped them from the dryer, but at least they were clean. Except for the stains. And the jeans were too short because he’d been too cheap to pass up the five-dollar Levi’s on the clearance rack.

He pulled them on anyway and looked in the mirror. A thirty-two-inch inseam wasn’t what it used to be. With a shrug, he turned away from the mirror and jogged downstairs. Maybe it was time to take some of the money he’d squirreled away to buy some new clothes.

One of these days.

He walked past the old upright piano and the dining room table into the kitchen. His mother, Trixie, was using the old avocado-green rotary phone that had hung on the wall since Mark was born.

“That’s terrible,” his mother said into the receiver, twisting the cord between her fingers. “Which houses were hit?”

Mark paused in the doorway.

“Oh, no, I understand that would be confidential,” his mother continued. “So little privacy these days.”

An alarm bell went off in Mark’s head. “Mom, who’s on the phone?”

She waved at him, smiling, but then turned and addressed whoever was on the line. “But, you see, I don’t live alone,” she said. “My son is here. Mark, my middle child. He’s better than any alarm system, I’m sure.”

“Mom,” Mark repeated. “Who are you talking to?”

Her smile faltered. “Yes, I suppose he will be moving along some day.”

Mark strode over, reached for the phone.

“Soon, yes,” she said. “Probably soon.”

He took the receiver just as a man’s voice was saying, “Ma’am, that’s precisely the type of home these criminals are targeting—women living alone. Especially in such a large house as yours. How many square feet did you say it was?”

“A lot bigger than the prison cell you’ll be living in if you call here again,” Mark said.

He heard a grunt before the line went dead.

With a sigh, he turned to his mother. “You’re on the sucker list, Mom. Don’t let them start in on you. Just hang up.”

“Really? Again? But he sounded so real.”

“Real?”

“I always hang up on the robot people,” she said. “Even if it’s Diane Feinstein.”

Mark put an arm around her. Barely sixty, his mother was too young to be so gullible. But when it came to predatory telemarketers, she was as vulnerable as an elderly shut-in. Part of it was her natural friendliness, her joy in a good chat, her excessive free time. “What did he offer you?”

“It’s not like I would’ve taken it,” she said with a sniff.

He looked down at her. That was probably true, but you never knew. Ever since she’d taken in more than a dozen Chihuahuas last year as part of a rescue operation, she’d been the object of a series of charity scams. She’d rather get cheated, she’d say, than fail to help a person—or animal—in need.

“I’ll answer the phone from now on,” Mark said.

Rolling her eyes, she patted him on the chest. “If it makes you feel better.”

“And I’m going to put in a real phone with an ID screen,” he added.

“As long as you leave Old Greenie where it is, you can do whatever you want.” She cocked her head. “Is that the doorbell?”

Hearing the distant chime, he groaned. It seemed like an hour didn’t go by without somebody harassing them. Phone, door, mail, Internet. He’d put his mother on all the do-not-call lists, added a NO SOLICITORS sign to the door, unsubscribed her from online spam and corporate mailing lists, but it took time for the word to get out.

And possibly a court order.

“I’ll get it,” he said

“Good,” his mother said. “As long as you’re wearing pants.”

Putting on his most manly, hostile expression, he strode through the house to the front door and jerked it open. “Whatever you’re selling—”

His voice went dry in his throat. It wasn’t a solicitor; it was a woman.