Janet Evanovich - Naughty Neighbor

“You’ll rot in hell for not being married in a church,” she said.

“There was no time,” Louisa tried to explain. “Besides, I haven’t been to church in seven years.”

Even now, as Louisa turned the corner, she could feel herself break out into a cold sweat of Catholic guilt.

The vision of the wedding continued. Louisa saw herself nod and smile at Mr. and Mrs. Szalagy. “You look absolutely lovely,” Mrs. Szalagy said to Louisa. “And I don’t believe any of those rumors about you being pregnant.”

Beyond Mrs. Szalagy was Aunt Ruth with cousins Margaret and Mary, beyond Margaret and Mary was Uncle Bill. And standing in front of the fireplace was the justice of the peace and Pete.

Alongside Pete stood the best man…Kurt. Kurt was wearing his black-knit watch cap pulled low over his ears. He hadn’t shaved and a cigarette dangled precariously from his lower lip. An inch-long ash dropped off the end of his cigarette and fell onto his filthy sweatshirt.

Louisa and her father stopped in front of Pete and Kurt, and Louisa’s father took her veil in hand.

“Um, wait a minute,” Louisa said. “I don’t think I want to marry Kurt.”

“You’re not marrying Kurt,” her father replied. “You’re marrying Pete.”

“Yes, but Kurt is part of the deal. He’ll come over to drink beer, and hell leave grease spots on the wall behind the couch.”

Louisa sighed. So, there it was…her wedding. Grim, she thought. Very grim.

Pete’s door was unlocked. She let herself in and plodded up the stairs.

Pete was slouched in a chair. He tipped his head back to look at her through half-closed eyes.

“I’ve got supper,” Louisa said. She took a closer look at him. “You look terrible.”

“Good. I’d hate to think I could feel this lousy and not have anybody notice.”

She put her hand to his forehead. “You feel feverish.”

“Don’t say that. I can’t have a fever. I refuse.”

“You seemed healthy enough when I left this morning.”

“It’s all your fault,” he said. “You made me go to the zoo in the rain, and then you wore me out with your constant demands for my sexual services.” He groaned. “Now I have a cold. I haven’t had a cold in nine years.”

“Poor baby.”

“My throat is scratchy, and my eyes are watering, and I keep sneezing.” He looked over at her. “Am I making any points, here? Do you want to marry me out of pity?”

“I don’t do pity marriages.”

“This cold is worthless.”

“Not totally,” she told him. “I’d be willing to fork over a reasonable amount of sympathy.”

“Would you be willing to fork it over in California? I got a call from the coast this afternoon. They’re starting production, and I need to be there.”

Louisa felt her heart stop for a fraction of a second. “You never said anything about leaving for California.”

“I guess it just never came up. I should have been there weeks ago, but I didn’t want to take off until the pig thing was resolved.”

“When are you going?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Are you crazy? You can’t go tomorrow. Look at you-you’re sick.”

“I’ll take some cold pills. I’ll be fine.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Couple months, at least. First, they’ll shoot the location scenes in downtown L.A., then they’ll do the interiors in Burbank.”

She felt as if somebody had just hit her in the face with a board. She didn’t want to marry him, but she didn’t want to lose him, either. The truth was, she’d gotten used to him. Now he was going to up and fly away.

“Men!” she said.

“You’re upset.”

She had her arms crossed over her chest, and she was pacing. “Hell no. I’m not upset. What would I be upset about?”

“You’re gonna miss me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“You could come with me.”

He was serious! “Good Lord,” she said, “you’re giving me twelve hours’ notice to move to California!”

“That’s not enough?”

“No!”

“Okay, so how much time do you need?”

She ran her hand through her hair. “I don’t know…a year or two.”

“I gotta go to bed,” he said. “I gotta get some rest. I feel like death.” He dragged himself up from the chair and shuffled off to the bedroom.

“The plane leaves at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. I have a cab coming at six. You decide what you wanna do. There’s a seat reserved on the plane if you want it.”

He disappeared through the bedroom door, and Louisa heard him flop onto the bed. She followed him in and removed his shoes. “Can I get you anything. Some soup or tea?”

“A gun,” he said. “Get me a gun and shoot me.”

She drew the quilt over him. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“You really think so?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” she said. “You’ll probably feel worse.”

At six the next morning, Louisa heard Pete stomp down the stairs. All night long she’d wrestled with her feelings, and she still hadn’t reached a conclusion. He knocked on her door, and she hesitated in answering. She sat hunched in her bed, covers pulled up to her chin, not sure what she should say to him. He knocked again, she sighed and went to the door.

“Morning,” he said, his face stiffening at the sight of her in her nightgown. “Looks like I’m going alone.” He had two suitcases, a laptop, and Spike in a cat carrier. The cab was waiting at the curb.

“I’m sorry,” Louisa said. “I can’t.”

He gave her a slip of paper. “If you change your mind, this is my address. There’s a map on the back, and my phone number.”

“How’s your cold?”

“I’ll live.”

They both stared down at their feet. The silence was awkward. Spike yowled, and the cabdriver beeped his horn. Pete said something rude in reply.

“Call me,” Louisa said.

“Sure.”

She adjusted his scarf. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

“Will you be coming back to Washington?”

“Of course I’ll be coming back to Washington,” he said. “I live here.”

“Gosh,” Louisa said, “no need to get cranky about it.”

“No need to get cranky?” His voice rose an octave. “I asked you to marry me, and you turned me down as if I were yesterday’s potatoes! And besides, I have a cold. People are supposed to be cranky when they have a cold.”

He took a wad of tissues from his pocket and blew his nose. “If you have problems with the apartment, call the property manager. You have his number.”

He gave her a set of keys. “Keys to my apartment and keys to the Porsche. The Porsche is garaged on the street behind us. The number is on the paper I gave you. Use the car if you want.”

The cabdriver leaned on his horn. “I have to go,” Pete said to Louisa.

She bit down on her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “I hate good-byes.”

“The plane doesn’t leave until seven-thirty. There’s still time to change your mind.”

She shook her head.

He sneezed twice and blew his nose again. He picked up the cat carrier and trudged down the steps to the cab.

Louisa raised her hand to wave, but he never looked back. He was hurt and angry, she thought. She leaned her head against the doorjamb and watched the cab drive away.

“I can’t go with you,” she said. “I’m not a California person. I don’t tan well, I fall asleep on one glass of wine, I don’t know how to give fake kisses. What would I do if I got invited to a barbecue at Tom Hanks’ house?”

A blast of freezing air swirled up her nightgown, reminding her that she was standing on the porch. She shivered, as much from gloom as from cold, then firmly closed the door and retreated back to her warm bed.

She’d always imagined a marriage as being comfortably boring. It was a place to feel safe. A place to relax. She shook her head sadly. She’d never be able to relax in California.

To begin with there were all those starlets named Bambi. She peeked under the covers at her flannel-wrapped body. She’d have to get breast implants and liposuctioned if she wanted to compete with Bambi. She’d need lip augmentation to give herself that pouty look, and Mr. Ray’s hair weave, and rhinoplasty, and a full set of caps.

It took an hour and a half to go through all of the reasons why she couldn’t go to California. She ran out of reasons just as the paper thunked against the front door, so she threw the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. She stuffed her feet into her slippers, belted her robe around her, and set forth to enjoy her morning ritual. She made the coffee, tuned in to NPR, read the paper, and ate an English muffin as a special treat.

At eight-thirty she dressed in sweats and sneakers and began cleaning her house. She vacuumed, polished, scrubbed, and scoured until every surface was shiny clean. She cleaned the toaster, the range hood, the oven, and the refrigerator. She cleaned her closets, rearranged her drawers, and put down her new shelf paper. She cleaned until eleven-thirty at night.

At eleven-thirty she stood in front of her full-length mirror and assessed her thighs. They didn’t need liposuction, but they weren’t up to Bambi’s standards, either. Louisa burst into tears and went to bed. Hormones, she told herself. She was just suffering a small endocrine imbalance. She was sure she’d wake up the following morning feeling peachy dandy.

The second day she did the laundry. She ironed all the sheets, pillowcases, and towels. She ironed her underwear, her jeans, and her T-shirts. She polished the leaves on her plants, scoured her garbage can, and tried to wash her car, but the water kept freezing.

She told herself she was doing all of these things because the following week she was going to do serious job hunting. Once she went back to work for real she wouldn’t have time to scrub the grout with a toothbrush, she told herself.

Deep down inside, she knew better. She’d known the moment the cab had disappeared from view. Maybe she’d even known sooner than that. Maybe she’d always known. She was going to go to California. She wasn’t sure what she’d do after she got there, but she was going all the same. And before she stepped off into the unknown, she’d needed to set her life in order.