Mr. Right Next Door

Denise got up and extended her hand. Ken took it in both of his, held it, and said meaningfully. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.” And then he walked out of her office, his step decidedly more spry than when he’d come in. As the door closed behind him, Denise felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

It didn’t make much sense. Ken Walters had never been a buddy. She was his superior. He had only this moment begun to think of her as even human, and that had been completely by her own design, so then why should she feel lonely now that he was gone? Nothing had really changed. Nothing would. She had her career, and that was all she needed. Wasn’t it?

Denise watched out her window as Morgan whizzed the Frisbee through the air, laughing as his big dog Reiver launched his ninety-pound body into flight and snatched it in his powerful jaws, white teeth flashing against his brown-and-black muzzle. The dog landed lightly on all fours and loped toward him, ears flopping. Morgan opened his arms and bent forward in offer of reward. Reiver leaped at him, knocking him flat on his back and depositing the disk on his chest before lapping his face with a long, pink tongue. Morgan howled, trying to fend off the dog and hug him at the same time, too weak with laughter to do anything but endure. Then he turned his head and saw her, and the laughter died. Denise felt a twinge of guilt for having ruined his mood. He pushed the dog off and sat up, staring at her window. She tried not to let on that she had been watching, sipping from a coffee cup and petting her cat with one hand. Obviously he couldn’t stand the sight of her now. He got up and went into the house.

Denise turned away from the window with a sigh. She should be glad. She hadn’t wanted his attentions or any man’s, so what was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to feel so...bereft. Well, not in a long time, not since she’d so painstakingly rebuilt her life, not since... She got up from the armchair, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap, and wandered over to the bookshelf, torn between taking down the photograph album and passing it by. She took it down, set aside her cup and opened the cover.

Jeremy smiled up at her, a little blob of baby fat in a blue one-piece shorty, that little eyebrow quirked just so. She turned the page. Jeremy pushed his walker around the room clad only in his diaper, his little face utterly gleeful. She couldn’t bear any more. She closed the book and briefly hugged it to her before sliding it back into place on the shelf. She couldn’t bear to see again how he’d grown and changed and matured, how the baby fat had gradually become thin, hard little muscles, how his face beamed with secret knowledge and avid intelligence. She couldn’t bear, especially, that the pictures would stop there, frozen in time forever. At eight. There would never be a picture of Jeremy at ten or twelve or twenty-one. There would never be another picture of Jeremy ever. She closed her eyes against the searing pain, no longer expecting it to soften or lessen. The years had shown her that losing one’s child never got easier or better.

A knock at her door provided welcome distraction. She left her cup where it was, wrapped her sweater tightly about her and walked into the tiny foyer to answer it. Morgan Holt smiled down at her, a casserole balanced on one palm.

“Got a minute?”

A minute? she thought wryly, pathetically grateful that she had misjudged him. Old habits died hard, however, and she heard herself saying, “Just. I have some paperwork to go over tonight and—” The cat made a bid for the door, slinking between her ankles and elongating its stride. “Smithson, get back here!” She caught at the regal bluegray tail. Morgan quickly stepped inside and pulled the door closed.

The cat immediately twined itself around his ankles, meowing. “Russian blue?” Morgan asked, maneuvering the casserole in order to look down at the cat.

“Somewhere along the way, I imagine,” Denise said, leaning down and plucking up the cat. He was a big, arrogant male, completely unconcerned that he’d been declawed and fixed. At a sleek fourteen pounds, he considered himself emperor of the world even though he seldom left the apartment and only then in a locked carrier. He ducked his head and turned away as Denise attempted to stroke between his ears. To further indicate his disdain, he hooked his only remaining claws, those of his back paws, into her abdomen and pushed away, leaping to the floor and wrapping his long body around Morgan’s ankles in another examination of the 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?”

“Umm-hmm, you ever been married?”

She briefly considered several replies, from an outright lie to flatly telling him it was none of his business, but then, she’d just elicited his story from him, so that hardly seemed fair. She kept her eyes on her plate and her fork busy as she said, “I was married.”

“Divorced?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“I guess you don’t want to tell me why,” he said after a moment, and she knew that the disappointment in his tone had less to do with curiosity than the fact that their so-called friendship was not turning out to be exactly reciprocal.

She took a deep breath. “I got pregnant.”

It took several moments for that to sink in. Once it did, he dropped his hands to his lap and said, “I thought getting pregnant was a reason to get married, not divorced.”

The old bitterness filled her and she vented it with sarcasm. “That’s usually how it works, yeah, but not with my ex.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand that,” Morgan said softly.

She gave up the pretense of eating and sat back in her chair, lifting her gaze to his. “We got married right out of college, top of our class, roaring to go. We were going to set the business world on its ear. No mention was ever made of children. I suppose I thought we’d conquer the business world and then move on to parenthood. Then I got a terrible sinus infection, and the doctor failed to tell me that the antibiotic I was on could affect the birth control pills I was taking. At first I just couldn’t believe I’d gotten pregnant. Then when the shock wore off I couldn’t help thinking like a mother, you know?”

“I know. I have a son of my own.”

She managed to smile at that. “I’m glad. I wish... Well, not anymore, but at the time I thought that if only Derek would be glad, everything would be wonderful.”

“But Derek wasn’t glad,” Morgan stated gently.

She marshaled the words in her head, still not quite able to reconcile them. “Derek gave me the option of abortion or divorce.”

“And you chose divorce.”

“I chose to have my baby, even if it meant having him alone.”

“Him? You have a son, too?”

She forced her tongue to form the single word. “Had.”

A heartbeat later, Morgan Holt did what no one else had ever done. He got up from his seat and walked around the table, where he knelt beside her, took her hands in his and gently said, “I’m so sorry. Would you like to tell me about him?”

Chapter Two

Denise took up the pen and began writing her name on the appropriate line, and right in the middle of Jenkins, she completely forgot what she was doing. Her mind flashed on that moment when he had knelt by her chair and taken her hands in his. Her memory played for her a vision of blue, blue eyes so misty with understanding, so warm, that looking into them had seemed to melt something hard and icy deep within her. She couldn’t quite believe that, with tears rolling down her face, she had begun telling Morgan about the hit-and-run, even how she had resented that the other boys, three in all, had managed to escape with various degrees of injury, while her own son had died instantly. She had never told another soul that, and over the years she had felt genuine shame for her private reaction to the survival of those other boys. Now she was left wondering if anyone other than Morgan Holt would have accepted that confession with the same equanimity and nonjudgmental compassion as he had shown her that night, and the idea that he might be unique in even that one way somehow terrified her so badly that her hands shook.

“Ms. Jenkins?”

Her secretary’s concerned voice jerked her back to the present. Denise started and dropped the pen.

“Are you all right?”

Embarrassment started a burning sensation at the base of her throat, but Denise ignored the color threatening to climb to her face and picked up the pen again, murmuring, “Just a cramp in my hand.” She quickly finished her signature and pushed away the papers. “Anything else, Betty?”

“Just your meeting with Mr. Dayton.”

Denise glanced at her wristwatch and got up from her desk, briskly but not quite successfully suppressing her dread. “I expect the meeting will flow over into lunch,” she said absently, “so you might as well go ahead and take your break now. I know you must want to check on your granddaughter.”

Betty had been gathering up the papers strewn over the top of Denise’s desk. It was the sudden cessation of her quick, efficient movements that alerted Denise. She looked up, catching Betty’s expression of surprise just before the older woman masked it. Irritation made Denise snap, “Well, she is having her tonsils out, isn’t she?”

“Yes, ma’am. I just... That is, thank you. Thank you very much.”

Denise waved her away with a frown, uncertain what irritated her most, that her secretary had thought she ignored the talk going around the office or her surprise at what was ultimately a meaningless bit of compassion. It cost Denise nothing, after all, if her secretary left the office a few minutes early when the woman was both efficient to the point of amazement and, at present, unneeded. Yet, Denise was embarrassingly aware herself that it was unlike her to make unnecessary comments. Normally she would have stopped with merely telling Betty to take an early lunch, making no comment about her young granddaughter’s minor surgery. She couldn’t think what had changed inside her that would allow, even compel, her to comment about something as private as her secretary’s granddaughter. Knowing that Betty’s thoughts must be somewhere along the same line as hers, she swept out of the office without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

By the time she reached Chuck’s impressively swank office suite her dread had coalesced into potent distaste, and again she had no adequate explanation for her own reactions. She had never liked Chuck, but personal pref erence had never played a part in her career. She had always been able to keep personality out of professional dealings. What difference did it make if the boss or even a subordinate was a jerk and a bore? Or even if he was a prince and a sweetheart? All that mattered professionally, the bottom line, was performance. Period. So why suddenly should her skin crawl at the idea of walking into a room with Chuck Dayton?

She knew that Chuck was about due for a hit on her. She’d recognized the signs that announced he was working up to it. His wouldn’t be the first pass she’d had to field, nor would it be the last. Denise considered such unpleasantness merely part of the job. It came with the territory, so to speak, with being a woman in a man’s world. It was just one more thing that she would not let get in her way. Reminding herself of that seemed to help, so mentally she squared her shoulders, nodded at Chuck’s young, nubile secretary, and marched into the lion’s den.

The “lion” looked up and boomed a hearty welcome. “Hey, Dennis, come on in!”

She reminded herself that he called her Dennis because she dared to compete with the men on their own level, and it wasn’t just the racquetball.

Resisting the urge to lift a hand to smooth the sleek roll of dark hair twisted against the back of her head, she instead kept her hands free and her movements fluid as she approached the desk. No chair had ever been drawn up in front of that desk. In Chuck’s mind, no subordinate rated a chair at his desk, while superiors rated five-star treatment in the comfortable seating area arranged artfully before the picture window with its lovely view of the Ozarks. Chuck and only Chuck sat at that desk. Denise came to a halt in front of it and folded her arms.

“You wanted to see me?”

He shot her a knowing smirk and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him, just showing her who was boss. When he’d felt that he’d kept her waiting long enough, he looked up and smiled.

“Looking good today.”

She let the compliment pass without comment. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying his comfort at her expense.

“You know, you really have to loosen up. That ice queen stuffs good for the grunts. Keeps them in their place. But the higher-ups are used to living in the sun. We like a little warmth every now and again, even some real heat once in a while. I’m sure you catch my drift.”

She ignored his “drift” and went straight to business. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

Chuck frowned, then sat forward again and briskly began giving her the details. “It’s about the new retailer coming on-line. I’ve invited the rep to dinner on Friday night at the Ozark Springs Inn. Have you been there yet?”

“Ozark Springs Inn? No, I haven’t.”

“Well, here’s your chance to enjoy the amenities at company’s expense. I think we can swing an overnight stay—for both of us.”

Denise’s stomach turned sour. “Your wife ought to enjoy that,” she said as offhandedly as she could manage.

“My wife is used to my, uh, work keeping me out overnight.” Chuck smiled and waggled his eyebrows.

It was all Denise could do to keep from gagging. Instead, she made herself smile and pass a limp hand over her forehead. “Gee, I wish you’d given me a bit more notice,” she said, thinking furiously. “Friday is...day after tomorrow, and I’ve, ah, already made plans.”

The smile turned upside down. “What kind of plans?” “Well, p-personal plans.”

He screwed up his face. “A date? You’re telling me you have a boyfriend?”

He made it sound like a disease, and suddenly she knew why. A boyfriend would mess up all the plans he’d been neatly laying, plans designed to get her off by herself, plans to seduce her. No, Chuck wouldn’t go to all the trouble of being sure that she was willing. More likely, what he had in mind was something along the lines of compromise, if not outright demands- Yes, a boyfriend was definitely in order. She folded her arms again.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a boyfriend.”

Chuck knocked his index finger against the edge of his desk. “Well, work will just have to take precedence. If he doesn’t know that already, he’ll just have to learn.”

“Agreed.”

“Then you’ll cancel your plans.”

“Ah, no.”

“Jenkins,” he said sternly, “this is your job. I want you at that dinner Friday night!”

She grabbed at the proverbial straw. “Dinner! Well, dinner, yes, I can probably swing that. I’ll just, uh...”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed, lending him the air of a truculent pig, but Denise was well aware that it would be unwise to underestimate him. “Bring him along?” he suggested smoothly, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She had not the faintest idea what he was planning, but no doubt he had something up his sleeve. The Chuck she knew didn’t take kindly to being thwarted in anything. She gulped, trying to cudgel her reluctant brain into giving her a solution, while Chuck warmed to his own scheme.

“By all means, bring him along! It’ll be a pleasure to meet him. I insist. Really.”

She felt like a rat trapped on a sinking ship, but if she had to choose, she’d just as soon go down with the ship as have to put herself into Chuck’s hands in order to escape it. Coolly, she inclined her head in acceptance of his “invitation.” It was only after she’d left his office some minutes later that-she realized her little plan had one glaring flaw.

She didn’t have a date on Friday, let alone a boyfriend.

It was, of course, the obvious solution, not so much because they were friends but because, more pointedly, he was the only single man she knew in the whole area! Moreover, something told her that he would not let her down. She could count on Morgan Holt to come to the rescue, but could she count on him not to take advantage or misconstrue? That was another question entirely. Yet she effectively had no choice. She needed a date for Friday night, a pretend boyfriend, and Morgan Holt was the only candidate. Quaking inwardly, she cleared her throat, inhaled deeply through her nose and shook her limbs, much as if she were preparing for a big match or an especially unnerving sales presentation. The small ritual behind her, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door.

A male voice called faintly from a distance through the door that he was coming. Denise folded her arms and stepped back, looking around the wide porch with its gingerbread trimming and fresh white paint contrasting with the pale sky blue of the house itself. It was really a lovely old home, not at all what she’d have picked out for herself but very much Morgan Holt. Somehow she sensed the love and pride that had gone into every brush stroke and swing of the hammer. He must have worked for years to refurbish the place. The elegant mahogany door with its large oval of beveled glass swung inward, and Denise jerked around, pasting a smile on her face.

“Hey! Good to see you. Come on in!” Morgan backed away from the door and allowed her to step past. “Man, it’s beautiful out there, isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply as he pushed the door closed. “I love this time of year. The leaves will start turning soon. Meanwhile the days are perfect and the nights are cool enough for a fire. What more could you want?”