Nine Lives(32)

He finished his drink and was about to go inside for the evening when he spotted his neighbor—her name had already escaped him—walking along the sidewalk. Even if he hadn’t known her, she would have stood out to him. First off, she wasn’t wearing workout clothes. She was in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and she was walking slowly, looking up at the leaves that still clung to the trees. She wasn’t even wearing headphones.

“Hello,” he said, and when she didn’t seem to hear him, he said it again, louder.

She jumped a little, then turned her head. “You scared me. I was totally lost in my thoughts.”

“Please go back to them. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“God, no. If you knew my thoughts, you wouldn’t want to be lost in them. I didn’t see you there. You blend into the side of your house.”

Jack looked down at himself. He was wearing brown trousers, and a rust-red cardigan and he realized now that he probably was hidden against the brick exterior.

“I do,” he said. “I was just about to go inside and get myself another drink. Will you join me on my bench?”

His neighbor, who had stepped up onto his lawn, shrugged and said that she would.

“What can I get you?” he asked, still trying to come up with her name.

“What were you having?”

“Gin on the rocks, which sounds like very serious drinking for a Sunday night, I now realize.”

“It does. Although if you have some tonic, I’d drink a gin and tonic.”

“I think I might.”

When Jack had returned with two gin and tonics, she was sitting on the bench waiting for him. He handed her the glass, and she said, “I might have to suddenly leave you. My husband went into the office today, and he’s due back soon, so I hope you don’t mind …”

“I promise I won’t be insulted when you leave me. This is a good spot. You’ll be able to see him arrive from here.”

“I will,” she said, and took a sip of her drink.

“I’m embarrassed to admit this,” Jack said, “but I’ve forgotten your name already. I blame old age.”

“It’s Margaret,” she said. “And you hardly seem old at all.”

“Margaret. That’s right. And is that what people call you? Or do you have a nickname?”

“I think I’m the only Margaret left in the world. I’m not Maggie, or Megan, or Meg.”

“Or Peg,” Jack said.

“Right. Or Peg, although I don’t think anyone these days is called Peg. No, I’m just Margaret. In college I had a boyfriend who called me Maggie and I loved it at the time, but then we broke up …”

“And no more Maggie.”

“That’s right.”

They were quiet for a moment, both sipping at their drinks. Jack said, “Does your husband always work on Sundays?”

“He’s ambitious, and he says that if he goes in on Sundays, he can get more work done in eight hours than he gets done in the entire week. I don’t mind. I spent the day reading, then decided I needed to get some exercise. You should meet him. I told him about you, and he looked up your book and said that he definitely remembers it. Why don’t you come over for dinner?”

“Oh,” Jack said, taken aback a little by how fast she’d spoken. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you and your husband.”

“Okay. Let me think. What about this Thursday night? Do you think that would work?”

“I know that what I’m supposed to do right now is hem and haw and try to pretend that I’m mentally ticking through all of my upcoming social engagements, but I am pretty confident that I’m free on Thursday. I’d love to come.”

“Great. Come at six. I know that’s a little early, but we tend to eat early. And is there anything you don’t eat?”

“I eat everything except octopus, but somehow I doubt you were thinking of cooking octopus.”

“Why don’t you eat octopus?”

“It does taste quite good, but I saw a documentary about them, and I kind of fell in love. They’re very intelligent, and quite mysterious. I just can’t bear it. I mean, I know that pigs are intelligent, and that chickens can bond with people, and all that, but somehow, it’s different. Or I’m just a hypocrite.”

“Fair enough. No octopus. And no need for you to bring anything besides yourself. And, right on cue, there he is.”

She was looking down the street, where a black SUV was turning into her driveway. Out stepped a clean-cut man dressed in what looked like golf clothes to Jack. Slim-cut chinos and a tucked-in polo shirt. Margaret quickly finished her drink, handed the glass to Jack, and stood up. She took a couple of steps out onto Jack’s front lawn, then waved her husband over. He walked to them, and Jack thought that Margaret seemed tense.

“Jack, this is Eric. Eric, this is the neighbor I was telling you about. Who wrote the book.”

Jack stood up and shook Eric’s hand. He’d been prepared for the forceful grip of a young finance guy but was still shocked by just how much it actually hurt.

“Yeah, she told me about your book,” Eric said, “but couldn’t tell me anything about it, of course. I looked you up. Six months on the Times bestseller list. Not too shabby.”