Too Good to Be True(14)
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 notburglar 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 bluecollar 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.
I swallowed again. “Hi. I’m Grace,” I said, trying to start over. “I wanted to apologize about…last night. I’m so sorry. And of course, I’m sorry again, for all this. Very sorry.” I glanced down at his feet, which were bare. “I think you’re bleeding. You might’ve stepped in glass.”
He looked down, then turned an impassive gaze to me. Call me paranoid, but he looked quite disgusted.