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Chapter Three
Though JT routinely lost track of time, his stomach always growled right on schedule at six on Friday. Enchilada night, or possibly taco casserole. His doorbell buzzed at exactly the expected hour—you could set a clock by Mrs. Sanchez—and he crumpled the drawing he’d been working on, tossing it in the general vicinity of an overflowing wastebasket. I should empty that. Mrs. Sanchez would bust his chops about the mess.
He opened the door of the apartment. Roberta Sanchez, who’d raised four children and was approaching double that in grandkids, lived below him with her husband, a MARTA bus driver. When she’d first heard that a widower had moved into Peachy Acres, she’d shown up with a covered pot of chicken tortilla soup. Food had followed every Friday since, with flan on his birthday.
“Buenas noches, Jonathan.” She marched toward his kitchen with a foil-wrapped glass pan.
“Nobody calls me that,” he reminded her.
Over her shoulder, she hitched a dark eyebrow. “Are you calling me a nobody?”
“Of course not.”
“Then shut up. Now be a good boy and find me a clean spoon, if such a thing exists here. No wonder you are uninspired to create beauty, living in such disorganization! Have you painted at all this week?”
He rummaged through a drawer. “You sound like Sean.”
“I sound nothing like that degenerate!” She sniffed. “You should have heard him flirting with my daughter Rosa in the elevator. It’s inappropriate, the things he says to a married woman.”
JT grinned inwardly, knowing full well that Mrs. Sanchez adored Sean, a feeling that was mutual even though Sean called her the Battle Ax.
She paused. “You’re not expecting him, are you? Maybe I should have brought more.”
He eyed the pan. “That would feed an entire dinner party. Is Enrique working the night shift? You could join me.”
“If you want me to join you, you should clean up this pit first.” Despite her words, she pulled two plates down from the cabinet. “I’ll stay. The good Lord knows my company is as close as you’ll get to a dinner party. You don’t want to be a hermit, Jonathan.”
“I’m doing my part to uphold the reclusive artist stereotype.”
“To qualify as an artist, shouldn’t you produce art of some kind?”
Touché. “Nag, nag, nag. It’s a wonder your children haven’t moved farther away.”
She sniffed again, not dignifying his jibe with a response.
The Sanchez family was the kind of close-knit group neither JT nor Holly had ever possessed. Holly would have loved Mrs. Sanchez; initially, that had been why he’d put up with the older woman’s intrusions. But she’d won him over with her drill-sergeant tone and twinkling dark eyes. She seemed to understand his loss without ever expressing the cloying pity that made him want to withdraw more. Plus her cooking was a little piece of pepper-laced heaven.
JT didn’t have a kitchen table, merely three padded, high-backed stools pushed up to the counter. He cleared away a pile of junk mail and an empty pizza box to make room for them to eat. Mrs. Sanchez pulled a carton of milk out of the refrigerator, opened it and immediately grimaced.
“Jonathan, this milk is older than some of my grandchildren.”
“An unfair comparison. You have grandkids born every ten minutes!” He said it lightly, but it was the Sanchez babies that had made him leave the rooftop Fourth of July picnic last month.
Roberta had browbeaten him into attending, but he hadn’t been able to bear it for long. Just as he hadn’t been able to bear the empty nursery in the house he’d shared with Holly. After all the work she’d put into it, wanting it to be perfect for their child, he couldn’t bring himself to paint over a single duck or bunny. The crib he’d assembled sat obscenely empty, and a month after he’d lost his cherished wife and the daughter he’d never had a chance to know, he’d bent over the railing and finally cried, ugly hoarse sobs that felt as if they were splitting him in half. From the moment the doctors had given him the news at the hospital, throughout the memorial service, he’d been too shocked and disbelieving to truly cry. Once he had, instead of feeling better for having poured out some of the pain, he’d been pissed off at the senseless loss.
He’d locked himself in his studio, barely eating or sleeping, trying to purge his enraged grief with painting. When he’d finished the series, he’d been like a man coming out of a coma, disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. He’d wandered through his own house like a ghost, stopping in the nursery—that bright, cheerful room where he’d wept until he wished he’d died with them. Then he’d walked straight to the phone and arranged to put the house on the market, not caring where he lived as long as it was elsewhere.
“Jonathan.” Suddenly Mrs. Sanchez was there, touching his shoulder. “Sit down. Eat. You need sustenance.” She blessed the food, with a little pause before saying amen and making the sign of the cross. Had she added an extra silent prayer on his behalf?
It was odd. The only child of a wealthy couple, JT hadn’t felt guilty that he was “disappointing” his parents by not going to law school and following in his father’s footsteps. The elder Trelauney stubbornly spoke of a father-son practice even though JT had no interest in becoming an attorney. Instead of wasting his time arguing, JT had simply continued painting, ignoring his father’s scorn over the “pointless scribblings.” You’re on the cusp of manhood, son. Act like it! You’re not some finger-painting toddler. Yet JT had refused to feel ashamed. Now, by not painting, he felt he was disappointing Sean and Mrs. Sanchez—people who were better to him than he deserved—and that bothered him far more than his family’s disapproval ever had.
Though he wasn’t particularly hungry, he forced himself to take a bite of the enchiladas and was immediately rewarded with a spicy blend of rich flavors. “This is really good.”
“I believe you meant great.”
“I believe I did.”
She reached for her glass of water. “You are a good boy, Jonathan. Even if you are a slob.”
He surprised them both with a genuine chuckle.
Mrs. Sanchez looked pleased by this progress. “Mr. C. tells me that someone has moved in across from you. I’m glad. It’s too quiet up here, with 3A unoccupied and that flight attendant in 3B gone half the time.”
JT thought of that moment yesterday when he’d heard a baby shrieking, and had flung open his door. He still didn’t know exactly why he’d reacted that way or what he’d expected to find. Though there had been only a handful of people on a floor that was often deserted except for him, it had sounded as if a deafening mob had descended. He’d heard plaintive shouts of “Mom” clearly directed at Kenzie. Was the baby hers, too? He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough to inquire.
He winced at the memory and turned to his dinner guest. “It looks like my quiet days are over. The new neighbor lady has kids. Two, maybe three.”
“Two,” Mrs. Sanchez confirmed. “I asked Mr. C. He also mentioned she has no husband.”
Was Kenzie divorced? Widowed, like himself? Technically, the presence of kids didn’t require a husband in the first place. Maybe she’d never been married. There could still be a serious boyfriend in the mix. JT experienced a funny twinge in his chest he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Feeling that he was being watched, he jerked his head up and found Mrs. Sanchez studying him. He didn’t like the speculative gleam in her eyes.
“No,” he said automatically.
She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Deciding this was as good a time as any to take her advice about tidying up, he rose and went to the dishwasher.
“You told me she had kids,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “So you’ve met them?”
“Just her. Briefly.” Despite his attempt to sound dismissive, the memory was vivid.
Kenzie Green had looked like the wreck he felt like on most days, yet there’d been determination glinting in her eyes and an unmistakable lifting of her chin when she’d stood to regather her belongings. He’d had the impression that life had knocked her down before and she was resolved to get back on her feet as many times as necessary.
“Well,” Mrs. Sanchez prompted. “What is she like?”
“I don’t know. About your height, blondish. I didn’t exchange life stories with her.”
“No,” Mrs. Sanchez said, her voice disconcertingly gentle. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”
He stiffened. “If you’re so curious about Kenzie, you could have taken her the enchiladas instead of knocking on my door.” The churlishness in his tone reminded him of his self-important father, and JT flinched.
But Mrs. Sanchez held herself above his rudeness with reproachful aplomb. “I fully intend to take her a dish this weekend and welcome her. I thought it better not to show up on her doorstep her first day, when she might be feeling tired and overwhelmed. I hate to intrude,” she added with a faintly challenging air.
JT walked her to the door. “We’re lucky to have you in the building, Mrs. Sanchez.”
“You certainly are.”
He hesitated before saying goodbye, unsure how to ask what was on his mind without putting ideas in her head. Mrs. Sanchez herself had said that, if any of her grown daughters had been single when JT moved in, she would have sent her up to deliver the homemade soup. So far, for all her fussing that he needed a woman’s touch in his life, she’d lacked a spare female to nudge his way, deeming the flight attendant down the hall too frequently absent. Now there was a seemingly available woman living less than two yards from his front door. Surely Mrs. Sanchez knew better than to…
“You weren’t planning to mention me to her, were you?” he demanded, unable to help himself.
“Hasn’t she already met you for herself? What possible reason could I have for bringing you into the conversation? Is she some sort of art critic?”
He rocked back on his heels. “You’ve been known to spout the opinion that I would benefit from female companionship.”
“I’ve also said you should eat more regularly, clean up this disorderly pigsty and go back to painting. Why would I inflict you on some girl who is already burdened with raising two children alone? Jonathan, mijo, you’re probably the last thing she needs.”
He stole a glance over her shoulder at Kenzie’s door and tried to take stock of what he could possibly offer any woman at this point in his life. “You’re undoubtedly right.”
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Kenzie excused herself to go downstairs and check the mail. She wasn’t expecting anything other than standard Dear Occupant fare, but she’d been going a little stir crazy in the apartment. The kids seemed louder than normal today, and she couldn’t chuck them out into a backyard to play. Showing the resilience of youth, they were back in better spirits. During a televised Braves game the night before, Drew had allowed that maybe living in Atlanta could be kind of cool.
Punching the elevator button, Kenzie considered the evening ahead. Would their finances, currently stretched by moving expenses and utility deposits, allow dinner out and a movie? Maybe if they went to the movie first, taking advantage of matinee prices, and eschewed concessions, then drank tap water at dinner rather than paying for sodas…She reached the bottom floor and dug in her pocket for the small silver key Mr. C. had given her. This was the first time she’d checked to make sure it worked.
She gathered the handful of mail, sorting through it in the elevator on her way back up. Coupons, catalogs, the bill that her cell phone company had thoughtfully forwarded so that she wouldn’t miss this month’s opportunity to pay them. One yellow envelope was addressed to Jonathan Trelauney. Previous occupant? When she noticed the “3C,” she realized the mailman must have just dropped it in her slot by mistake.
Jonathan Trelauney must be JT. His full name sounded familiar, but after dealing with so many people through the bank, eventually all names caused her moments of déjà vu. She’d encountered nearly half a dozen account holders with her sister’s name.
When she stepped off the elevator, Kenzie glanced at JT’s envelope. She’d been unpacking all day and was dusty. Her hair was tidy, pulled back in the habitual French twist she favored for work, but she didn’t have any makeup—
Oh, for pity’s sake! Handing the man his misdirected mail does not require mascara and perfume. Did she even own perfume? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to anything more luxurious than scented body wash.
Annoyed with herself, she rapped on his door a bit more curtly than she’d intended. At first she wasn’t sure anyone would answer, but then she heard footsteps on the other side. JT appeared in the doorway, unshaven and shirtless!
Kenzie had taken a breath as the door opened; now she choked on her own oxygen. It took all her discipline not to let her gaze dwell on his leanly muscled torso or the dusting of dark hair across his broad chest. “I…is this a bad time?”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “I was sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh.” It seemed like a practically sinful indulgence, snoozing smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon, but then he didn’t have two kids bouncing around and a zillion boxes to unpack. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Just bringing you this. It was in my mailbox.” Their fingers brushed when he took the envelope, and she told herself that such a platonic touch would ordinarily not make her light-headed. It was the proximity of all that naked skin making her heart flutter. He must have a naturally golden complexion. He wasn’t pale, but his color didn’t seem to come from a tan, either. And, good grief, was she staring again?
Because she was actually staring, she noticed a splotch of dark violet paint near his rib cage. Suddenly the name clicked. “Jonathan Trelauney! I know you. Of you, rather. You’re an artist.”
JT was startled by two things—three, truthfully, but he was trying to ignore the unexpected sensation that had washed through him when their hands met. He didn’t think the reaction came from the fleeting contact so much as her expression. Something akin to desire had flared in her eyes, and it had rocked him. No woman had looked at him like that in a long time. Hormones aside, he’d been surprised that Kenzie had heard of him. While his work had been renowned in certain circles, he was hardly a household name. Second, the way she’d said “You’re an artist” had been filled with horrified discovery. She might as well have pronounced “You’re a leper.”
He frowned. “Do you follow art?” It seemed the only logical conclusion for recognizing his name, yet didn’t explain her negative reaction.
“No. My hippie parents follow art. I’ve absorbed a few details here and there during the rare visit with them.” Though she kept her voice matter-of-fact, disdain leaked into her expression. The warmth in her earlier gaze had cooled completely.
Hippie parents? “Ah. I see.”
Her hands went to her hips. “Just what do you ‘see’?”
“Your parents were artistic, touchy-feely types, and you—” he hazarded a guess “—rebelled by growing up to be ultraconservative.”
Her burst of laughter caught him off guard. “Whatever you do, don’t give up art for psychiatry, because you couldn’t be more wrong. My younger sister, Ann, was the conservative in the family. I married a musician at eighteen.”
He glanced at her baggy shirt, sensible sneakers and pulled back hair. “You married a musician?”
“Yeah. And by nineteen, I had two babies to feed and clothe, so I reevaluated certain lifestyle choices.”
JT wished she looked cynical instead of vulnerable. He felt…well, he wasn’t sure, but she was a virtual stranger. He shouldn’t be required to feel anything on her behalf. If he’d been more awake when he answered the door, his normal barriers in place, he would have said thanks for the mail and dismissed her without further conversation.
He could always try that now. “Well, thanks for the—”
Behind her, the door to 3D opened, and two kids stuck their heads out, seeming surprised to see their mother talking to some shirtless dude across the hall.
“Mom!” This from the girl, who looked scandalized. The boy glared silently in JT’s direction.
Kenzie didn’t help matters, blushing as if she’d been caught in the midst of something illicit. “What are you guys doing out here?”
“We were worried about you.” The daughter fisted her hands on her hips. Mini-Kenzie. “You said you were going to run get the mail, then you didn’t come back. For all we knew, the elevator was stuck between floors!”
The boy looked faintly disappointed. “I had this plan for prying the doors open. Who’s he?”
“Kids, this is our across-the-hall neighbor, Jonathan Trelauney.”
“JT,” he told the children. “Nice to meet you.”
“These are my twins,” Kenzie said. “Drew and Leslie.”
“Not the identical kind of twins,” Drew interjected.
JT bit back a smile. “I noticed.”
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” The boy’s tone was thick with suspicion. “Doesn’t your air conditioner work? If you’re hot, it would be smart to wear shorts instead of jeans.”
Kenzie’s head whipped around as she shot her son a warning glance. “Use your manners, Drew.”
“But, Mom, I was just—”
“Let’s get back in our own apartment and leave Mr. Trelauney alone.”
Yes, JT thought with relief. Alone would be good. He attempted his goodbye again. “Well, thanks—”
The elevator ding sounded, reminding him that Mrs. Sanchez had said she would bring Kenzie food and an official welcome today.
“—forthemail,” he blurted. Then he shoved his door closed.
He caught a glimpse of Kenzie’s mouth falling open. She was probably taken aback by his rudeness. If she’d known he was saving her from possible matchmaking attempts, she might have appreciated his efforts. A moment later, there was another knock. JT, trying to learn from his mistakes, was slow to answer.
“It’s Sean,” his friend called from the hall. “I know you’re home. I just saw you shut the door in some poor woman’s face.”
JT ushered him in. “Don’t judge me. It’s complicated. You want a beer? I could use a beer.”
