uh, what’s this irony business about?”
“Well, before Griff married my little sister, Joan, he was a first-class lush.”
“Really? He’s an alcoholic then?”
Amy wrinkled her nose. “No, nothing like that. He was just wild, you know, partying all the time.”
“Ah, the celebrity life-style.”
“Something like that.”
Evans Kincaid cocked his head to one side. “It’s always struck me odd how these pro athletes sabotage themselves sometimes. I mean, you’d think they’d do everything in their power to protect their primary assets, which logically would be their bodies.”
“I suppose,” Amy said pensively. “I never really thought about it.”
“Hmm, on the other hand, though,” Evans went on, “our bodies are of prime importance to all of us, not just the pros. That’s why I never could understand why people would subject themselves to the abuse of drugs and such. I mean, if you want a good high, why not exercise? It feels great, and it’s healthy.” He shook a finger at her, his eyes alight with the glow of inspiration. “Come to think of it, a regular exercise plan might be just what you need to help you get over the craving to smoke, and it’ll help with the weight gain, too.”
Amy’s mouth fell open. He’d as much as told her she was fat, as if she didn’t already know. “You rat! What makes you think I care what you think of me?”
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you this insensitive with your suspects? I suppose a little exercise would take away the urge to steal or lie or cheat or…or…whatever!”
He was gaping. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“I’m talking about that cheap crack about my weight!”
“What crack? All I meant was that a lot of people worry about putting on weight when they quit smoking.”
“I heard what you said! Oh, just get out of my house!” She jumped to her feet and slammed her chair up under the table.
Evans was still gaping, but he got up and gave his chair the same treatment she had given hers. “Of all the touchy, loony dames! Lady, you take the proverbial cake!”
Amy pointed toward the living room, arm rigid, face livid. “I suggest you take your leave through the proverbial door, boor, and don’t bother coming back with one of your lame apologies!”
“Oh, don’t worry!” he told her, wild-eyed. “I won’t be apologizing this time! Any apologies due this time are yours!”
“Ha! I’ve done all the apologizing I intend to do, period. Now get out!”
“My pleasure,” he said, sneering, “and from now on, if you want to talk to me, call the police!”
“Out!” she screamed, but she was talking to an empty space, a fact to which a slamming door attested.
He wasn’t gone three seconds when she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. The moment she realized what she was doing, she sniffed up the tears and determinedly bottled them inside of her. She wouldn’t cry over a snide remark by a cad like Evans Kincaid. Heavens, she couldn’t even remember the last time a man had made her cry.
“For Pete’s sake, Amy, what are you trying to do, kill me? Do you want me to die?”
“You know I don’t!”
“Then be a little more careful. I’m only your husband, after all.”
She shook away the memory. That didn’t count. Mark hadn’t known what he was saying. It was the illness talking, the pain. Evans Kincaid was just being hateful when he’d said she was fat. Mark would never have said anything so personal.
“You aren’t going out like that, are you? What if someone I know sees you?”
Well, of course, Mark commented from time to time. It was his right as a husband, after all, and any comments Mark had made about her appearance he had made for her own good, out of love. Evans Kincaid was just being mean when he’d said what he’d said, no matter how innocent it might have sounded to a third party. Anyway, even if he hadn’t actually said that she was fat, he’d certainly implied it. Just because he was built like the Rock of Gibraltar he thought he could make snide remarks about everyone else. So what if she’d put on a few pounds? It was her business. She folded her arms and huffed, trying to hold on to her outrage, but reason was slowly returning, and with it came the knowledge that she had again made a fool of herself. She closed her eyes, seeing herself as Evans must see her, a plain, pudgy, high-strung, pathetic excuse for a woman.
She wanted to run next door and beg his pardon, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. What difference did it make, anyway? He was never going to give her another chance, and why should she care? He wasn’t anything to her, nothing at all, and that’s the way it should be. But for some reason she wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head. Why not? What else did she have to do?
It was going on midnight when she realized that the music she was hearing was not part of the television program she was watching. A quick muting of the volume on the set told her unequivocally that the sound was coming from the Kincaids’. It wasn’t as loud as before, but it was definitely too loud. Amy chewed her lip, wondering what her best course of action might be. Should she let it go and hope it didn’t happen again, or ought she try to nip this thing in the bud before it went any further? She hated to go through another scene with Evans Kincaid, but maybe if she moderated her replies this time, if she didn’t let him get to her, they could have a reasonable conversation—and maybe she could even find the words to apologize again.
She went to the phone, but this time she looked up the non-emergency number and left a personal message for Captain Kincaid, saying that his next-door neighbor was calling to suggest that he swing by his house to take care of a certain situation there. She hardly had time to go over in her mind what she would say to him, when he pulled up in the police cruiser. He slammed his door with his usual gusto and stalked into the house. The music shut off, and a few moments later she heard him and Mattie shouting at one another. After some minutes another door slammed, and Amy thought for certain that he would be on her porch at any moment, but he didn’t come.
Amy went to the dining room window and stared out at the house next door. The police cruiser was still parked in the drive, but the house was now dark and silent. A movement of shadow against the yellow light of the Kincaids’ front porch told her that Evans was there, perhaps on his way to the car. A moment of indecision passed before she hurried into the living room, thrust her feet into a pair of thong sandals that she kept by the door and went out. The thong broke on one shoe as she was going down the steps. Thoroughly disgusted, she kicked off both sandals and hurried across the dark yard. She had turned down the Kincaids’ drive toward the street when she heard what sounded like a man groaning. Stopping in her tracks, she held her breath listening.
“Oh, God,” he was saying, “what’s happening to us? I prayed and prayed before making this move, and I really thought it was the right thing to do, but now I don’t know. I can’t even talk to my own daughter anymore. Our next-door neighbor hates us. The shift I’m working doesn’t seem to leave time for much of anything else. I don’t know what to do now. You have to help me, Lord. I don’t seem able to do this on my own. How I wish Andie were here—or someone….”
Amy quietly turned and walked back to her own house, feeling small and ashamed and utterly selfish to be so disturbed by something as common as music played a little too loud, when people like Evans Kincaid had real problems, problems so deep that he prayed about them on his front porch in the middle of the night.
Our next-door neighbor hates us.
She bowed her head as she recalled those words. Her sharp tongue and personal sensitivity had given him that notion. Indeed, what else could he think