“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
