Page 15 of Scrooge and the Girls Next Door

I’m nearing the end of the stripe, happy with how it’s turning out, when a text comes in.

BILL: It’s Bill.

That’s how all of his texts start. None of us have been able to break him of it.

BILL: I will bring back Evie plus a surprise.

I smile. It doesn’t matter what it is; it will be far too generous as usual, but I’ve learned to pay back these kindnesses in other ways.

I should go do my real apology now. I sigh and climb down, turning toward the front door, ready to be a mature adult.

But . . .

I havetwopink stripes to paint. I might as well work on the second one and wait to see Bill’s surprise before heading next door. Then I’ll go.

Probably.

Chapter Seven

Henry

I’dsuspecteditwasnot going to be great when the neighbor moved in. Paige, I think? Day One of her residency begins with clatter and color, and no sooner do her helpers drive away than her back stoop sprouts with a junk pile of paint cans.

It would be one thing if she’d planned to do some exterior work and bring the house up to par with all the others on Orchard. But apparently, she’s more worried about the interiorthan she is with the eyesore everyone’s had to live with. I’ve been trimming the bushes, at least, because when they run wild, the whole house looks like an even bigger tragedy. For a man whose career is studying the decline and fall of civilizations, that’s saying something.

She’s lived here all of one afternoon, and it’s been entirely disrupted by her daughter’s chatter in the front yard. The child talked to every passing dog and owner, the leaves, the tree, the . . .

I don’t know. Everything. She talked to all the things until she blessedly disappeared.

With the intent of setting the boundary early, I’d gone over to ask—politely—how often she intended to make her stoop a workbench, seeing as Orchard Street backyards don’t have fences, so all of her neighbors must look at her clutter too.

I hadn’t even gotten to the polite ask yet before she painted me.

I stare down at my fourth favorite sweater, now ruined with a garish pink stripe. It’s hideous. Nothing deserves to be painted that color.

I peel the sweater off, careful not to let the paint contaminate anything else, then drop it in the trash. I go upstairs and get one of my other gray sweaters, then settle myself in the living room for more grading. I generally prefer to grade in my office on campus, but while I share it with Leigh, this has proven difficult. Instead of concentrating, I find myself noticing her smell and losing my place constantly.

As a result, I’m stuck doing it here, and now even that’s disruptive.

I glare through my side window, but it’s still quiet, so I settle in to see what my paleopathology students have to say about ancient epidemiology. I work for about an hour before the rattle of a pickup truck pulling in next door distracts me.

It’s the same pickup truck as before, the back full of more boxes and . . . I squint. What is that? Boards? But in shapes? Like those ridiculous pictures where you stick your face in a hole and suddenly you’re a superhero or a mermaid or a strongman. The sides facing me aren’t painted, so I have no idea what they actually are.

When the engine stops, my neighbor’s father climbs out, her little girl darting around to join him, practically skipping in circles as they walk to the front door and let themselves in.

I feel a dull, distant pang in my chest. I used to be like that with Grandad Ellis before . . . well. It’s been a long time. I’m surprised I can even remember holding his hand that way.

They disappear inside and it’s quiet for a few minutes before the kid tumbles outside again on a stream of chatter, followed by her grandfather and my neighbor.

“This is ridiculous,” I announce to my house. It doesn’t answer, which is good, considering I’m the only one in it. I scoop up my work and head to the study in the back, the room farthest away from my noisy neighbors.

I sit and listen. I can still hear them.

I gather up everything once more and head through the kitchen and out to my car, settle my laptop bag on the front seat, and pull out, hitting the road with only an annoyed look at my neighbor, who doesn’t notice. There has to be somewhere quieter to work in town. Not Bixby’s. Too busy in there. The idea of returning to campus doesn’t appeal to me, but the public library is open until 8:00 today, and that will have to do.

I settle into a carrel that’s quiet enough.

And yet . . .

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