I, Richard - Elizabeth George [34]
Scott was in the bedroom, casting his clothes off. He left everything where it fell and fell himself onto the mattress, where he turned on his side and pulled the blankets over his shoulder. He was twenty-seven seconds away from snoring, when Willow spoke.
“I've been thinking, hon.”
No response.
“Scott?”
“Hmmm?”
“I've been thinking about Miss Telyegin.” Or Mrs. Telyegin, Willow supposed. She'd not yet learned if the woman next door was married, single, divorced, or widowed. Single seemed most likely to Willow for some reason that she couldn't quite explain. Maybe it had to do with the woman's habits, which were becoming more apparent—and patently stranger—as the days and weeks passed. Most notable were the hours she kept, which were almost entirely nocturnal. But beyond that, there was the oddity of things like the venetian blinds on 1420 being always closed against the light; of Miss Telyegin wearing rubber boots rain or shine whenever she did emerge from her house; of the fact that she not only never entertained visitors, but she never went anywhere besides to work and home again precisely at the same time each day.
“When does she buy her groceries?” Ava Downey asked.
“She has them delivered,” Willow replied.
“I've seen the truck,” Leslie Gilbert confirmed.
“So she never goes out in the daytime at all?”
“Never before dusk,” Willow said.
Thus was vampire added to witch, but only the children took that sobriquet seriously. Nonetheless, the other neighbors began to shy away from Anfisa Telyegin, which prompted Willow's additional sympathy and made Anfisa Telyegin's effort at the Veterans' Day Chili Cook-off even more worthy of admiration and reciprocation.
“Scott,” she said to her drowsy husband, “are you listening to me?”
“Can we talk later, Will?”
“This'll only take a minute. I've been thinking about Anfisa.”
He sighed and flipped onto his back, putting his arms behind his head and exposing what Willow least liked to see when she looked upon her spouse: armpits as hairy as Abraham's beard.
“Okay,” he said without a display of anything resembling marital patience. “What about Anfisa?”
Willow sat on the edge of the bed. She placed her hand on Scott's chest to feel his heart. Despite his present impatience, he had one. A very big one. She'd seen it first at the high school sock hop where he'd claimed her for a partner, rescuing her from life among the wallflowers, and she depended now upon its ability to open wide and embrace her idea.
“It's been tough with your parents so far away,” Willow said. “Don't you agree?”
Scott's eyes narrowed with the suspicion of a man who'd suffered comparisons to his older brother from childhood and who'd only too happily moved his family to a different state to put an end to them. “What d'you mean, tough?”
“Five hundred miles,” Willow said. “That's a long way.”
Not long enough, Scott thought, to still the echoes of “Your brother the cardiologist” which followed him everywhere.
“I know you want the distance,” Willow continued, “but the children could benefit from their grandparents, Scott.”
“Not from these grandparents,” Scott informed her.
Which