The Widow Next Door
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © L.A. Detwiler 2018
Cover design © Alison Groom 2018
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock
L.A. Detwiler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2018; ISBN: 9780008324636
Version: 2020-02-27
To my husband, Chad.
‘There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.’
– Edgar Allan Poe
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
Looking back, there were warning signs. Flickers of who she was hiding, what they were hiding. I just didn’t want to see. Maybe I didn’t want the fantasy world I’d created to disappear. Maybe I wanted to keep believing their love story was perfect, would be my comfortable company for my final years. Maybe I hoped it would remind me of my own early love story, of that swooning feeling, of those first-kiss moments. Maybe I just missed him, and I was soothing that pain by watching them.
Whatever it was, I know this – things are changing now.
They’re changing.
They’re breaking.
I think it started as tiny cracks, almost unnoticeable signals of them coming undone. The angry gesture on the front porch over some argument I couldn’t hear, smoothed by a kiss on the cheek and what looked like an apology. Abandoned dinner one night in the kitchen, a screaming match ensuing as she stormed out … followed by a sweet, tender embrace at breakfast the next morning.
I thought they were running their course, fighting like couples do. I thought maybe the honeymoon years were just wearing off because we all know they do wear off.
I thought they were okay. Maybe they thought that too.
But as the weeks go on, I realise something I hadn’t before.
Something’s not right. Something’s not right at all. In fact, something’s so grotesquely wrong and hideously tainted, I don’t know if there will be any turning back.
Things haven’t been right for a while now, I’m starting to realise. Behind that bubbly smile, that sunshine yellow, she’s not perfect. Not even close.
Why with all bright stories is there a monster, unseen, that festers beneath the boiling surface?
As the weather gets colder, the frost settling in, it’s clear that maybe I didn’t really know my neighbour from 312 Bristol Lane at all.
Chapter 1
They moved in to 312 Bristol Lane on a Thursday, a blazing July sun gleaming off the white picket fence as if everything was about to change. I stared on as Amos sat purring on my lap, cuddled against the afghan covering my legs. I stroked his angora-like fur, watching box after box spew into the house. Their smiles were palpable across the yard, my view unobstructed by blinds, draperies or annoying trees. I could see it all, every smile, every box, every hope going into that two-storey. Aside from the newcomers, the always deserted road remained that way, and I was glad. For the first time in a long time, I was thankful I lived on a dead-end street, the only people on the cul-de-sac me and 312 Bristol Lane. It gave me a chance to watch without obstruction or distraction. I smiled, Amos’s purrs calming me.
I was glad to have neighbours again. The months that 312 Bristol Lane sat empty were truly boring. It had been a while since there was life next door, the real estate sign sitting in the front lawn for longer than it ever had over the years. Maybe the house was just waiting for the right people to buy it, or maybe the market was on a downward spiral. Whatever was happening, I missed having activity on the lane, having someone to watch and to learn about.
I could tell from that first day that this new couple would be exciting to study, unlike the last neighbours who had left in quite a hurry. It had been a while since I had someone next door who truly interested me. There have been several couples over the many years I’ve lived here, but even on that first day, I knew there was something different about these two people. They felt different than all the couples who had lived there before.
From the first day I saw them, the couple was, quite simply, mesmerising. I think it was just the way they interacted with each other. It was electric, and I liked them right away. I found it comforting to watch the young couple, so obviously in love. You had to be in love to be skipping under the stifling heat, carrying box after box until your arms felt like they would fall off. I’ve been through only a few moves in my lifetime, but it’s enough to know moving isn’t particularly fun. Still, the lively young couple jaunted up the steps, leaning to help each other out. The woman, a perky blonde, seemed especially excited, dancing around the front lawn, eyeing up their new dream home, calling the man who was clearly her husband over to peer at a discovered flower or a charming feature.
I pulled the afghan tighter around my legs, feeling simultaneously happy for the couple and a little envious. I would give anything to be her, wearing a sundress on a day like that. Instead, my old body shivered despite the heat. Getting old meant the loss of so much, and warmth was no exception.
The blonde-haired woman stooped down to stow a box on the front step, and the black-haired man followed suit. He wore a simple grey shirt and some pants, nothing fancy. I couldn’t fault him for that. It was move-in day, after all. Fashion could take a back seat on a day like that.
The blonde wrapped her arms around her man, his arms currently empty. The two embraced on the front step of their brand-new home, a sparkling new life ahead of them. They kissed, and I felt my cheeks moving into a smile at the sight. It was beautiful to see young love again, to remember that feeling, to recall the burning desire I’d once felt in my own youth when I’d been a perky blonde who wore short sleeves instead of afghans on a July day.
In some ways, I could feel the warmth flooding my veins, could feel my own husband’s kiss on my lips, like it had just happened. In other ways, sitting in the stiff rocking chair, staring out the window, it felt like a lifetime ago. My aching hands stroking Amos’s soft fur, I leaned my head back, rocking gently, taking in the sight as the young couple smooched.
I got up a few times that day, stirring Amos from his sleep, to get a cup of tea, to use the bathroom, to wander to the sofa to watch my soap operas on the television at noon. For most of the day, though, I sat, rocking aimlessly, blissfully watching the ins and outs of the new couple.
Their smiles enlivened me. Their joyous skipping, despite their clear exhaustion, energised me. I sat for a long time just wondering how their story would unfold, feeling lucky to be privy to their interactions. I would get to uncover their lives from right here. I would get to be a witness to their love.
The thought thrilled me. After so much loneliness, I had something to look forward to. My heart swelled.
This was what love looked like, love in its truest, purest form, love ready to take on life.
Staring out that window on that summer day, though, I hoped the couple could make it last, could hang on to the kiss on the front steps.
Despite my silent prayers, I knew without a doubt that, before long, the joy would fade and the couple’s dream home would become a slaughterhouse not much unlike my own.
A woman has a way of knowing these things.
Chapter 2
My bones are creaking, a pain working its way from the inside out. It’s such a chore sometimes to even get moving, to walk across the kitchen, to stoop down to feed Amos. Some days, it’s a hardship to even prod myself out of bed, the comforter enveloping me in a way that says ‘stay’.
Sometimes, I think about staying in bed all day, my scratchy, aged blanket wrapped around me like a cocoon, protecting me from the vile world. There are worse things than to perish tucked in a warm bed, worn-out blanket or not.
Nevertheless, I deny myself the luxury of oblivion the bed offers. Instead, I wander over to Amos’s food station, the sweet cat already meowing, awaiting his morsels of food. I carefully open the can, scraping some of the gloppy tuna-like concoction onto his plate before making my own tea. It’s silly, I know, serving a cat before myself. But Amos is my best friend, my everything. It makes me feel good to have someone to pamper, to care for. It feels good to be needed.
After getting my cup of tea, only filled halfway, of course – I’ve learned the perils of a full cup the hard way – I trudge over to my spot, the familiar wood of the rocking chair welcoming me back into position. I rock for a moment, gently appraising the day, as is my custom. The sun is just coming up, glinting off the newly fallen leaves of reds, golds and oranges. It’s my favourite scene out my window, the cool breeze of the autumn air gently lifting the edges of the decayed leaves. Even in here, with the dusty smell of an ageing house, I can close my eyes and smell the earthy scent of autumn, feel the brisk air on my face, and see his perfect smile.
He always loved this time of year. In our younger days, he would drag me pumpkin picking at the Johnsons’ farm, hay bales lined up to lead the way. I’d roll my eyes and tell him it was pointless. Deep down, though, I loved those afternoons, wandering on the farm, choosing the right pumpkin we’d carve up that night accompanied by hot apple cider. I wish, even now, I could tell him I loved those days.
I should’ve told him how much I loved those days.
I sigh, my eyes temporarily averted by the sight of the neighbour – Alexander Clarke. He’s off to work, bright and early, before the day has really begun. He straightens his tie, a hand running through his hair, before jumping into his automobile and heading down the road.
It’s been three months since he and Jane moved in, three months of joyful furniture buying and evenings on their porch and walks. Three months of front-porch kisses and squealing laughter in the front yard. Three months of sheer happiness, of love in its truest, purest form.
At first, I’d worried they’d think it odd, an old woman and her cat peering out at them. I hesitated some mornings, wondering if I was being creepy, staring into the lives, into the business of others so regularly.
But I couldn’t peel myself away.
It became something to look forward to, studying them, watching them, trying to piece together their story from what I can see. It’s quite a fun game, really, and I get to learn more than one would think. From driveway goodbyes to outdoor chores, I can judge a lot about them, can put together so many titbits into a clear puzzle of my design. What’s more, they haven’t put up a blind in the window of their dining room or even draperies. The large bay window sits unobstructed by anything, its sparkling clear glass giving me a full view of their heavy wooden table. I get to be privy to their mealtimes, to their interactions, to their morning coffee.
I know. It seems ridiculous. But I can’t, I just can’t, take myself away from them. There’s something haunting about young love, about getting to see it all unfold. And for an old lady like me, alone and bored, these stories, these interactions, they keep me going. They make that creaky exit out of bed a little more bearable. They give me something intriguing to wrap myself up in.
I’ve come to learn that it’s okay, anyway. They’re so engrossed with each other, in their lives, they don’t notice a frail old woman peering out her window at them. Mornings when he leaves for work, afternoons when she busies herself with household work or other tasks, or evenings when they’re together, they’ve always got something to keep themselves go, go, going. The life of the young is exhaustingly busy.
Not that they’re stuck-up or selfish. No, they’re neighbourly enough. Well, at least the woman is. She came over about three days after they moved in, knocked on my door around eleven in the morning.
Let’s be clear: I liked Jane from the day she moved in. The way she carried herself, the way she ambled around even when she was clearly exhausted from moving – I saw something there. And once she came over for the first time, I really liked her, a deep-seated, internal liking of her.
Still, brewing beneath the surface, I felt something else, too. Maybe it was just paranoia roiling from my lonely days, or maybe I’ve just spent too much time in my own head. But something in me flopped when she came over, something unsettling finding its way to the surface. Not enough to make me change my mind about her – but enough to damage the perfect view of her just a little bit, just enough to make me slightly uncomfortable.
Nonetheless, there was something about her from day one that made that nervous anxiety easy to ignore, even if I shouldn’t have.
* * *
It was quite the task to hobble to the door before she scurried away, thinking me asleep. I rushed into the hallway, reminding myself to be careful, that it wouldn’t do to fall and hurt myself. How sad are the days when a broken hip becomes one’s biggest fear?
I made it in time, the girl standing in a bright yellow sundress holding a pie. Yellow is her colour. It makes her blonde hair look even blonder. It fits her complexion nicely. It fits with her neon personality. Maybe I’m partial, though. I’ve always been fond of yellow since I was a little girl. It’s a happy colour.
‘Hi, nice to meet you! I’m the new neighbour: Jane Clarke. I just thought since you’re our only neighbour, I’d stop and say hi.’
I smiled, her energy contagious. She was bubbling and talking a mile a minute, the youth and naivety about life softening her in ways I was no longer soft. Looking into her clear blue eyes, I saw such hope and such dreams.
I missed those days.
‘That’s so nice, dear. Yes, it’s great to talk to you. How is your move going?’
‘Wonderful, thanks for asking. I just love this street. So quiet and peaceful. No traffic, no noise with the dead end and all. And how lucky, we have such a big lot, huh! And all of the peace, the privacy. I just love it here. I knew from the second I saw this house we had to have it. My husband Alex wasn’t so sure about it, but once I saw it, the deal was sealed.’
‘Yes. Bristol Lane is a quiet street. Kind of lonely sometimes, but overall, I like the peace. And your house is gorgeous.’
‘Oh, silly me. I’m sure you’re probably busy. But here’s a pie I made for you. I hope you like rhubarb. My husband says no one likes rhubarb pie, but I beg to differ.’
My hands literally clapped together. ‘Oh my, that’s my favourite. These old hands are too tired to bake many pies these days. Thank you. This is so lovely. Will you come in for tea?’ I shakily took the pie from her, revelling in the perfect golden crust. It had been so long since I’d had a rhubarb pie. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I didn’t even think anyone made rhubarb pie these days. It was like a blast from the past calling me home, and I didn’t hesitate to take up the offer.
I knew the girl was special from the first day she moved in. There was no denying it.
Of course, she’s not a girl. She’s a woman. Still, at my age, everyone under seventy seems like a girl. Age is all about perspective, and mine’s become quite a distant perspective these days.
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly. My husband’s at work today, and I have some cleaning to get done. But definitely soon, okay?’
‘Yes, dear. That would be great. Stop back anytime. Congratulations,’ I said, and Jane was gone, her lean legs carrying her down my porch steps and across the yard to her house, the skip in her step matching her bubbly personality.
I smiled, feeling I now had the best neighbours in the world, even if she did rush off pretty quickly. It was so thoughtful of her to bring by a pie, to spend time with an old woman like me, even if it was just a few minutes. I wished for a moment she would’ve stayed longer, but I didn’t want to cause trouble, not on our first meeting. So I let it go, thinking about how great it would be to have someone to talk to, wondering why I’d gotten goose bumps at the sight of her walking away.
* * *
As often happens, life for the young gets overrun by daily routines and to-do lists and the pressing matters of youth. She hasn’t been back since that first day. The rhubarb pie is long gone, and it saddens me a little bit. I had high hopes for us back then. I’d imagined all of the conversations, the lunches, the teas we’d share. I’d imagined what it would be like after all these years to have, dare I hope, a friend of sorts. But dreams don’t always go as planned, do they? And sometimes our biggest hopes are shattered by reality.
In truth, 312 Bristol Lane hasn’t quite turned out like I’d imagined at all. There has been little interaction for the past few months except for a few small encounters – and arguably, even they were a bit off-kilter.
On Sunday, I was making my glorious trek in my good old station wagon to Mark’s Mart for a few supplies. Jane had been cleaning the windows outside the house, and she gazed at the street from the top of her ladder. I smiled and tooted the horn. She didn’t wave, staring as if in another world.
I suppose she’d just been busy. That had to be it.
Regardless, there have been no visits, no more pies. I tell myself I can’t be annoyed, though. Life at that age is blissfully full. There will be plenty of time for tea drinking and porch sitting with elderly ladies and other generally dull tasks. Right now, she’s got other priorities.
I do worry. There’ve been subtle changes, small happenings, that have caused that nervous anxiety to resurge. Mostly, the anxiety is for them, the couple at 312 Bristol Lane.
Fewer goodbye kisses on the porch step, less hand holding at breakfast. I’m sure I’m overanalysing. It’s not enough to worry just yet. It’s a subtle change – but a change nonetheless.
Then again, maybe it’s all me. Maybe I’m imagining it. Perhaps these are just the musings of an overly bored woman. It’s no secret that I’ve got way too much time on my hands. Perhaps I need to find a hobby – but what? Knitting always did seem quite monotonous. Besides, these bones are too achy, too rickety, to be of any real use. And who would I knit for? Amos? I doubt the white Persian would want anything to do with a scratchy, crooked sweater I’d put together.
Besides, it’s much more fun watching. I’ve become quite a good observer in my late age.
It’s not all bad, either. Jane at 312 Bristol Lane still seems happy. She still smiles, skips around the house in a chipper fashion, saunters to the mailbox in her gorgeous sundresses, kicks back her feet as she leans on the front porch step.
To most, she probably looks the same. To her husband, she probably looks the same.
To me, though, I can see it, the shifting, the small clues that not all is well. Like a detective in waiting, I sit, pondering over the signs, wondering how they all fit together in the bigger picture that is her.
The only question is: what can I do about it? What can this old lady in her rocking chair who can barely walk the twenty feet to the bathroom in time do about it?
For now, all I can do is keep watching, keep waiting, and keep hoping she’ll come over. In truth, it would be good to feel a little needed.
Chapter 3
It’s Saturday, and they’re raking leaves together. It looks warm out, the picture-perfect day you see on cards or those made-for-television movies that make me seriously want to crawl outside of my skin.
Not that love is a bad thing. But those movies where everything is perfect, the woman swooning over a dozen roses like some sickeningly debilitated puppet – those are the things that make me roll my eyes and shake my head, even when there’s nothing else on. Maybe it’s just me, though. Maybe I’ve just got a deeper understanding of life and love than most, especially the not-so-rosy moments. Maybe if life were a little bit more like a made-for-television movie, things wouldn’t be such a wreck right now. Sometimes predictability makes life happy.