14- the house next door
School is canceled Monday. It snowed a few inches last night before turning to rain. Then the whole thing froze solid and turned the outside world slippery and crystalline.
So, no bus stop. No Reece. Probably a good thing, since I’m still trying to work my head around harbingers of death and Beekeepers. Magic and reality. A hot boy who thinks I’m “adorable” and a possible impending apocalypse.
I sigh over my breakfast choices, longing for Lucky Charms or something equally sugary and brightly colored. The decision goes on hold as my dad flies into the room, iPad in hand. He thrusts the thing at me. “Read this. I think the woman in the article is our neighbor.”
Oh boy. My gaze falls to the news article that got Dad all worked up.
Deadly Crash Kills Three
By Kali Blake, Staff Writer
A four-car pileup in Windsor County has left three dead and five injured. Two of the injured were brought to Fisher Memorial Hospital and are expected to recover. High speed and ice appear to have been factors.
Crash survivor Lucia Fernandez, who was the sole occupant of her vehicle, told The Star Press that avoiding the jackknifed tractor trailer was not an option. “There was no escaping it,” said Fernandez, a forty-four-year-old resident of Cadence, who sustained a broken arm…
I look up at my dad. Keep calm. “This Lucia Fernandez is the lady next door?”
“It could be.” Dad perches on the stool next to me. “That’s about her age. I don’t see their vehicle in the driveway.”
My stomach bottoms out as cold sweat covers my suddenly shivering skin. The sole occupant. So no one else was with her. Those sweet little kids, Paxton and Fiona, weren’t hurt. God, Reece wasn’t hurt, but he could have been. He told me once that death is never far behind him. He was not just being dramatic—he meant it, literally.
Dad pulls back the iPad with a determined look. “I’ve been meaning to go over and introduce myself in person. We’ve spoken on the phone, but this may be a good time to see if they need anything.” He glances at the clock. “It’s nearly ten a.m. Not too early to stop by, right?”
My gaze falls to the other headlines on the screen. My heart jumps into my throat at the headlines alone:
Two Dead in Unprovoked Attack
Kent Taylor, forty-seven, a Cadence resident, attacked Mike Miller, the attendant at Cory’s Cleaners last night in Somerset. Police shot and killed Taylor after he attacked two officers, and Miller died while en route to the hospital. Taylor, a member of the school board and respected businessman, showed no previous signs of psychosis, and witnesses say the attack on Miller was completely unprovoked…
Police Called to Popular Area Nightclub
Police were called when a six-person fight broke out at The Strip Mall, an area nightclub popular with all ages. Another man, Andrew Pence, was taken to Somerset General Hospital after suffering a psychotic break and instigating the fight…
Good thing my father didn’t finish reading the news. I’d be facing a hundred questions right now. And banned for life from The Strip Mall.
“You’re right. We should go over there.” The words rush out, a little too fast.
Dad stares at me in surprise, then nods. “Yeah. Okay. Let me get dressed and…” He narrows an eye. “By the way, is anything going on between you and that Reece kid?”
Whoa. I freeze in the act of closing the web browser. “Going on how?”
“Don’t even start,” he says mildly, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “You know what ‘going on’ means.”
I grin, because he looks so darn uncomfortable. “The other night you seemed pleased that a boy came calling.”
“The other night you didn’t seem so eager.” A flush creeps up his neck. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I just— I’m your father,” he says, because that explains it all.
“He’s a neighbor. Maybe a friend,” I say. “I don’t know yet.”
It’s all I’ve got. I don’t know what’s “going on” with Reece. And I won’t until he tells me the truth about himself.
“Okay.” Dad’s shoulders relax. “I’ll go get ready. You put some boots on—real ones. Not those things you wear to school.”
Right. Real boots. He means the sassy, zip-back number he bought me for Christmas last year. They’re white with pompons, but I’ll wear them.
I reopen the iPad’s browser and scroll through the local news. The headlines alone make my skin crawl. Violent incidents are increasing in Somerset County, with Cadence appearing to be at the epicenter. The county jail is extraordinarily busy. So are all the area hospitals’ psychiatric units. Ordinary, everyday people are having full-blown psychotic episodes. There is a petition going around to have the drinking water tested again. The whole county gets water from Lake Serenity, which used to be a river that ran through the valley. It was dammed and a hydroelectric plant put in, but it borders Mount Serenity. Tom isn’t the only one worried that waste from the past mining activities may have contaminated the water.
Test away. The water’s not causing it.
Tucked very tiny, at the very bottom, in the “Our Environment” section, is an article on how the bee population seems to have come out of hibernation early this year. It’s one paragraph. No comments at the bottom. I doubt anyone has even read it.
But there it is. The bees. That’s causing it, and no one would believe me if I told them. Not my dad. No one.
We walk through the ice-encrusted snow, which breaks like thin glass under our feet. I wear the white boots. And the matching down ski jacket. Had to pull the tags off the jacket, but I must admit, it’s warm. My dad looks like a Macy’s ad in his black double-breasted cashmere coat, leather gloves, and Burberry scarf. So refined. In contrast, my mother was all long, wild hair with wilder eyes. Cigarettes and tattoos. Dad catches my expression and raises his brows.
“What?” he asks.
“I just don’t see it—you and Mom, that is.” I gulp down cold air. “You’re like, different species.”
Dad tries to hide a smile. “Your mom and I met at a Lollapalooza concert. She was sitting up on some guy’s shoulders, arms in the air, blond hair everywhere. She was so beautiful. I was living on a friend’s front porch at the time. Unemployed, with a few bad habits I will never discuss with you.” He raises an eyebrow. “So you see, I wasn’t always so respectable. I caused Grams and Grampa many sleepless nights.”
I can’t imagine him that way at all. “So what happened?”
He smiles, full and wide. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, thankfully. And the realization that sleeping on Egyptian cotton was preferable to my buddy’s nasty couch.”
My tongue is heavy in my mouth. “But you lost her. She couldn’t do”—I sweep my hand back toward our house—“this.”
Dad lifts up a pine branch for me as we pass from our lawn into the wooded buffer between our property and the neighbors’. “Your mom was a true free spirit. Too trusting. Selfish. Unstable. But not…destructive. That came later. I’ve spent too many nights wondering why we were always on again, off again and why she took that bad turn after you were born. It crept up on me, on her, and nothing could fix her. The drugs were more than an addiction. There was no way to separate her from them.” He spreads his hands, drops them. “The truth is I didn’t lose her. I never had her.” There is no sadness or reproach in his voice. Just fact.
The words bump through me, scraping raw spots, touching secret, hidden bruises. “I never had her, either.”
Dad puts an arm around my shoulders. “You have me.”
I shove my hands under my armpits and force a grin. “Grams and Grampa are proud of you now.”
His brows go up. “They said that?”
“No,” I admit. “But they did say your car was pretentious.”
“Hmm.” He scratches his chin. “That’s progress. Maybe I should trade it in for a new model. A red convertible.”
“Grams would die,” I say with a giggle. We cross onto the Fernandez’s property laughing, but immediately sober as we step onto the wide driveway. No one has been outside yet today. The untouched snow glistens like a sheet of diamonds. My gaze catches on the unused doghouse in the backyard. Two crows perch on the peak, watching us in silence.
“Been seeing more crows around lately,” he says. “This must be part of their migration or something.”
Or something. I give the crows a knowing look before we slog up the steps to the front door. They are not just birds, but he wouldn’t believe that, either.
Dad glances down with a grimace. “I should have brought the snow shovel. Could have at least dug out their steps for them.”
I roll my eyes. “A teenage boy lives here who’s perfectly capable of such manual work.”
The door opens at the first knock. The woman answering the door is so beautiful, so vibrant, Dad and I both back up a step. Her black hair flows in loose waves past her shoulders. Her figure is a curvy hourglass, and her smooth skin fairly glows. All I can think is, wow. I want to look like this when I’m, you know, old.
Dad’s recovery is decent. After an initial fumble, he yanks off his glove and extends his hand. “Good morning. I’m Bradley Dovage, your next-door neighbor. We spoke on the phone. Once. About snow removal. And this is my daughter, Angelina.”
Angelina? I don’t think he’s used my full name since telling the doctor to put it on my birth certificate. He must be nervous.
The woman smiles. One of her arms is in a sling, but she shakes his hand with the other. My poor dad’s Adam’s apple rocks up and down.
“Ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last.” Her lovely accent has an immediate effect on my father, who starts fidgeting with the fringe on his scarf. “I’m Lucia Fernandez, but please call me Lucy. Come in, come in. You’re just in time for breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” My dad’s eyes go wide. “Oh no. We couldn’t. We just stopped by because we heard about the accident and—”
Lucy smiles sadly. “My arm will heal, as arms do. I am blessed beyond words to be alive. Others in that accident were not so fortunate.” Her mouth turns down at the corners, before she opens the door wider and steps inside. “Today, we celebrate life. It’s easy to forget how precious it is. Come, come inside. My Brooke makes the best pancakes you will ever eat. And enough to feed an army.” You cannot refuse that kind of invitation. A celebration of life makes polite retreat impossible.
My dad is no match for this woman. He goes right in like a corralled cow, but I’m not so easily herded. And I’m suddenly not so eager. Reece said it himself: death follows these people, and it’s soaked in the bones of this house. My mind draws up the images released to the media of blood-spattered floors and smeared handprints scrabbling for doorknobs. A crow on the roof above me lets out a noisy kraa. A wave of dizziness washes over me. My dad shoots me a pointed get in here look, so I drag myself inside.
Lucy studies me with interest and knowledge. “Angelina—or do you prefer Angie? We have heard so much about you.” Her gaze lingers, assesses. I can’t imagine what Reece told her about me. Maybe she knows that I know they’re not quite what they seem.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fernandez,” I say. “I do prefer Angie.”
Her smile is warm, lacking even the slightest threat or warning. “And I do prefer Lucy. Now, come inside. Before breakfast gets cold.”
These people are not entirely human. I must try to remember this, even though standing in this house, hearing the sounds of a typical family, the thought is surreal. It’s difficult to feel menaced here. One look around and my nerves ease. What did I expect? A moldering house with peeling paint and graffitied walls? Not a chance. The sounds of living people pour through the walls. The smell of fresh paint mingles with coffee, maple syrup, and hot butter wafting from the kitchen. The two young children I met with Roger race past. Their footsteps pound down the hallway, until they spot us and stop abruptly.
“I believe you’ve met Fiona and Paxton, Angie, but Mr. Dovage has not,” Lucy says. “How do we greet guests?”
The children blink up at us, gap-toothed and flush with energy. Paxton nods his regal little head. “Hello, Mr. Dovage. It’s nice to see you again, Angie.”
Fiona looks around me, mouth turned down in disappointment. “You didn’t bring Roger?”
I grin at her. “No, but I’ll let him know you missed him.”
She nods, serious and satisfied. “Okay, but bring him next time, okay?”
“What did we say about manners, Fiona?” Lucy asks.
“Oh, sorry.” The girl rolls her eyes theatrically. “Please bring Roger.”
I grin at her. “It’s a deal.”
She leans toward me, conspiratorially. “Reece still talks about you, you know. All the time.”
My face heats with the mother of all blushes. Dad gives me a raised-brow look that says, are you sure there’s nothing going on? “Oh, well.” I fumble for words. “We go to school together.”
Fiona rolls her eyes again, and the two children run off.
Lucy looks after them fondly. “My late husband and I have five. All adopted.” She takes our coats and hangs them on hooks next to the front door. Then, her gaze moves to the staircase behind us. “Ah. Here comes another one. Good morning, sleepyhead.”
I turn around, and my breath catches. Reece halts midway down the stairs. Loose gray sweatpants hang perilously low on his hips. And I’m pretty sure that’s all he’s wearing.
He rubs his puffy eyes and squints. “Oh.”
I’m staring. My throat is suddenly bone dry and I’m staring. There is no looking away from him. Reece Fernandez shirtless is making me rethink the merits of hockey players. He’s hiding a ripped bod under all those layered shirts. Dad and Lucy are probably aware of my staring, but I can’t summon the will to care.
Reece stares right back at me in a bleary, are-you-really-here? sort of way.
Lucy clucks her tongue. “Reece, for Pete’s sake, say hello to our guests.”
“Oh. Um, good morning, Mr. Dovage, Angie.” His voice is still sleep-roughened and absurdly cute. He scratches his head, where the hair is flat on one side and sticking up on the other.
“Well done,” Lucy says drily. “Now kindly take yourself back upstairs and put on some clothes.”
Really not necessary on my account, but my dad is twitching. As if I’ve never seen a shirtless boy before. In case my dad’s spidey-sense is going haywire, I do the polite thing and drag my gaze to the floor until Reece’s retreating footsteps sound on the stairs.
Lucy leads us to the kitchen, where the smells are mouthwatering. It’s organized chaos in here, noisy with laughter and argument, joy and conflict. A toddler introduced as James sits in a booster seat wearing a large plastic bib. An older woman, Aunt Jean, wipes a wet cloth over his food-smeared face and tells the two kids, Fiona and Paxton, to sit on their backsides, not on their feet. They do as they’re told without pausing a heated debate over whether elephants peel bananas or eat them whole. Or eat them at all.
A young woman, Brooke, stands at the stove. She looks older than me—maybe college-aged. I am completely envious of the funky space-print apron she’s wearing. My dad eyes the ingredients set out on the counter—all the forbidden foods—and winces but says nothing.
Lucy nudges us into seats and sets plates full of pancakes in front of us. They’re made with buttermilk, I’m sure of it, and is that actual butter melting on top of them? With more on the table to smear on top. I check myself from devouring them like an animal. Use the fork! My dad looks conflicted for a few seconds, but he, too, picks up his fork and digs in. Smart of him. He’d sound like an ass trying to explain his dairy boycott to these sensible people.
I close my eyes and savor a bite of pancake. Oh, yum.
There’s a shadow and a little breeze to my right, and I open my eyes as Reece drops into the seat next to me. He’s still wearing the sweatpants, but his hair is smoothed down, and a wrinkled blue T-shirt covers his torso. I’m left to speculate about the underwear as I chew a blissful bite.
Brooke brings him a full plate and tousles his hair. “Morning, asshole.”
“Thanks.” He turns the grin to me and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “She makes amazing pancakes.”
“Yes, she does,” I agree fervently. “They’re the best ever.”
Dad frowns. “I make good pancakes.”
I give him a level look. “Sorry, Dad. You make them with whole wheat flour. And no milk or butter.”
My dad straightens and prepares to launch into his healthy-body speech, but Lucy sits down next to him, and he thinks better of it.
Reece leans toward me. His breath brushes my cheek, and I forget to chew.
“No milk or butter?” he asks.
“No dairy in any form.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “He thinks dairy impedes the body’s immune system and causes inflammation.”
“Inflammation of what?”
I let out a chuckle. “I don’t want to know.”
He smiles back, and his eyes go warm and heavy. They’re still a little sleep-puffed and there’s an intimacy in seeing him like this, freshly woken, carrying the smells of fabric softener and toothpaste. His arm skims mine. Zing! What is it about this guy that obliterates every coherent thought in my head?
Thankfully, my incoherence is brief. The heavy cloud of Reece’s secret is always there, scratching around in the dark corners of my mind. I wish we could just be friends like normal people. But Reece isn’t normal. I’m beginning to think I’m not, either.
James smiles and points a sticky finger toward me. Reece’s black eyes flicker to Brooke, who sits across the table with her own plate of pancakes. They exchange a look I can’t interpret, but as I glance from one to the other, then to the other Fernandezes, I notice something that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
All these people—every single one of them—have the same black eyes, even though none of them are related by blood. The curse that makes them harbingers of death must affect them all the same way.
“Are you finished?” Reece asks me.
I jolt at his voice, but nod. Reece rises and puts our plates in the sink.
“I’d like to give Angie a tour of the house, if that’s okay.” He directs his words to my father, which is smart of him, but everyone pauses and stares at us. Even the toddler quietly watches with strange, thoughtful eyes. Too intense for a person that young. Too aware.
Reece offers a crooked smile and a shrug. “She must have some bad thoughts about what happened here with the previous owners. I thought she’d like to see how changed it is.”
I hold my breath as Dad gives Reece a very dad look. My father is not used to dealing with me, dealing with boys. He’s never considered Deno anything to be concerned with, but Reece is not a boy to be dismissed. Dad takes his time before nodding. “Sure. Of course.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Don’t get lost.”
“I won’t.” I rise with a little too much bounce, so eager to get out of this room. Away from that toddler with the too-intelligent eyes.
The moment we’re away from the kitchen, Reece’s hand wraps around mine. His fingers are warm and strong. My mouth goes dry as dust.
He tugs me forward. “I’m showing you my room first.” He grins at my instant hesitancy. “Not scared, are you?”