The Dad Next Door. C.J. Carmichael
jeans and dark T-shirts carried a sofa from the moving van down the ramp and in through the front door. They’d been hard at work for over an hour and now the van was nearly empty.
Allison had been keeping tabs on their progress, though somehow she’d missed the arrival of the family itself. The new owners were already inside, she surmised from the red station wagon parked next to the garage, which was being used as an unloading area for all sorts of things. A lawn mower, a canoe, a mountain bike, a cherry-red tricycle…
She hadn’t been snooping. It was just that she’d had a number of chores to take care of out here this afternoon. The late summer sunshine was perfect for watering plants, sweeping the porch and shaking the cushions on her outdoor furniture.
Okay, she was snooping. But she couldn’t help being curious. The house next door, 11 Robin Crescent, had always been Allison’s idea of the perfect family home. It was larger than hers, a lovely colonial complete with a copper weather vane on the roof. Best of all, it backed onto the lake. When she was growing up, living on the other side of town, she’d spent a lot of time in that house.
Her somber mood returned as she thought of her childhood friend Marianne. They’d had fun together. They both loved art, though her talent had been no match for Marianne’s. And they’d spent hours in the sun and swimming together behind that house.
But somehow the good memories were always overtaken by the bad ones. Allison tried not to think of those as often. It was easier now that Marianne didn’t live here anymore. She’d moved away years ago, leaving her mother alone in that house until the day she died. Since then, several other families had taken up residence. But none had stayed longer than a year or two.
Allison had watched them come and go with envy. If she had had the money, she would have loved to buy the house herself. But she’d been lucky to afford the one she had—thanks to an inheritance from her grandmother.
The movers emerged from the house next door again. Instead of unloading more furniture and boxes, they grabbed brown bags from the cab of the van. A late-afternoon snack.
Allison realized she was hungry, too. Time to start dinner. Just as she was heading inside, though, her new neighbor and his young daughter made an appearance. He was a nice-looking man, about her age or maybe a few years older.
The girl was adorable. Allison gave her a second look—she seemed familiar. But Allison couldn’t have met her before. The red wagon in the driveway had Connecticut plates.
She glanced back at the father. Definitely she hadn’t seen him before. She would have remembered. He was slender and tall and moved with a natural grace that reminded her of John F. Kennedy, from the old footage she’d seen on TV.
Allison watched as the man scooped his daughter onto his shoulders, then paused to talk to the movers. Next, he went to the garage and pulled out the tricycle. Gently, he set the girl onto the seat.
“Give it a try,” he urged. And then his gaze met Allison’s.
She left the opened box of invitations on her porch and went to meet him halfway. “Hi! Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Allison Bennett.”
He hadn’t shaved for a few days. Lucky for him, he was one of those men who managed to look sexy, rather than unkempt, as a result.
He offered a tired smile and shook her hand. “Thanks. It’s good to be here, finally. I’m Gavin Gray. And this is my daughter, Tory.”
Allison squatted to say hello, but the young girl wouldn’t look at her.
“Tory? Can you say hi to our new neighbor?”
Apparently not. She pedaled off down the sidewalk as if she hadn’t heard her father’s request.
That was when Allison placed the resemblance. Tory Gray looked a lot like Marianne McLaughlin had at that age. Dark hair, glowing skin and wide blue eyes. A miniature Snow White.
Even as a small child, Marianne’s beauty had worked to her advantage. In kindergarten, the little boys were forever sharing their lunchbox treats with her and all the girls scrambled to be her partner during gym and class projects.
Allison wondered if Tory’s grade-school years would be equally blessed.
“I’m sorry.” Gavin apologized for his daughter’s behavior. “She doesn’t mean to be rude. She’s just shy.”
“That’s okay. Is she starting grade one this year?”
He nodded, keeping his eye on the child. When she reached the end of the block, she turned the trike around and started back for home.
With the full sun in Gavin’s face, Allison saw lines around his eyes and mouth that she hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t just seem tired. He looked sad.
For that matter, so did Tory. She pushed the pedals on her tricycle grimly. No trace of pleasure on her pretty face.
“So…” Gavin began. “How long have you lived here?”
“In Squam Lake, all my life. But only in this house a few years.” Allison chatted about the town for a while, and Gavin explained that he was an architect, with plans to support himself here designing cottages.
“I used to work at a downtown office in Hartford, but I want to be around for Tory as much as possible. Provided I can line up enough clients to keep bread on the table.”
Admirable goals for a father. Only where was the mom? Inside unpacking? Gavin might think she was prying if she asked. Worse yet, if he was a single dad, he might think she was hitting on him.
“I should get going. I was about to make dinner.” She took a few steps toward her house. “Do you and Tory like lasagna? I’m having it for dinner and I always make extra. I’d be happy to bring over a casserole.”
Tory stopped her tricycle by her father’s feet. He held her hand as she got off. “What about it, Tory? Would you like lasagna for dinner?”
She looked at her father mutely. Gavin seemed disappointed by her silence, but also resigned—as if he’d expected nothing more. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “If it isn’t too much trouble, that would be great.”
AS SOON AS SHE STEPPED inside her house, Allison’s phone began to ring. The call was from one of the older women who lived on the block, Gertie Atwater. Gertie was an old friend of her mother’s, and she’d once worked for Allison’s grandmother, too. She still put in three afternoon shifts a week at The Perfect Thing.
“Well? What’s he like? I saw you talking to him.”
“He seemed…pleasant.” It wasn’t exactly the right description, but Allison couldn’t put words to the impression Gavin and his daughter had made on her.
“He’s certainly good-looking. And his daughter is a doll.” And then, most importantly, Gertie added, “There isn’t any wife in the picture, you know.”
Allison almost asked her how she knew that, but then she stopped. Of course Gertie would have quizzed Cindy Buchanan, the real-estate agent who’d sold the property.
Allison didn’t think the people who lived in Squam Lake were nosier than people in any other small town in America. But this was the sort of place where neighbors watched out for one another. At times—like now—they could seem to care just a little too much.
After Gertie’s call, Allison pulled out her mother’s recipe for lasagna. No sooner were the onions and garlic sautéing for the tomato sauce, than the phone rang again.
This time it was her dad. “Hello, sweetheart. Happy birthday. Are you having a good day?”
Without leaving time for an answer, he added, “Have you heard from Tyler?”
“He called to wish me a happy birthday,” she admitted. “But he was just being polite.” She had to make that completely clear, since her dad was having difficulty accepting her broken engagement.