The Widow Next Door: The most chilling of new crime thriller books that you will read in 2018. L.A. Detwiler

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ