The Woman Next Door Read Free

house's appearance of strength and solidity. There was nothing gingerbready about it.
    Christine hated it. It was a hiding place, a fortress, a place to shut herself up in. That was why Tim had called it "a gem," she realized.
    "What do you think?" he said. He was smiling, pleased. This was the pièce de r
é
sistance .
    She smiled back, hoping he would catch the falseness of it. "I don't know."
    "You don't know? How can you not know? It's perfect, absolutely perfect. It's practically all you need."
    "All I need, Tim?"
    "All we need." He was still smiling, was obviously not aware of the implications of what he'd said. "Just the right size, doesn't need that much work, and we can get it for almost nothing. It's perfect."
    "Can we talk about it, Tim?"
    "Talk about it? Sure we can talk about it. Let's talk."
    "I mean later."
    He said nothing for a long moment, then: "I'm wasting my time, aren't I."
    She could hear the disappointment in his voice, the hurt just starting, and it made her suddenly, inexplicably angry with him. She said nothing.
    Tim put the car in gear. "Yes," he said, "we'll talk. I want to get this damned thing straight." He pulled away from the house. "It's the same old story, isn't it?"
    "The same old story?"
    "Yes. You suspect my motives: Tim wants to be the white knight for poor, crippled Christine."
    He paused. She said nothing.
    "I knew it," he continued. "Jesus, when are you going to learn I've grown beyond that!"
    He put the left blinker on, slowed the car. Christine looked ahead, read the street sign: "Longview Terrace."
    "Well," he said, "believe what you want. You always have." He turned onto Longview Terrace. "One more," be continued. "Then we'll go. Not that I'm letting you off the hook. We are going to talk. Your particular . . . delusion isn't doing either of us a bit of good."
    "Fine," she said. It was nearly a whisper.
    He glanced at her. "Are you listening to me?"
    She said nothing. She was looking out her window; she was very still.
    "Christine?"
    Again nothing.
    He reached across the seat, put his hand on her shoulder. "Honey?"
    She turned her head slowly. Their eyes met. He withdrew his hand spontaneously and grinned, suddenly nervous.
    "If looks—," he began, and fell quiet. She had turned her head again.
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    I n 1907 Joseph Stearns married Isabelle Morgan. It was a marriage that was several years in the making, a kind of gift to them both: Stearns had just finished law school and felt he could now support a wife.
    Owning a house, he believed, was critical to his new role as lawyer and husband; it had much to do with his standing in the community and with his status as a family man. Besides, Isabelle had, long before their marriage, made it clear that she would not accept living in apartments.
    In most things, Joseph Stearns was a conservative man. His politics, his religion, his social views all reflected his Victorian upbringing. It dismayed him, therefore, that his tastes in architecture didn't run in the same direction, that the plans his architect showed him depicted, as he called them, "nightmarish monstrosities." He supposed that his hatred of the architecture of the time meant that he was, above all else, a realist, an honest, no-nonsense man. And there was the cost to consider, as well.
    In the end, with the grudging help of his architect, he designed his own house. A year later, a couple months after their marriage, Joseph and Isabelle Stearns moved into their new home at 26 Longview Terrace.
    From the first day, Isabelle's disappointment was obvious. The house was too small, she said. It was too plain, she said. It was like a box made of bricks. The rooms, all the rooms, gave her claustrophobia. It had no charm, she said.
    And Joseph Stearns couldn't help but agree. His first attempt at architecture had been a dismal failure. The house was all but unlivable.
    In 1909 Isabelle Stearns died of influenza. A year later Joseph sold the house, at a substantial loss, to a