The Perfect Neighbor by Nora Roberts, Book Collection of Nora Roberts (J.D. Robb)
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"So… have you talked to him yet?"
"Hmm?" Cybil Campbell continued to work at her drawing board,
diligently sectioning off the paper with the skill of long habit. "Who am
I talking to?"
There was a long and gusty sigh—one that had Cybil fighting to keep
her lips from twitching. She knew her first-floor neighbor Jody Myers
well—and understood exactly what
him
she was referring to.
"The gorgeous Mr. Mysterious in 3B, Cyb. Come on, he moved in a
week ago and hasn't said a word to anyone. But you're right across the
hall. We need some details here."
"I've been pretty busy." Cybil flicked a glance up, watching Jody, with
her expressive brown eyes and mop of dusky-blond hair, energetically
pace around the studio. "Hardly noticed him."
Jody's first response was a snort. "Get real. You notice everything."
Jody wandered to the drawing board, hung over Cybil's shoulder, then
wrinkled her nose. Nothing much interesting about a bunch of blue lines.
She liked it better when Cybil started sketching in the sections.
"He doesn't even have a name on the mailbox yet. And nobody ever sees
him leave the building during the day. Not even Mrs. Wolinsky, and
nobody gets by her."
"Maybe he's a vampire."
"Wow." Intrigued with the idea, Jody pursed her pretty lips. "Would that
be cool or what?"
"Too cool," Cybil agreed, and continued to prep her drawing, as Jody
danced around the studio and chattered like a magpie.
It never bothered Cybil to have company while she worked. The fact
was, she enjoyed it. She'd never been one for isolation a nd quiet. It was
the reason she was happy living in New York, happy to be settled into a
small building with a handful of unapologetically nosy neighbors.
Such things not only satisfied her on a personal level, they were grist for
her professional mill.
And of all the occupants of the old, converted warehouse, Jody Myers
was Cybil's favorite. Three years earlier when Cybil had moved in, Jody
had been an energetic newlywed who fervently believed that everyone
should be as blissfully happy as she herself was.
Meaning, Cybil mused, married.
Now the mother of the seriously adorable eight-month-old Charlie, Jody
was only more committed to her cause. And Cybil knew she herself was
Jody's primary objective.
"Haven't you even run into him in the hall?" Jody wanted to know.
"Not yet." Idly, Cybil picked up a pencil, tapped it against her full-to-
pouty bottom lip. Her long-lidded eyes were the green of a clear sea at
twilight, and might have been exotic or sultry if they weren't almost
always shimmering with humor.
"Actually, Mrs. Wolinsky's losing her touch. I have seen him leave the
building during the day—which rules out vampire status."
"You have?" Instantly caught, Jody dragged a rolling stool over to the
drawing board. "When? Where? How?"
"When—dawn. Where? Heading east on Grand. How? Insomnia."
Getting into the spirit, Cybil swiveled on her stool. Her eyes danced with
amusement. "Woke up early, and I kept thinking about the brownies left
over from the party the other night."
"Atomic brownies," Jody agreed.
"Yeah, so I couldn't get back to sleep until I ate one. Since I was up
anyhow, I came in here to work awhile and ended up just standing at the
window. I saw him go out. You can't miss him. He must be six-four.
And those shoulders…"
Both women rolled their eyes in appreciation.
"Anyway, he was carrying a gym bag and wearing black jeans and a
black sweatshirt, so my deduction was he was heading to the gym to
work out. You don't get those shoulders by lying around eating chips
and drinking beer all day."
"Aha!" Jody speared a finger in the air. "You
are
interested."
"I'm not dead, Jody. The man is dangerously gorgeous, and you add that
air of mystery along with a tight butt…" Her hands, rarely still, spread
wide. "What's a girl to do but wonder?"
"Why wonder? Why don't you go knock on his door, take him some
cookies or something. Welcome him to the neighborhood. Then you can
find out what he does in there all day, if he's single, what he does for a
living. If he's single. What—" She broke off, head lifting in alert. "That's
Charlie waking up."
"I didn't hear a thing." Cybil turned her head, aiming an ear toward the
doorway, listened, shrugged. "I swear, Jody, since you gave birth you
have ears like a bat."
"I'm going to change him and take him for a walk. Want to come?"
"No, can't. I've got to work."
"I'll see you tonight, then. Dinner's at seven."
"Right." Cybil managed to smile as Jody dashed off to retrieve Charlie
from the bedroom where she'd put him down for a nap.
Dinner at seven. With Jody's tedious and annoying cousin Frank. When,
Cybil asked herself, was she going to develop a backbone and tell Jody
to stop trying to fix her up?
Probably, she decided, about the same time she told Mrs. Wolinsky the
same thing. And Mr. Peebles on the first floor, and her dry cleaner. What
was this obsession with the people in her life to find her a man?
She was twenty-four, single and happy. Not that she didn't want a family
one day. And maybe a nice house out in the burbs somewhere with a
yard for the kids. And the dog. There'd have to be a dog. But that was
for some time or other. She liked her life right now very much, thanks.
Resting her elbows on her drawing board, she propped her chin on her
fists and gave in enough to stare out the window and allow herself to
daydream. Must be spring, she mused, that was making her feel so
restless and full of nervous energy.
She reconsidered going for that walk with Jody and Charlie after all but
then heard her friend call out a goodbye and slam the door behind her.
So much for that.
Work, she reminded herself, and swiveled back to begin sketching in the
first section of her comic strip, "Friends and Neighbors."
She had a steady and clever hand for drawing and had come by it
naturally. Her mother was a successful, internationally respected artist;
her father, the reclusive genius behind the long-running "Macintosh"
comic strip. Together, they had given her and her siblings a love of art, a
sense of the ridiculous and a solid foundation.
Cybil had known, even when she'd left the security of their home in
Maine, she'd be welcomed back if New York rejected her.
But it hadn't.
For over three years now her strip had grown in popularity. She was
proud of it, proud of the simplicity, warmth and humor she was able to
create with everyday characters in everyday situations. She didn't
attempt to mimic her father's irony or his often sharp political satires.
For her, it was life that made her laugh. Being stuck in line at the
movies, finding the right pair of shoes, surviving yet another blind date.
While many saw her Emily as autobiographical, Cybil saw her as a
marvelous well of ideas but never recognized the reflection. After all,
Emily was a statuesque blonde who had miserable luck holding a job
and worse luck with men.
Cybil herself was a brunette of average height with a successful career.
As for men, well, they weren't enough of a priority for her to worry
about luck one way or the other.
A scowl marred her expression, narrowing her light-green eyes as she
caught herself tapping her pencil rather than using it. She just couldn't
seem to concentrate. She scooped her fingers through her short cap of
brandy-brown hair, pursed her softly sculpted mouth and shrugged.
Maybe what she needed was a short break, a snack. Perhaps a little
chocolate would get the juices flowing.
She pushed back, tucking her pencil behind her ear in an absentminded
habit she'd been trying to break since childhood, left the sun-drenched
studio and headed downstairs.
Her apartment was wonderfully open; aside from the studio space, that
had been the main reason she'd snapped it up so quickly. A long service
bar separated the kitchen from the living area, leaving the lower level all
one area. Tall windows let in light and the street noises that had kept her
awake and thrilled for weeks after her arrival in the city.
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