The Interested Party

The first time Martin Vale came to look at Claire’s car, he apologized for being early.

He was eleven minutes early, which Claire considered admirable in a prospective buyer, particularly one who had already asked seventeen questions over the telephone about a twelve-year-old Honda Accord.

“Better early than late,” she told him.

“That’s what my mother always said.” He smiled, revealing small, exceptionally even teeth. “Although she was late to her own funeral, if you can believe it. Hearse broke down.”

Claire laughed, partly because she hadn’t expected him to be funny and partly because she wasn’t certain he was.

Martin was somewhere in his late fifties, a slight man with thinning brown hair combed carefully across his scalp. He wore pressed khakis, polished leather shoes, and carried a small silver flashlight despite the brilliant September sunshine.

Peter emerged from the garage.

“Martin? Good to meet you.”

Martin shook his hand with both of his own.

“Beautiful property,” he said, looking toward the trees bordering the backyard. “Very private.”

“That’s what sold us on it,” Claire said.

Martin nodded thoughtfully.

“Privacy’s important.”

The Honda sat in the driveway, freshly washed. Claire had owned it for eleven years. There was a shallow dent above the rear wheel and a dashboard crack that widened every August, but otherwise it was a perfectly respectable car.

Martin examined it as though purchasing a small aircraft.

He inspected the tires, questioned the service history, and asked whether Claire smoked, transported animals, or had ever replaced the passenger-side floor mat.

“Because I spilled an entire iced coffee on the original,” she explained.

“Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Fortunately, I was spared an audience.”

He didn’t smile.

When Claire opened the trunk, Martin lifted the carpeting and examined the spare tire compartment.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eight years.”

“Just the two of you?”

Peter answered. “Mostly. Our kids are grown.”

Martin nodded.

“Quiet, then.”

“Usually,” Claire said.

After forty-five minutes and two trips around the neighborhood, Martin announced that the car had too many miles.

They watched him drive away in a beige sedan considerably older than the Honda.

“Well,” Claire said, “that was a delightful waste of a morning.”

Peter kissed her head. “At least he didn’t ask to meet the children.”

Martin called again on Tuesday. He had reconsidered the mileage. Perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable after all, provided they could agree on a price.

Peter wanted forty-eight hundred dollars. Martin offered forty-two.

On Thursday, Martin returned with a manila envelope containing printouts of comparable vehicles. He spread them across the hood while Peter explained why a Honda with a failed transmission wasn’t a meaningful comparison.

Martin appeared wounded. “I’m only trying to be fair.”

“Of course you are,” Peter said. Claire recognized the tone. It was the same one her husband used when explaining to their dog that the vacuum cleaner wasn’t a personal enemy.

Eventually Martin offered thirty-eight hundred dollars. Peter declined.

On Saturday, Martin called to say he’d changed his mind.

On Monday, he changed it back.

By the following week, Claire could identify his telephone number without looking. “Your boyfriend,” she told Peter, handing him the phone.

“Jealous?”

“Terribly. I’ve never known a man so committed to not buying something.”

But the joke was wearing thin.

Martin called at peculiar hours, repeating questions they’d already answered.

Once, he asked whether the Honda was still parked in the driveway.

“Yes,” Claire said.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Another time, he asked whether Peter worked nearby.

“Why would that matter?”

“Oh, it doesn’t. I thought perhaps he could meet me during lunch.”

Claire hesitated before answering.

She was beginning to dislike how much Martin knew about them.

Claire’s surgery took place three weeks after Martin’s first visit.

The surgeon had described the procedure as routine, a word Claire had come to distrust. Recovery was painful enough that she found herself resenting ordinary household objects for requiring her to bend or stand.

Peter was attentive, sometimes absurdly so.

He brought tea she hadn’t requested, rearranged pillows until she threatened divorce, and insisted on helping her walk to the bathroom.

“I’ve been using bathrooms independently for more than fifty years.”

“An impressive record. Let’s not ruin it now.”

She loved him for trying.

She also desperately wanted to feel like herself again.

By Wednesday, Peter needed to return to work. Claire assured him she’d be fine. The refrigerator was stocked, her medication organized, and she’d established a reasonably comfortable position on the sofa.

He kissed her goodbye. “Call if you need anything.”

“I need you to stop asking if I need anything.”

“Noted.”

After he left, the house settled into its familiar silence.

Ordinarily, Claire loved that silence. But pain altered the proportions of things. The stairs seemed steeper, the hallway longer. Even reaching the front door required consideration.

At ten seventeen, the telephone rang.

Martin.

She let it go to voicemail.

“Hello, Peter. Martin Vale calling. Just following up about the Honda. Hope Claire’s recovering nicely.”

Peter had mentioned her surgery. There was nothing unusual about Martin remembering. Still, she disliked hearing him discuss her recovery with such familiarity.

At ten forty-two, he called again.

At eleven twenty-six, a car entered the driveway.

Claire recognized Martin’s aging sedan before looking through the curtain.

He parked beside the Honda and stood studying the house.

She considered answering the door and telling him firmly that they were no longer interested in selling him the car. But she was wearing an old nightgown, her hair needed washing, and standing upright left her dizzy.

More importantly, she didn’t want to see him. That realization surprised her.

Until recently, Martin had merely been an annoyance. Now something about his persistence made ordinary courtesy feel like an obligation she couldn’t escape.

The doorbell rang.

She remained on the sofa.

It rang again.

Then three deliberate knocks.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Claire lowered the television volume.

“Peter?”

She heard the porch boards creak.

“Claire?”

Her pulse quickened.

Then the front door handle turned.

A small sound. The familiar metallic click of brass moving against its mechanism.

For a moment, she didn’t understand what she’d heard.

The handle rattled again, harder. She sat up too quickly, sending pain across her abdomen.

Martin was trying to open her front door.

She reached for her phone.

Footsteps descended the porch.

She waited for his engine to start.

Instead, someone knocked on the dining room window. Martin stood outside, one hand shielding his eyes as he peered through the glass. “Claire?”

She slipped from the sofa and crouched behind it, wrapping an arm around her abdomen. The movement brought tears to her eyes.

“I know you’re in there.”

He sounded almost apologetic, as though she were being unnecessarily difficult.

Claire wanted to shout at him to leave. But if she revealed herself, he would expect a conversation. He would explain, negotiate, apologize, and somehow she’d find herself discussing the Honda again.

Only now she was alone, and he had already tried to get inside.

His footsteps moved away. Then the sliding glass door rattled. Martin was on the deck. He tried the handle, examined the lock, and knocked twice.

Claire drew her knees closer. She considered the stairs, the bedroom door with its flimsy privacy lock, whether she could move quickly enough to reach it.

She couldn’t.

Claire had spent her adult life solving problems. She’d raised children, managed emergencies, and handled situations that would have sent Peter searching for instructions.

Now she was crouched on her own living room floor, afraid to stand.

She called him.

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“Martin’s here.”

Peter sighed. “Again?”

“He’s trying to get into the house.”

Silence.

“What?”

“He turned the front door handle. Now he’s going around the house looking through the windows.”

“Where are you?”

“Behind the sofa.”

“Stay there. I’m coming home. Call the police.”

She looked toward the deck.

Martin had stopped knocking.

He was sitting in her blue Adirondack chair, one ankle resting across the opposite knee.

He appeared to be enjoying the afternoon.

The police dispatcher asked whether he’d threatened her.

“No. But he’s been coming here for weeks, and now he’s trying the doors.”

“Has he entered the residence?”

“No.”

“Are your doors locked?”

“Yes.”

“Remain inside. We’ll send someone when an officer is available.”

Claire stared toward the deck.

Martin was examining something he’d taken from his pocket.

“He’s sitting outside my house.”

“Ma’am, if he attempts to enter, call us immediately.”

Claire ended the call.

Then she called Ruth.

Ruth and her husband, Frank, lived two houses down. Frank stood six feet seven inches tall, with the broad, slightly stooped build of a man accustomed to doorways designed for smaller people. Ruth was nearly as formidable, with a warm laugh and very little patience for nonsense.

“Claire? Honey, what’s wrong?”

Claire hadn’t realized how frightened she was until she heard her friend’s voice.

“There’s a man outside my house.”

She explained.

“He tried the door?” Ruth interrupted.

“Yes.”

“Frank!” Ruth shouted. “Get your shoes. Now.”

Then, to Claire, “Don’t open anything. We’re coming.”

Their truck arrived five minutes later.

Frank climbed out first, Ruth close behind.

Martin appeared from the side yard, holding a folded piece of paper.

“Afternoon,” Frank said. “Can we help you?”

Martin looked surprised.

“No, thank you.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Martin gestured toward the house.

“I live here.”

Claire felt a peculiar coldness move through her.

Frank stared at him.

“No, you don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“We know the people who live here.”

A bird called from the trees behind the deck.

Then Martin smiled.

“Well, yes, of course. I meant they’ve invited me over.”

Ruth stepped forward.

“No, they haven’t. There’s a woman recovering from surgery inside that house, and you’ve frightened her.”

Martin’s forehead creased.

“Frightened?”

“Yes.”

“Of me?”

He sounded genuinely astonished.

Frank folded his arms.

“You need to leave.”

Martin glanced toward the living room window. Claire instinctively moved back.

“I didn’t mean to upset anybody.”

“Then go,” Ruth replied.

Martin smoothed the folded paper, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and walked to his sedan.

He paused at the end of the driveway before disappearing down the road.

Only when Ruth came to the door did Claire begin to cry.

Peter arrived shortly after two.

Claire heard his car enter the driveway, followed almost immediately by another engine.

Martin’s beige sedan had pulled in behind him.

For a moment, she couldn’t move.

Then Peter stepped out.

Martin approached him.

“I’ve been treated very badly today.”

Peter stared.

“What?”

“Your neighbors. They humiliated me.”

Claire opened the front door.

“Peter, don’t let him come any closer.”

Martin turned toward her.

“Claire, I’m terribly sorry if there was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? You tried to open my door.”

“I thought you were expecting me.”

“Why would you think that?”

Martin looked puzzled.

“Because I’ve been coming here.”

The simplicity of his answer silenced her.

Peter stepped between them.

“Martin, this has gone far enough. You need to leave us alone.”

Martin’s face reddened.

“I’ve spent weeks trying to buy this car. You can’t simply decide not to sell it.”

“You’ve repeatedly said you don’t want it.”

“I’ve been negotiating.”

“Then make an offer.”

Martin glanced at the Honda.

“I don’t have forty-eight hundred dollars.”

“How much do you have?”

“Eight hundred.”

Peter studied him.

Claire saw something change in her husband’s expression. Exhaustion, perhaps, combined with a desperate desire to end the encounter.

“Fine,” Peter said.

Martin blinked.

“Fine?”

“Take the car. Keep your money. We’ll sign over the title. But if you ever come onto this property again, I’m calling the police.”

Claire turned toward him.

“What?”

Martin stood very still.

Then he smiled.

“That’s extremely generous.”

Peter said nothing.

“I knew we could reach an understanding.”

Claire waited for her husband to correct himself.

He didn’t.

The paperwork took twenty minutes.

Martin’s beige sedan remained beside the garage while Peter retrieved the title and explained the signatures.

When Martin finally drove away in the Honda, Claire noticed he hadn’t even looked back at the vehicle he’d arrived in.

Peter came inside.

“Well,” he said, “that’s over.”

Claire stared at him.

“Have you completely lost your mind?”

“What?”

“You gave him my car.”

“Claire, please.”

“Don’t Claire, please me. You gave a perfectly good car to a man who spent the morning trying to break into our house.”

“He didn’t break in.”

She stared at him.

Peter closed his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I wanted him gone.”

“And you thought the best way to accomplish that was to give him a present?”

“It wasn’t a present.”

“What would you call it? A scholarship?”

Despite himself, Peter almost smiled.

It was a terrible mistake.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re doing that thing with your mouth.”

He rubbed his face.

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I know.”

Her voice softened.

“But you didn’t ask me.”

Peter looked toward the empty space where the Honda had stood.

“I didn’t think there was time.”

“There was time to sign over a title.”

He had no answer.

Claire lowered herself into a chair.

“He was sitting in my chair,” she said.

Peter frowned.

“What?”

“On the deck. While I was hiding behind the sofa, trying to decide whether I could make it upstairs without tearing open my stitches, he was sitting in my chair. Like he belonged here.”

Peter’s expression changed.

“And then you gave him my car.”

He crouched beside her.

“I just wanted him gone.”

She looked at him.

“I know you did.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to feel the familiar warmth of his hand around hers.

Then she asked, “What happens the next time someone decides they want something that belongs to us?”

Peter looked toward the front door.

“He won’t come back.”

“How do you know?”

He didn’t answer.

Martin’s sedan remained in their driveway.

Peter called the number Martin had used for weeks. It went directly to voicemail.

He left a message asking Martin to collect his vehicle.

No response.

The following morning, Peter called again.

By Friday, Claire was furious.

“Wonderful,” she told him. “We gave him my car, and now we’re running a retirement home for his.”

Peter contacted the police about the abandoned vehicle. They explained that because it was on private property, removal would require following the appropriate towing procedure.

On Monday, Peter arranged for it to be taken away.

Claire watched from the kitchen as the tow operator prepared the sedan.

“Keys are inside,” he called.

Peter frowned.

“They are?”

The man opened the driver’s door.

“Right there in the ignition.”

Claire hadn’t seen Martin leave the keys.

She watched the sedan disappear down the road and felt, for the first time in days, something approaching relief.

Martin never returned.

No telephone calls. No notes. No complaints about the Honda.

Nothing.

Peter considered his absence proof that he’d made the right decision.

Claire wasn’t so certain.

Her incision eventually healed. She returned to work, resumed her walks, and recovered much of the confidence she’d once taken for granted.

But she kept the curtains closed when Peter was away.

She stopped using the blue Adirondack chair.

And sometimes, in the quiet afternoon hours, she found herself listening for the soft click of a door handle turning.

Three months later, an envelope arrived. There was no return address. Inside was a single photograph. Claire recognized the blue Adirondack chair immediately.

It was an ordinary picture of their back deck, taken from somewhere near the trees. The sliding glass doors reflected the late-afternoon sunlight. Beyond them, the living room was dark.

She turned the photograph over. Written neatly in blue ink were five words. I liked it better inside.

Claire stood motionless in the kitchen. She looked again at the photograph. Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen before.

The sliding glass door was open. Albeit only a few inches, but open. And in the dark reflection of the glass, just beyond the doorway, was the faint outline of someone standing in the living room.

Claire reached for her phone.

From the back of the house came a small metallic click. The familiar sound of a door handle turning.