Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (12 page)

“The Bel Air? Oh yeah, that car’s a legend in this town. I grew up seeing it all over the place; not the kind of car you forget.”

“I haven’t even been too far into the garage; you wouldn’t believe the amount of crap that’s out there. But from what I’ve seen so far, it’s a pretty sweet car.”

“You know, Maude probably got all of the maintenance done at Brady’s Auto—that’s where everyone in town goes. I bet they still have all her records when it was in for service.” We’d reached his car and he set his briefcase inside, then leaned back against the door. “I could make a call, see if they still have those records, if you wanted me to.”

He smiled down at me, his shy grin prompting one in return. “You don’t have to go to any trouble, Clark. It’s sweet, though.”

“It’s no trouble, really. I don’t mind.”

“You sure this isn’t just a plot to get to ride around in it?” I teased. How did I ever think his hair was just brown? In the sun it was more like a deep chestnut, with hints of honey and russet. It was curling slightly in the salty air, waving away from his face now. “You want to get behind that wheel?”

“Now that you mention it, I—”

He was interrupted by a great rumbling as Hank’s massive beastly truck thundered up the gravel driveway and around the corner of the house.

He climbed out of the truck with an easy grace, the kind that comes with knowing exactly what your body is capable of. Blond hair pulled back, with a few escaped pieces bouncing freely around his face. He pulled off his shirt, then grabbed a few apples from the truck. He looked up, briefly caught my eye, and headed for the barn. But when he noticed me talking to Clark?

He turned midstride and headed directly for us. Clark stood up straighter, moving the tiniest bit closer to me. Hank’s eyes had laser locked on me, dragging his gaze down my body and back up again in a way that made me gulp. The other alternative was to drool; I was literally salivating.

He stopped not a foot from me. He held my stare in the way that really good-looking men can, knowing that their presence is enough. Then he opened his mouth to speak, finally initiating conversation with me!

“ ’Sup, Viv?”

The man was a poet. I had no words. Strike that, I had one.

“ ’Sup?”

He grinned at me, and I swear on all that is holy a sunbeam broke through the clouds and shone directly on him, highlighting the planes of his exquisite face and letting me know that beauty had a name, and its name was Hank.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” I heard behind me. I turned to see Clark staring at the two of us with a disapproving look on his face.

“Sorry about that, Clark. Do you know Hank?” I asked, sliding out of the way as the two appraised each other.

“Of course I know him. Small town, remember? How are you, Hank?”

“Hiya, Clark. What the hell happened to your face? You run into a door again?” Hank asked, starting to juggle the three apples he was holding.

“No I didn’t run into a door, I—”

Hank interrupted, “Senior year of high school, this guy ran right into a sliding glass door, broke his nose and the glass. It was hilarious! Man, that was a killer party too, everyone was there. Even Clark! I don’t think I’d ever seen you at a party before, come to think of it, and the one time you come, you walk right into a glass door! Oh man, that still cracks me up!”

Clark chuckled. “Yep, you got me there. Pretty funny stuff.” But his eyes weren’t laughing.

I felt like I should laugh, since they both were. But I couldn’t.

And after a few seconds, Hank was the only one. He finally stopped juggling, then said, “I brought these for the horses. Want to try giving one of them an apple?” He tossed one and I caught it.

“Sure, gimme a sec.” I turned back to Clark. “Thanks for coming by today. I really appreciate all the help with the house.”

He looked at me coolly. “Please keep me abreast of the bids you receive from the contractors, and consult me before making any final changes.”

I blinked. We were back to that?

“Viv! Come on!” Hank called, backing away toward the barn and beckoning me with one finger.

“I hope you have a pleasant visit with your friends, Vivian,” Clark said, getting into his car and driving away.

I walked across the yard toward the barn, noticing that the four on the porch were silent, watching as I followed Hank. I never even got to the barn, though, because I started sneezing and didn’t stop for almost two minutes.

chapter eight

That evening I went back with my friends to Mimi’s family’s house to have dinner. We ate, we drank, we played Pictionary (these four are oddly fierce when they are playing games), and just had a nice evening.

They stopped by in the morning before heading back to San Francisco, bringing pastries from the bakery in town, and I fired up the French press again. I’d found an old painting tarp in the garage and before they left, the boys and I headed up to the roof to tie it down. The forecast was calling for rain this week, and I didn’t want to spend another night moving buckets all over the living room. We got it tied down nice and secure, and it seemed like a good temporary fix until the roof could be replaced.

We were outside by the Range Rover, getting everyone situated and settled, Mimi talking a mile a minute about stopping for beef jerky. “I’m telling you, Simon, it’s the best jerky ever! Just ask Ryan. I make him stop every time we come up here to see my folks, you’ll see.”

“I’ve learned not to argue with that one.” Simon laughed, draping an easy arm around my shoulders. “Sure is nice to have you out here, Viv. You gotta come down to the city sometime and see our place in Sausalito.”

“I’ll totally take you up on that offer, as soon as I get things settled around here,” I said, leaning my head on his shoulder. I missed my brothers, and I was glad to have Simon only a few hours away if I needed him. I patted him on the butt, then reached for his best girl.

“Can’t thank you enough for everything you did, Caroline, although you and Clark did get a little too close for my comfort,” I teased.

She raised an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, what a terrible guy,” she said, making a show of hanging herself. “I have to say, after all the buildup, he wasn’t exactly the monster you made him out to be.”

“He’s okay, just a little uptight for me. Keeps me on my toes, though. And it’s fun making him squirm a bit. I was going to send him a text later asking if he wants to help me paint all the trim Day-Glo orange.” I grinned.

“You’re kind of a shit—you know this, right?” she asked, laughing as she pulled me into a hug.

“Kind of?”

“Now you let me know, Viv, if you need any more help organizing. I left my card and a price sheet for you on the dining room table, with a discount, of course, since we’re buddies now. So when you’re ready to really get organized, you call me, okay?” Mimi asked as Ryan helped her into the backseat.

“Buckle up, dear,” he said. “Nice you meet you again, Viv. We come up here a few times a year, so we’ll see you again. You’re coming down to San Francisco for the wedding, right?”

“That’s a brilliant idea!” Mimi said. “Oh, Viv, you have to come! Oh my God, Ryan, that’s the best idea you’ve ever had. It’s going to be the prettiest wedding anyone has ever seen! And you can—”

Ryan shut the car door and went around to the other side. As soon as he opened the door I heard:

“—and the cake has seven tiers, can you believe it? All the attendants have to wear black, I’m the only one in white, of course, and . . .”

Caroline told Simon, “Let’s get the jerky as soon as possible—it’s a three-hour drive.” She climbed into the front seat, leaving Simon and me standing there.

“Wind-surfing lesson next time?” he asked.

“Yup. Now get outta here.”

He got in and they sped off, Mimi’s hands waving excitedly as they pulled away. I chuckled for a moment, then headed back inside. It was really quiet in the house now. I finished my coffee, put in my earbuds, and got back to work cleaning.

And I noticed for the first time how big the house was for just one person.

T
he rest of that day was weird, and ended even weirder. I spent the day clearing out the living room. I’d started to divide things into piles: keep, donate, trash. There was a lot in the donate pile; someone was going to be set for tube socks for years. Aunt Maude was an As Seen On TV shopper if I’d ever seen one. Slap Chops, the WaxVac, the Chillow (which I was keeping, what a great idea!), to say nothing of the entire shrine dedicated to Ron Popeil and his empire. Food dehydrators, rotisserie grills—I even found a box of old-fashioned hair spray in a can.

I wondered again how Aunt Maude turned out the way she did. Fiercely independent, but also, it appeared, fiercely lonely. And not only did I wish that wasn’t the case, I also wished she’d not left quite so much crap behind for someone else to clean up. The Ronco knife sets were great and all, but really . . . five sets? And if she had the money for all this crap, why was there a leaky roof? Especially when she had seventeen tubes of Putty Friend, another As Seen On TV product Maude had ordered for herself and stockpiled . . .

I knocked off cleaning a little early to cook myself a nice dinner. The stove and I were beginning to understand each other, and I wanted to take our relationship to the next level. Nothing fancy, mind you, but perhaps some chicken? A few vegetables? Could I swing some rice? We were going to find out.

After a quick shower, I headed down to the kitchen. Within minutes I had a decent amount of vegetables chopped, a pot of water simmering for rice, and a couple of chicken breasts in the oven, planning to use the extra one later in the week for lunch or in a salad. No pizza this week, no way, no sir! Time to get into a normal routine!

I opened up the windows in the kitchen, throwing the back door open wide to let in that last little bit of sunshine. The skies to the east were looking gray and the wind was beginning to kick up; it looked like we were going to get a storm. I said a silent thank-you to Ryan and Simon for tying the tarp down; the evening would be much nicer without the rain
inside
the house.

But the air before a storm always smelled so fresh, so I let it all in. The house was finally beginning to lose that musty closed-up smell after a week of solid cleaning. I’d poured a glass of red wine to sip while I cooked, and with the radio tuned to the oldies station, it made for a cozy night to stay in and cook.

Because I grew up in a large family, it was never a question of
whether
I would learn to cook or not, it was merely a question of
when
. For the record, I was eight when I started scrambling my own eggs and making my own toast. Cooking for one had been a bit of an adjustment, since my favorite family recipes were formulated to feed an army. But as I got older and was single longer, I learned that there was something a little special about preparing a meal just for yourself. Setting the table for one was just as important as setting the table for fourteen. So I dug up some pretty china plates, washed them, stacked them in the kitchen, and even lit a candle in the dining room.

Pat on the back for me.

Back in the kitchen, I sizzled and stirred, adding a pinch of this and a sprinkle of that. Rice was in, garlic and onions were sautéing, and I had just added some broccoli to the pan when I heard—

Flap-flap-flap.

Cocking my head sideways, I listened again. What was that? But after a moment, all I heard was vegetables cooking, so I went back to them. Another minute went by. My chicken should be almost done now, I should check it—

Flap-flap-flap-flap

Okay, what the hell
was
that? My slotted spoon and I headed into the dining room—all clear. Living room? All clear as well. Was I hearing things?

The wind was beginning to really kick up, the curtains were waving in the breeze on either side of the fireplace. Maybe that was the noise I was hearing. But as soon as they were closed, I heard it again, coming from the dining room.

Flap-flap-flap
.

I headed for the dining room. Dammit. What the
hell
was—

A
bat
!

It dove at me and I ran screaming out onto the front porch, slotted spoon in one hand, the other clasped over my head.

Flap-flap-flap-flap.

“Get out get out get out get out!” I screamed, stamping my foot and going through the rotten wood again. And this time? It got stuck.

“Sonofawhore!” I cursed, setting down the spoon and trying to pull my foot clear. Nope, it was stuck on something but good. “Cocksucking fuck!” I swore again. Somewhere, my mother most certainly frowned at my choice of words.

Thunder boomed nearby, and from inside the house?

Flap-flap-flap
.

I instinctively ducked, even though I was out on the porch. The porch that had been trying to eat me piece by piece since I got here. I tried to calm down; getting frustrated wasn’t going to help.
Think, Viv!

I tried to keep my weight off my stuck foot, since every time I pushed down to try and get some leverage, it seemed to get even more wedged in. I started to think about what might be under that porch, what might have ahold of my foot.

One of those dolls . . .

That’s it! My phone was in my pocket, thank God—but who was I going to call? Simon was back in San Francisco by now, and I had no idea how to get hold of Hank. Mr. Montgomery? No, he was too old. I didn’t want to call 911, because while in my own head this constituted an emergency, in the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t.

You know who you have to call.

Oh, man.

And do it quickly, before the doll takes another bite.

I called the librarian.

“W
ell, well, well.”

“Lookee what we have here,” I finished, peering up at Clark.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he answered, walking slowly up the steps.

When I’d called him, he said he’d be right over. And he hadn’t laughed, just asked if I was all right and did I need anything. I told him a margarita would be nice. He’d ignored that request, but he had brought his toolbox. Rubbermaid. Red. Stamped with Clark Barrow on the side—in case someone tried to take it?

Sunday Evening Clark was much more dressed down: faded jeans, running shoes, untucked plaid shirt over a white undershirt. I suddenly said a prayer that it wasn’t a tank-top undershirt, that he was the kind of guy who wore T-shirts, and then mentally slapped myself for giving a shit what he wore under his faded plaid shirt. That looked soft and comfortable and warm. I shivered. It was getting cold out here, playing buoy on the sea of porch.

He knelt down in front of me and assessed the situation.

“One would think it unwise, Vivian, knowing the condition of this rotten wood, to traipse about so carelessly,” he said as he poked at the wood around my left leg, which was buried to midthigh. I’d been sitting half on and half off the broken wood for the better part of twenty minutes, and was starting to get more than a little agitated.

“One would think that after getting punched in the nose one would be unwise to provoke me,” I said sweetly.

He turned his gaze from my leg to my face, his eyes calculating. “You’re the one stuck in the porch. You sure you want to pick a fight with me right now?”

He had me there, dammit. “Okay, fine. No fight picking. But do
something,
Clark.”

“I’m waiting for the magic word.”

“Um, now?”

“Really?”

“Asshole?”

“Come on.”

“Clark!”

“Vivian.”

“Oh, fine.
Please
help me, Clark. Please, please, please?” I managed, gritting my teeth.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiled, his face lighting up.

“Still not out of this porch here,” I said.

He nodded. “As personally gratifying as it is to see you like this, there is a bit of storm coming and I’d rather not be out here when it hits. So let’s see what we can do here, shall we?”

“Yes, shall we?” I repeated, leaning back so he could get a better look at how I was wedged.

“Pardon me, I need to get a little closer here. I just—Ah, yes, I can see it there.” Clark had leaned across me, one arm on either side of me as he peered through the broken board to the ground below. His head was almost flush with the floor. And flush with what else was on the floor. Flush with my— Oh my. I unexpectedly felt his breath on my bare thighs. I was dressed in running shorts that left little to the imagination, and
my
imagination was bombarding my senses with the most inappropriate images.

All I could think about was if he just moved about three inches to the left, he could probably get me off with his jaw alone. And how in world had I never noticed that it was so very strong, so very chiseled, so very lightly covered with Sunday-evening stubble? Stubble that could so very easily drag back and forth across the inside of my legs, up and down, and right and left, and then up, up, and away toward my—

“I’m going to have to go down,” he said, and it took all the strength I had not to bury my hand in that flippy soft brown hair and take him at his word.

“Sorry?” I asked, panting. I was panting, for Christ’s sake! Over a librarian?

Mmmm,
over
a librarian . . .

“I have to go down beneath the porch. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it. Who knows what’s under there?” he said, turning toward me. All I could see was bandage, and the bruises that were fading from purple to yellow around the edges, and the spell was broken.

Still breathing a little heavy, I warned him to watch out for dolls. And watched as he hurried down the steps, around the side of the house, and began removing the latticework cover on the side of the porch with the utmost care.

What the hell! Lusting after a librarian, when there was a cowboy on the loose? It was clear that lusting after Hank had addled my brains. I was seeing things, imagining things, getting hot over the slightest touch, even from a guy like Clark.

The wind blew more forcefully across the porch, and I shivered. What the hell was taking so long?

“Hey! You want to put a little hustle on over there?” I finally called out, when the third piece of lattice was placed carefully onto the porch.

His head popped up over the edge. “Do you have any idea how old this is?”

“Do you have any idea how much it’s going to suck if you’re caught underneath there in the rain?”