Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (13 page)

He looked at the sky, getting darker by the minute. “Point taken.” He pried off the last of the lattice, then disappeared.

I could hear scrambling coming from beneath me, and then I could feel the ground shifting a little under my stuck foot.

“Vivian? It’s just me. Don’t be alarmed.”

“No kidding, Clark. Who else would it be?”

“Well, pardon me all over the place. I was just concerned that if you were surprised, your first instinct would be to kick. So let’s see what we can do about getting this free.”

Then he put his hands on my leg. Wrapped his hands around my ankle, turning it slightly. “Okay, it’s wedged into a cement block, but I think I can get it loose. Bear with me a moment, Vivian.”

“It’s Viv. And be careful, huh?” I called down.

“Impossible woman,” he muttered. His hands traveled a little farther up my leg, inside, and then around the back of my knee. And then I felt . . . well, it felt like . . .

“Clark! Did you just lick—”

“
No!
” he yelled, wrenching my foot free at that exact moment and pushing it up through the porch. I fell backward, my leg pulling clear of the wood and my heart pounding. I saw him crawl out from beneath the porch, dust himself off, and then walk toward me.

I pointed at him. “You licked my leg.”

“I did nothing of the kind,” he said. But the tips of his ears were red.

Flap-flap-flap-flap.

“Ah crap, I forgot about that.”

“You’re kind of a two-crisis girl, aren’t you?” He laughed, reaching behind his toolbox and picking up a lacrosse stick.

“
That’s
what you brought to kill a bat?”

“It was either this or my squash racket.” He took a few practice swipes at the air. “Besides, we’re not going to kill it. We’re going to catch it, then let it go.”

“There is no
we.
There’s a
you,
as in
you
are going to get the bat!”

“It’s your house, you should be helping me,” he said. “And for someone who acts so tough, you sure are scared of a little thing like a bat.”

“I’m not scared!”

When he had the nerve to make a bowing gesture, as if to say
well then, go ahead on in without me,
I grumbled, “Okay fine—I’m a little scared. I’ll help you, but you’re going in first.” I stood up and brushed off my shorts. I now had another scrape to match the one on the other leg.
Honestly
.

I rummaged in the garage until I found a rake and a bucket, then rejoined Clark on the porch. Stepping over the hole, I huddled behind him as he opened the front door. We went inside, alert and listening.

“Is something burning?” he asked, sniffing the air.

“Dammit, my dinner!” I wailed, rushing past him and into the kitchen. “Motherfucker!”

“Vivian!” Clark exclaimed, hurrying past me to turn off the burners. Smoke billowed from the oven, my chicken breasts now charred beyond recognition. Rice? Now a cake in the bottom of the pan. And the vegetables? Crust. I started throwing the pots into the sink, probably slamming them a little harder than necessary. I was pissed at the porch, pissed at the house, pissed that my leg hurt, and pissed off that I still had a bat in the house.
A bat in the house!

“Were you expecting someone for dinner?” Clark asked from the doorway to the dining room. His face looked tight—hurt?

I glanced past him and saw the candles burning on the table. “No, that was just for me,” I replied, pushing past him and blowing out the candle.

“You lit candles just to eat alone?”

“Yeah. So?” I asked, turning back to him. I saw the bat. It was perched on the lacrosse stick, just behind his head.

“Oh. Boy. Um, Clark?”

“I think if you want to light candles, even if it’s just you, that’s perfectly okay,” Clark said, nodding at me.

“Right. Agreed. But right now? You need to—”

“I mean, after all, if you don’t think you’re good company, no one else will, right?”

“Totally. Can I just—”

“I eat most of my meals alone too, although I’ve never thought about lighting candles. Not sure a guy doing it would be seen as being quite as empowering as it is for a girl, rather sad actually. But shoot, I’ll try anything once I suppose. So good for you, Vivian. Light a candle why don’t you, you deserve it. Even if it is just chicken or—”

“Duck.”

“Or duck, exactly, even if it’s—”

“Fucking
duck,
Clark!” I yelled, lunging in with my rake and swatting at the bat.

Clark hit the deck and I knocked the bat off the back of the lacrosse stick. “Bucket! Bucket!” I yelled, and he slid it across the floor. Slamming it down on the bat, I sat on top of it, giving a war cry. “Wahoooooo!” I lifted the rake high over my head in victory.

It caught in the chandelier and damn near ripped the entire thing out. And as it hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth, I sat on a bucket in the middle of my dining room, with a bat under my butt, and a librarian under the table.

Cue lightning and thunder.

Cue crashing rain.

There was nothing I could do but laugh.

There were no leaks, though—so there
was
that.

chapter nine

Clark could rally, I gotta give him that. Twenty minutes later the bat was set free, the windows were all closed against the torrent of rain that was lashing at the house, and I was perched at my kitchen table with one Mr. Clark Barrow at the stove. Wearing an apron he’d found hanging in the pantry, he was scrambling me some eggs and making toast like it was his job.

“Well, what else were you going to do?” he’d asked when he’d first suggested helping me make something else for dinner.

“Order a pizza?”

“You’ve got eggs and bread; how about I make us something to eat? It’ll give the rain a chance to slow up before I head home,” he said, and I agreed. And now here he was, cooking for us both.

I’d warned him about how temperamental the stove was, but he had the hang of it. “My Nana used to have a stove just like this one, I’m used to it,” he said, expertly flipping the burners and lighting it just so.

“I’m impressed,” I said, and I was. Sure, it was just eggs and toast, but I’d punched the guy not too long ago, yet here he was, making me dinner. Nice guy.

I had no idea what to do with a nice guy. I’d never dated a clean-cut, Backstreet Boy type; I’d always stayed in the heavy metal/alternative, dirty, tattooed-boy section. I could appreciate what a Nick Lachey had to offer, sure, but my type was always going to be a Dave Navarro, a Chris Cornell.

A nice guy? Hmmm.

Shaking off the feeling, I sipped my wine. “So, tell me about yourself, Clark.”

“Me? What’s there to know?”

“Oh, I bet plenty. Tell me about the man, the myth, the legend.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, then nodded at the wine. “Pour me another glass and you’ll get all three.”

Yeah, I poured. He talked. Born and raised in Mendocino, he’d gone away to college at Pepperdine, history major, minor in library sciences. His family had always been heavily involved in the area’s historical society, preserving old homes, churches, restoring and repurposing older buildings. He confirmed what Caroline had already told me, that much of the town of Mendocino was in fact a historical site. Most of those efforts were privately funded, although he worked with homeowners to apply for and receive federal grants, like the one my aunt had received. The library was his main job, although hours had been cut steadily over the last few years and there was now a pretty small staff that assisted him.

“No one does pure research anymore, not without the Internet of course. Sure, we’ve adapted pretty well, but for the most part, the library here exists for a pleasure reader. Although with Kindles and iPads, we’re even starting to see those readers begin to slip away. Plates?” he asked, bringing the pan with the scrambled eggs to the table. I helped him butter the toast, and we settled ourselves around the kitchen table. There was still a rake stuck in the chandelier in the dining room and it was raining too hard to go out to the barn for the ladder so, yeah, that was out for tonight.

“Well, I’ll be down for my library card just as soon as I can.” I forked up a mouthful. “Mmm, these are great, Clark. You want some hot sauce?” I asked, sprinkling Tabasco over everything on my plate.

“I’ll pass. Do you read a lot?”

“I’ve been known to, sure,” I said, hoping my face wasn’t as pink as it felt.

“Last book you read that changed how you felt about something,” he said.

I thought quickly. Not sure I could tell him about
Loins,
and how it changed the way I now saw baguettes. “Um, let’s see.
Black Holes and Baby Universes
.”

“Wow, impressive. Hawking. How did you think it compared to
A Brief History of
—” The kitchen was suddenly plunged into darkness. “I wondered when that was going to happen,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked, looking around in the dark. I had a flashlight in here somewhere.

“Power goes out in town when there’s a bad storm. They usually have it back on within a few hours, though, not to worry.”

“I’m not worried.” I fumbled in the drawer until I found it. “Ah, there we go!” I said, turning on the flashlight.

“What wattage
is
that thing?” he asked, holding up his hands.

It was a bit bright.

“No dimmer on this thing, sorry,” I said, trying to cover it up a bit. “Wait, I know!” I hurried into the other room, dodging the rake, and grabbed the candles. Striking a match, I lit them quickly, then set them down on the kitchen table. “See? Even breakfast for dinner can have ambience.”

I looked across the table at him, hair rumpled from the bat fight, mud on his T-shirt from being under the porch, and an intense-looking smile. And the bandage, God bless it. I smiled back at him, then took a bite of toast.

“So, Clark, does your family still live here in town?”

“Oh no, now it’s my turn to ask the questions.” He grinned, slapping another coat of strawberry jelly on his toast. He licked each finger; jellying toast by candlelight was a messy business. “So where are you from, exactly? I’ve been trying to place your accent all week.”

Damn. Had it really only been a week? “My accent?”

“Yes, it’s very specific. Not just generic back east, although I’m fairly certain it’s in that general area.”

“It’s in that general area, yes.” I nodded, enjoying where this was going. Philadelphia natives did have a very specific accent, although most couldn’t place it.

“It’s not New York.”

“State or city?” I asked.

“It’s neither. And it’s not Boston. It’s not New Jersey, although I admit my knowledge of that accent is limited by my addiction to
The Sopranos,”
he said with a half grin.

“You’re close. Philadelphia. Specifically, a little town just outside the city.”

“Philadelphia. So tell me, what do you do back there in Philadelphia?”

“Well, until recently I owned my own software company.”

He dropped his toast. “You
owned
your own—what?”

“Yep. I’m a software engineer by trade, got lucky with a program after college and went out on my own.”

“So what did you specialize in?”

“In a nutshell? I write programs that do data mining. You know, look for needles in a cyber haystack? Just sold a new program a few months ago.”

“You said until recently. Are you not doing it anymore?” he asked, looking fascinated.

“No, after all of this kind of fell into my lap I decided to sell my little company to a bigger company. They’d been making offers for years, and to be honest, my heart just wasn’t really in it anymore. So when they offered again, I sold it. Well, I’m in the beginning stages of selling it.”

“Who are you selling it to?”

“Franklin Logistics and Software.”

This time he choked on his toast. “You just sold your company to Franklin L&S?”

I passed him his water. “Well, going through the process, but yep.”

“Wait— Vivian Franklin. Franklin L&S. Any relation?”

“Sure, it’s my dad’s company.” I grinned.

Clark sat there for a moment, digesting. “Can I ask something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Why did you sell it? I mean, sounds like things were going great for you back there. Why come here?”

I thought for a moment. “I think because I hadn’t had an adventure in a long time, and I was ready for one. And this was exactly what I needed at exactly the right time,” I said, dipping up a fingerful of jelly and licking it off. “Do you believe in fate, Clark?”

“Fate?” he asked abstractedly, watching my mouth closely.

“Yeah, fate. Do you think that there’s a preordained path you’re supposed to be on?”

“Never given it much thought, really. I’m pretty methodical. Not prone to whims,” he said.

“No. I never would have guessed.”

“You’re teasing me, Vivian.” He chuckled.

“Maybe just a little.” We sat for a moment together, quiet and still in the candlelight. “So,” I finally said, “I guess I should get the dishes started.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, getting up to clear.

“Don’t be silly. You cooked; I’ll do the dishes.” I took his plate before he could grab it and brought them both over to the sink.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” he asked, tying his apron back on.

“That’s a deal.” I turned on the water. As we cleaned up, we chatted some more.

“So did you always know you wanted to go into computers?” he asked, drying the plate I’d just handed him.

“No, in fact I hadn’t planned on going into it at all. Most of my family’s in computers so I wanted to try something new, you know? Out of the box?”

“You? Out of the box? I never would have guessed,” he said, swiping a soapy fingertip down the ink on my arm.

“Don’t poke fun, Clark. That’s my design there,” I warned, flicking a bubble at him from the sink.

“You’re a tattoo artist too?”

“No, but I minored in art in college, and spent some time really trying to make a go of it before the computer bug bit me. This tattoo is one I designed myself.” I twisted so he could see it better, the candlelight not being very strong.

He examined the ink, turning my arm to see how it wrapped around. “You drew this?”

“Mm-hmm.” I drew in a breath at the feel of his hands on my skin. Backstreet Boy or not, he had good hands.

“You’re very talented.”

“Once, maybe. I haven’t used that part of my brain in a long time, though.”

“Why not?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, not ready to answer that question. I never went back to it because I just fell into something new. I’d always assumed there’d be time for it, that I could go back to my painting later. That I could balance the practical with the artistic. But family and work became all encompassing.

It wasn’t a bad life, just a life without a lot of . . . passion. Adventure. Purpose. Intrigue. Wonder . . . And paint. “Here,” I said, handing him a slippery dish. He took it, drying it off without asking anything else.

We stood in the darkened kitchen, quietly cleaning up. It was nice, the not talking. When I finished washing up I leaned back against the counter, swallowing the last of the wine in my glass. He hummed a bit while he was working, a tune I almost recognized but not quite. His voice was even and pleasant, even humming. He caught me watching him but didn’t stop his tune, just grinned a little.

I was struck by how easy this was, how comfortable it was. There was no onion to peel here; Clark was an open book. Easy to read, easy to predict, he’d tell me anything I asked him. No holding back, no games, no bullshit.

But also maybe no chase? No working for it, no running after, no stomach pangs, no hit of adrenaline when the little things go my way. Like when Hank threw me that apple, I got a thrill from that, right?

You also got a thrill when Clark was draped across you, breathing on your thighs
 . . .

Well, I’m only human. And a human who is living in her own romance novel, remember? The house, the ocean, the cowboy? There’s your passion. Adventure. Purpose. Intrigue. Wonder.

“Paint?”

“What’s that?” I asked, brought out of my daydream.

“I was saying that if you wanted, I could help you paint the kitchen. When you’re ready, of course.”

The librarian finished drying the dish, still humming his merry tune.

And I thought long and hard about paint. I was still thinking about it after he went home.