Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (7 page)

“Yep, there are some fantastic trails in there. Also around Big River. I’ll draw you a map,” she said, gesturing for the stack of napkins and a pen.

“Awesome, thanks,” I said, getting up and stretching. I avoided looking directly at the dolls.

“So what’s your story?”

“My story?” I asked, looking back at her. Though I might have been looking out the back window for a certain someone. Who was supposed to be coming back to ride Paula. Lucky horse.

“Yeah, your story. Everybody has a story.” She broke off a piece of crust and pointed it at me. “C’mon, you’re stalling.”

“I literally just got here two days ago. There’s plenty of time for my
alleged
story,” I protested. What I got in return was a very exaggerated display of her getting comfortable.

“Okay, okay, my story. Well, let’s see . . . I was born a poor—”

“I’m going to go position these dolls all around your bed.”

“I’m from Philadelphia, Maude Perkins was my great-aunt who I hadn’t seen since I was twelve years old, I’m a computer software designer, and I like pizza. And beer. Especially together.”

“Married?”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“Gay?”

“Not the last time I checked.”

“Leave anyone behind?”

“Like in a fallen soldier kind of way?”

“Like in a dating someone kind of way.”

“Not the last time I checked.”

“Fabulous, I know this great guy that—”

“No, no, and no. I don’t even know if I’m staying here and—”

“Oh, you’re totally staying here.”

“Why is everyone so sure about that?” I asked, my head swimming from the rapid fire.

“Call it a hunch.” She laughed, then pointed out the window. “Besides, who could ever leave a view like that?”

“Indeed.” Pretty sure she meant the ocean, but all I could see was Hank heading into the barn.

“So, where should we put the jeans?”

“In a puddle on the floor of the barn sounds good to me,” I breathed, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window. He’d mounted Paula.

“Viv?” I heard behind me.

“Huh? What?” I turned to see her with an armful of jeans, just one of the many stacks of oddities that lived in the dining room. “Oh hey, you don’t have to do that. Seriously, that’s very sweet of you but—”

“Eh, it’ll give me a chance to snoop around.”

Who was I to say no to free help? Especially when I genuinely liked the helper. Nosy? Shit yes, but I was used to being around a large family, always nosy people around. And when there was a project this big? There would have always been people there to help out. So I accepted her offer, loaded her up with jeans and a large garbage bag, and let her snoop.

Within an hour, we’d uncovered a whole load of interesting. In a closet upstairs we found a cedar chest full of hatboxes, hats included, some with the tags still on. As we tackled the second bedroom upstairs, we found an entire set of Haviland china underneath ten more bags of tube socks. And in a shoebox at the back of the linen closet we found . . . well. Some rather interesting reading material of the scantily clad variety, circa 1940s. I was looking at exactly this when I heard the faint telltale sounds of clip-clopping coming from out back.

I hurried down the backstairs in the most nonchalant way possible, past where Jessica was perched on the bed sorting through another cache of dolls. She’d asked about my story, but I wanted to know
his
. What made Hank tick? I wanted to peel that onion, and in a very specific way.

Checking my reflection in the mirror, I imagined the way a great heroine might go out to greet her returning lover on a mighty steed. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I moseyed out back toward where he was brushing down the horse after the long ride.

He didn’t look up.

“I brought you a beer; thought you might be . . . hot.”

He still didn’t look up, his movements soothing and methodical as he ran the brush thingie all along her pretty white coat. At one point he stood and walked around to the other side, making eye contact only once. I raised the beer but he shook his head, returning to the horse. “So, Hank. Can I call you Hank?”

“What else would you call me?” came his muffled reply from the other side of Paula. Who turned her head toward me and showed me her teeth.

“Right, what else indeed. So, Hank, do you live nearby?”

“Yep.”

“In town?”

“Not far.”

“I see. Have you worked here long?”

“Miss Perkins hired me a few years back, let me come and go as I please,” he said, now straightening to his full height. Even with the horse between us, I could feel the heat of his eyes, now assessing me and my totally obvious interest. “I liked that. I like it best when I can just come. And go.”

Oh.
Oh
my. Thrilled to have finally gotten a reaction out of him, I tried to contain my excitement. I tipped the beer bottle back to take a sip, sneezed suddenly, and poured it on the side of my face instead. Aw yeah.

For the record, this kind of thing
never
happens to me; I’m usually very good at the flirting. But this man made me come unglued. And speaking of glue, I’m pretty sure that fucking horse was laughing at me.

As I turned to clean off, I saw Jessica standing on the back porch with a barely contained smile. Rolling my eyes and turning back toward Hank, I saw that he wasn’t bothering to contain his own smile. I’d never seen him smile before. It was luminous, radiant, exciting, and stunning. So stunning in fact that I almost didn’t notice that he was actually laughing at me. Well, to be fair, I’d laugh at me too.

In fact, I did start to see the humor in this situation. I had the Fabio of cowboys in front of me, with no shirt on per usual, and I’d just poured a beer in my ear because I was so darn twitterpated.

And speaking of shirt, what the hell did this guy have against shirts? Not that I was complaining. I mean, come on. Pecs. Abs. And the like. But seriously, what was up with that? Just another layer of that onion I’m going to peel. With my teeth.

I tried to salvage what remained of the conversation. He’d finally been sharing details about his life with me. He lived “not far,” and he—oh right. Coming and going. Sexy, sexy man.

“So, you were saying. You like to come and—”

“Go. Yep. I’m outta here,” he said.

He walked by me, and right on cue . . .

“Achooo!” I held tight to the beer bottles, closing my eyes at the terrific sneeze. And another. And a frickin’
nother
. It was a sneeze parade. I had literally sneezed more in the last two days than I probably had in the last two years. I heard the sound of his manly truck retreating in the distance, and I kept my eyes closed in embarrassment until I was sure it was gone. I heard gravel crunching, and then I heard someone approach. Jessica.

“This would be a good time to practice
not
being so nosy,” I started, opening my eyes ready to see her knowing look. What I saw was— “Clark!”

I stepped back, surprised and annoyed that he’d arrived during all of this and I didn’t even notice. It was the Hank goggles. “You scared me to death!” I protested, turning quickly and heading back to the porch. I set down my beer, wiping at my nose. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I’m sorry. I did knock, several times in fact, but then I heard voices so I just came around. Hello, Jessica,” he replied, following me up the steps.

“Hey, Clark.” She smiled.

Today he was in a blue shirt, button-down of course, plaid tie, paired with his tweed jacket. Chinos, brown. Glasses, dusty. Hair parted on the side, swooped down in an almost old-fashioned manner. He looked at me expectantly.

“So, what can I do you for, Clark?” I asked, lifting up my T-shirt a bit to wring out the spilled beer.

His eyes dipped, his gaze drawn to my exposed belly. The two rings in my navel seemed to fascinate him. And make him nervous. “Beer?” I asked, knotting my T-shirt in the back, keeping my tummy exposed. He cleared his throat, then refocused his attention.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, Vivian.”

“I realize that,” I replied, draining the rest of the bottle. “And it’s Viv.”

“I came by today to show you something that I came across in the archives. Thought you might like to see this house as it was when it was originally built.” He gestured to the brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm.

“Sure, let’s see it. Come on in the house. Jessica, you coming?” I asked, herding Clark toward the door.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said, a mischievous and gleeful look in her eye.

U
nfortunately, what started out as a simple look at a picture turned into a war of words. The word being . . . balustrade. Or as I liked to call it, that row of spindly things.

“You don’t understand, you can’t just go changing things willy-nilly! Not in a house of this stature, with this much significant history!”

“Let me tell you exactly what you can do with your stature—and did you really just say willy-nilly?”

We were standing on either side of the dining room table with the picture in front of us, Jessica and the creepy dolls bearing witness to the most ridiculous fight ever.

“It is
willy
-nilly
when you talk about getting rid of things like a balustrade from this era. Do you have any idea how much craftsmanship went into this entire staircase? The balustrade alone is worth—”

“What the hell is a balus— Whatever you called it?”

“A balustrade, Vivian, is the row of individually carved spindles and the bannister they’re connected to. Which you want to casually throw out like a load of kindling—”

“I did not say I wanted to throw it out; just that it needed some work so that I don’t go tumbling down ass first some night when I’m throwing out buckets of rainwater pouring through the sieve masquerading as a roof! All I suggested was that perhaps replacing the old pieces with something newer might make things a bit more safe and—”

“You
can’t
replace a balustrade like that! They literally don’t make them like they used to. You think you can just waltz into a Home Depot and pick up a balustrade that—”

“If you say balustrade one more time, I will slap you right in your very own balustrade!”

“That doesn’t even make sense! Vivian, what can I say to make you understand how important these things are?”

“You can start by calling me Viv, dammit. My name is Viv!” I shrieked, slamming my fist down on the table and making the dolls bounce.

“Can I just interject something here?” Jessica asked.

I leaned over the table across from Clark, seething mad. And for a man in a tweed jacket, he could get worked up. He was breathing hard, his top button had come undone, and his tie was askew.

I was breathing hard myself. Fucking baluhoozie.

“How about we just dial it down a bit?” she asked.

“I don’t need to dial anything down. He’s the one who came into my house, trying to tell me what I can and can’t do with it—”

“It’s your house, but it’s on
my
register, Vivian. And I have a responsibility to this town to uphold the—”

“Oh, uphold this!” I snapped, my flipped bird ending the conversation with real dignity.

Silence. Except for all the heavy breathing.

“Impossible woman
,
” he muttered, straightening his tie and picking up the picture that had brought him here in the first place.

“
Impossible woman
,” I mimicked in a tone I hadn’t used since third grade. I accompanied it with a face I also hadn’t made since the third grade. Honestly.

Clark started gathering his things together, stacking them neatly and replacing them into his briefcase. “I can see that reason won’t work here. Since you’re new in town I wanted to be as neighborly as I could, but now? Here’s what’s going to happen.”

He pointed his finger at me. “You can’t change a thing in this house without going through me. Go ahead and check with Mr. Montgomery, he’ll tell you the same thing. Not
one
thing, Vivian.”

And with that, he left.

I slammed the door with a frustrated growl. Jessica started to say something but I held up my finger, scrambling for my phone in my pocket and dialing angrily. I really missed punching actual buttons sometimes, especially when I was this pissed off. It was hard to get rid of tension when you had to dial so delicately.

“You calling Mr. Montgomery?”

“Nope, I’m calling Simon.”

“And Simon is . . . ?”

“An old friend.” He answered his phone. “Hey, Simon. Your girlfriend’s a decorator, right?”

“Shit, don’t
ever
call her that. She’s an interior designer. Why? What’s up?”

“I need some professional advice. You guys want to take a road trip up the coast?”

I hung up a few minutes later, my grin wide and toothy. I had backup rolling in this weekend.

chapter five

“So let me get this straight. You inherited this house, and it’s on the historical register in Mendocino County, correct?” Caroline asked.

“Correct.”

“Not surprising. Most of the town is on the historical register.”

“So I’ve been told,” I seethed through gritted teeth. I was on the phone later that night with Simon’s girlfriend, Caroline, whom I’d met at the high school reunion I’d attended last December. She seemed cool, and Simon was totally over the moon for her, something I never thought I’d see. “So is he right? I can’t make changes to it?”

“Can’t say yes or no at this point; let me do a little research. Typically, if a house is on the historical register but hasn’t received any kind of federal funding, then the owner is free and clear. But don’t quote me on that. Do you know if your aunt ever received any kind of grants or anything?”

“I have no idea. I can try to find out, though. I’m meeting with her attorney tomorrow.”

“Okay, sit tight and I’ll do a little digging on my end. Who’s the guy that’s causing so much trouble?”

“The librarian. Who knew?”

“Sounds interesting. The whole thing sounds interesting, actually. I love that area! Those old homes are fantastic; I can’t wait to see it,” she gushed.

“I’ll be glad to see you too,” I replied dryly, and she caught herself.

“I mean, we’re coming to see you, of course,” she said. “But the house, holy shit! You said it had four bedrooms, is that right?” she asked, and I could hear Simon telling her to wrap it up. I laughed, and let her gush another moment before she said good night, handing the phone back to Simon.

Apparently one of Caroline’s best friends had a vacation home in the area, so another couple was traveling up with them. Frankly I didn’t care who the hell showed up, as long as someone could get Clark off my back.

“Viv? You still there?” I heard Simon ask.

“Yep, sorry. So, Friday afternoon?”

“Yeah, we’ll try to get out of the city as early as we can, but with traffic it’ll probably be late afternoon before I get up there. You want us to come straight to the house or—”

“Sure, just come on over and then we can head into town for dinner. The place is still a mess, not exactly ready for a house party.”

“No problem, I’ll call you when we’re on the way. And, Viv?”

“Yeah?”

“It’ll be good to see you. I’m glad you called us.”

“Christ, Simon, are you an ‘us’ now?” I teased, hearing him sigh into the phone.

“Nice. I’m coming to help and you’re busting my balls?” he asked, and I heard Caroline in the background chime in with, “No busting the balls, they’re great balls!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, good night!” I said, hanging up.

Simon had gone through hell when we were in high school, losing both his parents in a car accident only a few months before graduation. As a result, he’d left Philadelphia and never looked back. I was glad he had someone as great as Caroline seemed to be, especially after bouncing around from woman to woman for years. She seemed to keep him on his toes.

And speaking of toes, I was ready to get off mine and have some dinner. Awhile after Jessica had left, I’d headed into town to grab some things from the grocery store. I’d shopped in a frenzy, still worked up after the Battle of the Balustrade. As a result I came home with things like three jars of peanut butter, but no jelly. But I did have salad fixings, so I used those to compose my dinner. I ate on the back porch, watching the waves roll in. They calmed me down: the tension that had been in my body since this afternoon all began to leak out as I relaxed while I ate. I could see the chickens still pecking about in the yard, not yet ready to head into their coop for bed. I knew literally nothing about chickens. Except that I liked to eat them. And eggs. Hey, did I have access to fresh eggs now?

I was going to have a chat with Hank the next time I saw him about what exactly he did and what exactly he was being paid to do. Wait, was
I
paying him? I added it to my mental list of things to talk to Mr. Montgomery about. I’d called him after getting off the phone with Simon earlier, and he’d agreed to meet me in town tomorrow to go over a few more things.

In no particular hurry after dinner to head inside, I wandered around a bit in the backyard. Staying away from the barn, in case Hank was right and I was in fact spooking the animals, I poked around in the old kitchen garden. I had very clear memories of when I’d visited before and seen row after row of raised beds, just off the side of the house beyond the kitchen. Aunt Maude was big into home remedies, the more natural the better. She always had beds filled with lavender, comfrey, calendula, echinacea. If you could find it at a health food store, you could also find it in her backyard. Of course all your better herbs were represented: You had your parsley, your sage, your rosemary, and several varieties of thyme, the lemon scented being my favorite. And the most gorgeous and well-tended vegetable garden I’ve ever seen. Before growing heirlooms was something everyone was talking about, she had her seeds she’d saved year after year. Carrots, tomatoes, poles of bean runners that I swear grew fast enough you could see them move, and blackberry bushes thick with purply fruit.

Now? It was a mess of weeds. The occasional volunteer carrot poked through here and there, but mostly it was an overgrown mess. That was something I was going to have to remedy. Might not be able to get it done right away, but it would be nice to have some growing going on back there again. I gazed out over the pasture on the other side of the barn, thinking back to how much land used to belong to this plot. Sold off in parcels over the years, it was still a nice spread, and the pasture still stretched over the hill. But so much less than it used to be. I sighed as I shuffled through the dusty soil, turning back toward the house. Lots of work to do. But no more tonight.

I spent the rest of the evening sprawled out in front of the old television, watching the one channel I could get with the rabbit ears. Honest-to-god rabbit ears. The TV was one of those old box ones, with the wood veneer surround and actual legs. The rabbit ears were made out of a wire hanger wrapped in aluminum. I was too tired to care, and I dozed in front of it watching Lawrence Welk on PBS. I began to doze off before he could get through the
a-one-and-a-two
.

Sometime after midnight, I headed up to my bedroom, automatically dodging the stacks and piles that littered the floor. Falling into the soft bed, I wrapped myself in the cozy blankets and fell asleep once more to the sound of waves crashing.

T
he next morning I slept in until 5:30 a.m.! Considering that was eight thirty back home, I pronounced it a triumph. I was planning on staying in this morning, having some cereal and getting a jump on the day, but then I remembered how antiquated the coffeepot was. Technically, it might even be a percolator. Technically, I wasn’t messing with it. I put “coffeepot” on my list of things to buy, and got dressed to head into town.

Deciding to walk again this morning, I said hello to the Bel Air in the garage. I needed to find the key to that beauty. There were several junk drawers in the kitchen that it could be in, to say nothing of the thousand other crazy places it could be in that house.

As I walked down the drive, I heard a dog barking nearby. I was suddenly struck with the realization that if I stayed here, I could get a dog! Not that I couldn’t back home, but I never liked the idea of keeping a big dog confined to an apartment. And big dog I would have, no tiny yippy yappy for me. And with this house and pasture? A dog would be perfect. I’d put a pin in it for now and think about it later, but it was definitely a plus in the Stay in Mendocino column. Which was growing ever larger the longer I was here.

Heading down the road into town, within minutes I was on my stool at the end of the counter, and ten minutes after that I had a plateful of breakfast and an earful of observations from Jessica.

“I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing! I have never seen him so worked up!”

“Don’t blow a gasket, he wasn’t all that worked up,” I replied, poking my sunny-side-up egg with a piece of bacon, making the yolk run all over.

“Listen, I’ve known Clark Barrow since we were in grade school. He never gets worked up. He is always Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected. The only time he was remotely this excitable was when they announced they were making the
Lord of the Rings
movie.”

“I think you’re making too big a deal of this. Tabasco?” I asked, forking up a mouthful of hash browns. “You’ve known him that long?”

“Girl, I’ve known everyone that long.” She handed me the hot sauce. “Clark was two years younger than me, but yeah, I’ve known him a long time.”

“Thanks,” I said, sprinkling the hot sauce liberally over my plate. “And he’s always been this uptight?”

“You know, it’s not that he’s uptight. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about him. He’s just . . .”

“Rigid? Unrelenting? Stick up his ass?”

“Studious. Methodical. Organized,” she said with a pointed glance.

“Okay, okay, if you say so. But from what I’ve seen—”

“From what
I’ve
seen,
you
can’t keep your brain from scrambling around Hank. What’s that about?” she asked before I knew what was happening. I crammed a forkful of hash browns into my mouth and made a show of chewing. She laughed out loud, pouring me and everyone else at the counter a hotter upper. Any time she made a move toward my end, I shoveled in another mouthful.

This thing with Hank had turned me inside out. I’d never acted like this in front of a guy before. But I was now living out my own romance novel, right? I mean, that’s what this had all been about. The mysterious phone call in the middle of the night, the move across the country, the cowboy riding a horse on the beach without a shirt on? Who has a tough exterior, but inside, down deep, deeeeeep, there resides a heart of gold? Right?

Was he the one? The man who would finally say those words I’d never before heard? Had I finally met my I Love You Man? My instincts were telling me yes, in fact I had.

Patience, Viv. Peel that onion. Reveal the layers. Anyone with a chest like that is worth waiting for. Worth sneezing for.

When the plate was metaphorically licked clean, I waved her over. She came quickly, eager to dish.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me all about Hank.”

“Hmm, let’s see. I’ve known him about as long as Clark, he’s actually a year older than I am. Played football with John; they used to pal around back in the day. Hank is . . . hmmm . . .”

Handsome we knew. Incredible to look at was a given. Here came the real insight into the enigma that was Hank. Sweet? Kind? Passionate? Hung?

Get a grip, Viv.

“Simple,” she said, setting down my check.

“That’s it? Simple?”

“Mm-hmm. That’s all I’ll say for now,” she replied mysteriously, and walked away.

“Simple?” I yelled after her, causing everyone to turn and stare at me. I stared them all down. “Morning Mr. Martin.” I laid my bills on the counter and sauntered out the front door.

B
ack at the house I spent some more time in the second bedroom, steadily making my way down the hallway. I was leaving Aunt Maude’s room for last; I couldn’t even imagine taking that on yet. And besides, the Legless Knight seemed to have things pretty well under control in there. I kept the laundry moving, washing sheets for the bed even though I was pretty sure I’d picked my bedroom. As I cleaned and organized, divided piles, and sorted through years of accumulations, it felt better to be able to walk by two bedrooms that looked livable.

Clean white cotton sheets now covered the bed in the second bedroom. I’d washed them twice and added extra softener so they didn’t have that folded-in-the-linen-closet-for-years look to them. I’d lucked out in a hall closet and found stacks of lovely old quilts, folded neatly and encased in Aunt Maude’s favorite storage container, Hefty bags. They’d done their job, though; the quilts were in great shape. Now the old iron bed was dressed with a simple but very pretty nine-block piece in lemony yellows and dusty pinks. Not my taste, but chrome and black leather would be out of place here. In this house, quilts just felt right. And if I was being honest with myself, I liked the look more than I thought I would. I scrubbed the wood floors not only in the second bedroom, but down the hall as well. Slowly but surely, clean spots were starting to take over. I’d nearly used up my meager cleaning supplies, though, which meant another run into town.

I consolidated Post-its and to-do lists from all over the house and made one big master list. I needed to hit the grocery store once more, lay in supplies for the weekend. Simon and his gang weren’t staying here, but I still wanted to have some snacks and drinks on hand.

I made a cursory pass through the kitchen drawers, looking for the key to the Bel Air, but found nothing. No matter, I’d add that to the list of questions I would be asking Mr. Montgomery. I was meeting him after my shopping trip.

I drove into town, thankful I had a rental car but still not entirely sure how long I’d actually need it. If I was going to live here, I’d have to either bring my car out from Philadelphia or sell it and buy something here.

Or you could drive the Blue Bomber 2.0.

In an instant, I saw that car driving up the coast, top down like it should always be, whitewalls shining. The woman behind the wheel had dark curly hair, not unlike mine perhaps, tied back by a cheery aquamarine scarf. There was a song playing on the radio, something beboppy and doo-woppy, something designed to make your fingers tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel and sing along, even if you don’t know the words. The woman pulled the car over to admire the view. To the left of the car, the Pacific. To the right of the woman? A man.

A man also designed to make you tap out a rhythm, on his back. His strong and magnificent back, skin of the most golden velvet, sheened with sweat earned not from a hard day’s work, although he was certainly no stranger to that. No, this sweat was of the sweet kind, brought forth from each pore as a testament to this man’s pure and unadulterated sexual prowess. His pulsating pillar of passion tall and proud, like a flagpole on the Fourth of July. But the fireworks hadn’t begun yet. Not even close . . .