Charlie nodded. “Sometimes things come together like that. I was sharing a house with my best friend up north when he decided to get married and move out. At the same time, the company I was working for changed hands, and they cut a lot of employees—including me. Right around that time, Grampy had his heart attack, and the family decided he needed someone to live with him for the time being. Since I was at loose ends, I was the obvious choice.”
“I bet your grandfather’s thrilled that you’re here.” I remembered how pleased my own grandparents had been whenever Shelby and I had come to visit. Now that they were all gone, I was glad for every weekend I’d given up to spend time with them.
“He is, most of the time.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “Sometimes he gets crotchety and grouses about how he doesn’t need a caretaker. But I’ve overheard him bragging to his friends about how his grandson moved in with him. I think he’s secretly pleased.”
I nodded, and then there was a long silence, as it seemed neither of us knew where to go next. When we did speak, it was at the same time.
“Vivian—”
“What kind of—”
We both stopped, stared at each other and began to laugh. Charlie held out his hand. “Ladies first.”
“Oh, I was just going to ask what kind of work you did in Philadelphia. And did you get a job down here, or are you mostly busy taking care of your grandfather?”
“Nah, Grampy doesn’t need me that much. He’s very independent still, but he really shouldn’t be driving anymore. My biggest challenge is keeping him off the road.” He shrugged. “Up north, I worked for an agricultural research company, developing sustainable methods for food production. But my plan has always been to own a nursery and landscaping company, specializing in native vegetation and teaching sustainability in both food and plants. Florida seemed like the perfect place to make that happen, so I’m in the middle of finding a good site and putting the business plan together. For now, I’m working part-time for a landscaping company around the corner.”
“I love that idea.” I checked out Buster’s demeanor. He seemed to have calmed down, so I risked setting him down again. He heaved a doggie sigh and flopped onto the sidewalk. Angel bent down, nosing his stomach, and I tensed, waiting for him to flip out again, but to my astonishment, the smaller dog merely rolled over onto his back.
“Looks like they’re ready to be friends.” Charlie knelt again, running his hand over Buster’s belly. “Hey, fella. You’re not so tough now, are you?”
“I think it’s his name.” I crouched, too, watching the dogs’ interchange. “When Aunt Gail rescued him, Shelby and I wanted her to call him something cute, like Fluffy or Snuggles. But she said that since he was a smaller dog, he needed a tough name.”
“Yeah, maybe he’s got some kind of Napoleon complex,” Charlie mused. “You know, because he’s tiny, he’s got to be mighty. But you might be onto something with the name.” He dropped down to sit on the grass, resting his hand, still holding the leash, between his knees. “That’s actually what I was going to say a few minutes ago. Your name is pretty unusual. I’d have never pegged you as a Vivian.”
I made a face, wrinkling my nose. “Yeah, I know. I can thank my parents and their love for eighties movies—and particularly those starring Julia Roberts—for that fun part of my life.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “They named you after Vivian from Pretty Woman? The hooker?”
“The hooker with a heart of gold,” I confirmed. “They told me that she was a strong woman, and that’s what they wanted for me. Not the hooker part,” I added. “Just the heart of gold and the strength. My sister is Shelby, after Julia’s role in Steel Magnolias.”
“Doesn’t she die?” Charlie looked like he was trying to stop himself from laughing. “Your parents sound like fascinating people.”
“If you were tempted to say nut jobs, feel free,” I retorted. “You met my mom the other day. My dad’s just like her. He’s a professor of history over at the college, and the two of them just took off this week on a year-long RV adventure to visit as many Civil War battlefields as they can. Some of their stops are being filmed because my dad won a grant, so you can catch them on YouTube.”
“They sound like my mother and father. Only with my folks, it’s not Civil War battlefields. It’s . . .” He glanced around, as if he was afraid he might be overheard. “Square dancing.”
“Square dancing?” I chortled. “Did you really say square dancing? Oh, wow. Yeah, I think maybe you win.”
“I know.” He buried his face in his hands in mock humiliation. “They spend their vacations traveling around to hoe-downs. I kid you not, it’s a real thing. When my sisters and I were little, they made us do it, too.”
“Oh, tell me there’s a picture of you in one of those outfits.” I fell back onto the sidewalk, my ass hitting the cement hard. “Please, tell me it exists.”
“If it does, I’m not telling you.” He nudged my knee with his foot. “Here I share my deepest, darkest secret with you—and I didn’t laugh at your Civil War-loving parents.”
“Okay, okay. That’s true,” I acknowledged. “But you know . . . you said you have sisters, right? I bet they still have photos of you all dressed up to do-si-do.”
“You’re kind of evil, you know?” He grinned, and my breath caught. Damn, he was really cute. With the late-afternoon sun still shining on us through the gathering clouds, I could see a layer of scruff covering his cheeks and jaw. While I didn’t always like the unshaven look, on Charlie, it added a whole new dimension to his overall hotness. I swallowed hard and brought my attention back to the conversation.
“Um, evil. Yeah, maybe.” I leaned back on my hands, letting the grass tickle between my fingers. “But I try to use my powers for good most of the time.”
“And just what kind of power do you have, Miss Vivian . . . um, I don’t know your last name.”
“Rexland. As for power, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I have to retain some mystery, you know.”
“I see.” He nodded, his eyes still resting on my face. “You said you had a residency out of state. What was that for?”
“Oh.” I bit the corner of my lip. “I won an Amerails writers’ residency this past spring, so I spent three months riding on a train. I started in New York City, and I went across to California and then down to the southwest.”
“That sounds incredible.” Charlie’s voice was filled with admiration. “You wrote about your experience?”
“I did. It went up in a series of posts on a blog run by Amerails. I was supposed to have a longer, more in-depth piece in the newspaper I worked for, but by the time I got back to Florida, the paper had been sold, and the new editor was no longer interested in that particular article. Or in me, for that matter.”
“Sounds like we have something in common. I lost my job because the new owners weren’t interested in sustainability as much as they were in the profit margin.”
I held up my hand, palm toward him for a high five. “Look at that. We’re both obsolete.”
Charlie pressed his hand to mine, not so much in a smack as in a . . . touch. Shivers went up my spine—the good variety of shivers, that is. I wanted him to close his fingers around mine, and for a minute, I thought he might. But in the end, he lowered his hand without making a move.
“Maybe we’re not obsolete. Maybe we’re so forward thinking that regular people just can’t keep up with us.” He winked at me. “At least that’s what I tell myself. Helps me sleep at night.”
“I’ll have to give it a try. Right now, I’m working part-time at a dog grooming salon and writing a freelance piece, hoping the new editor at my old paper might take it. It’s hard to stay positive when I feel as though I’m barely holding on.” I hadn’t talked to anyone about how much I was struggling, and I wasn’t sure why I felt moved to share it with Charlie just now. Maybe it was because he seemed so sympathetic, or perhaps it was because he was in the same boat.
“You’ll be okay.” He reached across and touched my leg. “You’re a writer, and you’re gathering experiences. This is all part of the process.”
“I hope so. I just—”
A clap of thunder so loud and close that it shook the ground made me yelp. Buster jumped into my lap, his little body shaking in terror. His fear of storms was legendary; when one was coming on, he had to be held tight, and he trembled non-stop until the last of the rain and thunder vanished. Life for him in central Florida this time of year was hell, since we were hit with afternoon storms just about every single day.
“Buster, it’s okay, baby.” I wrapped my arms around him and pressed him into me. “It’s just a little thunder. That doesn’t necessarily mean there’s going to be a—”
That was when the rain began. Now, if you’ve never been in the middle of a Florida storm, there are a few things you should understand. One is that there are several different types of Florida rain. Some storms begin with a gentle, lulling pitter-patter, the type of rain I don’t mind running through if I’m in the car heading into the mall or a friend’s house. It might make my hair curl up, but it’s not soaking—just dampening.
Then there’s the more insistent rain, steady and generally not just a passing shower. A storm that begins with this kind of precipitation will probably go on for a while, maybe all day or even all night. I don’t like being outside in that sort of rain, because the puddles get deep and unless I’m just dashing from one door to another, it’s easy to get wet fast.
But what began falling that afternoon, as I sat with Charlie and the dogs on his grandfather’s front lawn, was the third type of Florida rain. The drops were humongous, dinner-plate sized portions of water, where just one or two soaked me. And it was coming down hard and fast. This wasn’t the kind of rain that gave me sweet little curls all around my face; no, within seconds, my hair was saturated and plastered to my head, and the Mr. Edguardo’s Perfect Pooches T-shirt I still had on—which was white, by the way—was also completely soaked. I was afraid to glance down to see exactly how see-through it was now.
“Shit!” Charlie yelled to be heard over the cacophony of the mega-drops, but he was grinning big—and he wasn’t looking at my probably-sheer shirt. “Bring the dog and come on!”
He held out his hand, and after a split-second of consideration, I grabbed it, secured Buster with my other arm and ran with Charlie into the house, pausing just inside the door to stand on the small rug there. Being a Florida girl, I knew from experience what happened when I hit the tile with wet shoes.
“Hold on a second. I’ll get us some towels.” Charlie dropped Angel’s leash and opened a door next to us, which led to the laundry room. I could see neatly-organized shelves of sheets and blankets before Charlie returned carrying a bunch of brightly-colored towels.
“Here you go.” He handed one to me and then, opening another, took Buster from my arms. “Let’s get you dried off, too, little guy. Awww, he’s shivering.”
“He’s shaking because of the storm, not because he’s cold,” I corrected. “Buster’s a total scaredy cat.”
“Some dogs are like that. Angel doesn’t mind the thunder, but she hates sirens. I don’t know if the sound hurts her ears, or if she’s really undercover as a fugitive from the law, but when she hears sirens, she runs to hide under the table and howls her fool head off.”
Angel chose that moment to shake, throwing droplets of water over both of us. We laughed as Charlie bent to unhook her leash and towel off her fur.
“I think drying her now might be like closing the barn door after the horse has run wild.” I patted the larger dog’s head. “But thanks for the towels. If you don’t mind me cutting through your house, Buster and I can just dash across the yard and go in through our back door.”
“Sure, that’s fine. But it’s still coming down pretty hard out there. If you’re not in a hurry, how about coming in and waiting it out a little bit? I can offer you a soda or a bottle of water . . . oh, and Grampy always has coffee ready. He’s addicted.”
I rubbed my arm, where goosebumps had begun to rise, thanks to the air conditioning hitting my wet skin. “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting anything, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee. Something hot, anyway.”
Charlie’s gaze wandered down my body, and the tip of his tongue darted out to run over his upper lip. “Uh, you might want to . . . maybe put the towel around you.” One side of his mouth tipped upwards. “Not that I mind, but if Grampy’s at the kitchen table, you might feel more comfortable if he can’t see through your shirt.”
My cheeks heated, and with no little dread, I glanced down, where not only my shirt but also the white bra beneath it were totally transparent. My nipples were shriveled to tight points. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t even—” I bent to put down Buster and clutch the towel around me, wrapping it under my arms and tucking in the edge tightly, so that it would stay up. “I promise, I don’t go around in peek-a-boo shirts.”
“Hey, like I said, I’m not complaining.” Charlie coughed a little. “But I’d hate for you to be embarrassed with my grandfather.”
“Do I look decent now?” I tilted my head. “Nothing else too revealing?”
“Unfortunately, yeah, now you’re decent. But I think I should get credit for the fact that I didn’t keep you here talking longer, so that I could continue to enjoy the show.” He turned a little away from me, gesturing with his head. “This way to the kitchen and the coffee.”
I followed, but not before I took note that he tried to discreetly adjust the front of his pants as he walked. It was gratifying to know that I had that kind of effect on him, especially since there was no doubt that he made my lady parts sit up and take notice, too.
The house was not unlike Aunt Gail’s, with an open concept kitchen, living room and dining area. But where Aunt Gail’s had been updated recently, this one was like a throwback to the mid-seventies—or at least, that was my guess. The cabinets were a bright yellow, and the Formica counter was lime green. It was pretty in a retro way.
There was a long butcher block table in the eat-in section, and an older man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Charlie sat there, a large book in front of him and glasses perched on his nose. He frowned as we wandered in.
“Got caught in the storm, did you? Told you that was going to happen. You need to walk her earlier in the day this time of year.” He paused, looking me over. “So who’s this?”
Charlie patted his grandfather’s shoulder. “Grampy, this is Vivian, our neighbor from around the corner. She lives with Gail.”
“Gail? You mean Ms. Livingstone?” The older man scowled. “Is this the pretty girl you met the day you hauled that turtle from the middle of the road?”
This time when my face grew warm, it was with pleasure, not embarrassment. So Charlie had told his grandfather about that day, and he’d called me pretty? I wasn’t such a naïve young thing that hearing this tidbit made me giddy, but it was always a boost to know someone had paid me a compliment.
“Grampy . . .” Charlie rolled his eyes and flickered a glance at me. “Grandparents. They never have memory lapses when you wish they would.”
“Respect your elders, boy. You’re not so big and mighty that I can’t put you over my knee still.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie put on a poker face. “And yes, Grampy, this is the same Vivian with the turtle. She’s our neighbor, and she got caught in the rain, too. I invited her inside to dry off, with the hopes that you might share some of your coffee with her.”
Grampy smiled, and suddenly his resemblance to his grandson was even more pronounced. “Of course. Happy to do it. Have a seat, young lady. Don’t pay attention to Charlie and me. That’s just how we mess with each other.” When I pulled out a chair and sat down, he leaned closer to me, whispering, “You know, he’s a real catch. Hard worker, responsible, and he doesn’t complain about anyone’s cooking. You could do worse.”
I bit the inside
of my lip to keep from laughing. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mitford. It is Mr. Mitford, isn’t it? You’re Charlie’s dad’s dad?”
He nodded. “Guilty on both counts, but please, call me Henry. Or Grampy. I may be ancient, but I still expect to see my own father behind me when someone calls me ‘Mr. Mitford’.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smiled as Charlie handed me a mug of coffee.
“Do you want cream or honey? Grampy doesn’t keep sugar or any kind of substitute in the house, so if you don’t like honey, you’re sore out of luck.”
“That artificial shit will rot your bones, your teeth and your insides,” Grampy informed me. “And even natural sugar is only all right in the smallest doses. I’m a strong believer in all natural products. I grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania, and we only used fresh ingredients. All of my brothers and sisters are still alive and well. No cancer in our family.”
“But apparently even healthy living doesn’t guarantee freedom from heart disease, which is why our current argument is over medication and people who won’t take what the doctor prescribes.”
I took the jar of honey Charlie had slid across the table and spooned some into my mug. “Oh, Mr.—um, Henry, you really should take your heart medicine.”
“I’m researching my own form of medicine.” He patted my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen how some of those medications affect people, especially those who are my age. These quacks shovel prescriptions down our throats until we’re zombies.”
“Grampy, I never want you to be a zombie. I just want you to stick around long enough that my kids can torment you the way I did.” Charlie opened the avocado green refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewing the lid and taking a long drink.
Fifty Frogs (The Anti-Cinderella Chronicles Book 4) Page 9
