Screwdrivered

by Alice Clayton

  “Peanut, do you have any idea what land like that, especially right on the beach, is worth? Why in the world are you not selling it?” my father asked, after all the details of the will had been explained and analyzed.

  I rolled my eyes. He’d been calling me Peanut since I’d been the size of an actual peanut. But if by twenty-nine the nickname hadn’t gone away, I would be a peanut now and for always.

  “Maybe I will sell it eventually. But for now? I just want to get out there, see what’s what. Then I’ll decide.” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just stay out there.”

  I went from Peanut to young lady in 2.2 seconds.

  “Young lady, would you care to explain to me exactly how you intend to run your business from California?”

  “Dad, I’m hardly pulling up stakes and moving to California. Although technically I can do my job from anywhere, that’s beside the point.” I tamped down the internal thrill I got from just saying those words out loud. I could work from anywhere in the world, one of the perks of owning an online business. But I needed to focus on the Right Now. This was a fact-finding mission, not an adventure.

  It’s totally an adventure! Internal Carefree Happypants Viv was dancing a jig of excitement. But External Serious Viv had to keep it together, especially in front of her father. So even though I couldn’t keep my mouth from turning up at the corners, I tried to convince my father that this was not like when I ran off to Europe.

  “So you’re coming back soon, then?” he asked pointedly.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” I interrupted as he continued to sputter. No one ever interrupted my dad, except me. My father owned a computer software company that had been around since the seventies. He got in on the ground floor of the emerging industry and had been smart enough to stay ahead of the pack. He’d built his business from scratch, and now two of my brothers ran different divisions, two were software engineers working on new programs, and one was being groomed to take over for my father when he retired. Which he swore would be never, but my mother had other ideas.

  One of the ideas my father had been entertaining for years, and had been asking me about frequently recently, was selling my company to him and joining him and my brothers. I’d gotten a lot of press within the computer world recently for creating a new app that was snatched up by Google. Not as much money as some apps were being purchased for, but a nice chunk of change. Coupled with the fact that I was still renting the small apartment I’d been in for the last few years, owned my car outright, and spent most of my time with my nose either in a laptop or in a book, I had zero debt and a sizable savings account. Saving for what, I didn’t know, but saving I was.

  For a rainy day? For something exactly like what had just dropped into my lap by a mysterious phone call from across the land, telling me that my life had changed and if I was adventurous enough to take a chance, everything could change?

  Back to the present. A present where, if my father couldn’t convince me to sell my business to him, he was still going to tell me how to run it. Or how I was not running it correctly, as so many fathers do.

  “Dad, I love you. I love you all. But I’m heading out to Mendocino. I might be back in a few weeks, ready to sell off the land and the house and everything else, but for now? I’m going. And not making any decisions beyond that.”

  That conversation had ended in grumbles and gruff agreements on both sides.

  My mother’s argument was of a different tactic, but no less strategic. My mother lived perpetually in the land of Hopeless Romantic.

  “You know, I just have a good feeling about this, Vivvie. I can’t say exactly why, just that I have a good feeling.” She was perched on my bed, helping me pack. Which meant making suggestions about certain clothing items that she thought would be more flattering and appropriate for the trip.

  “I have a good feeling too, Mom. Is it weird that I’m excited about something that’s the result of someone dying? Is that terrible?”

  “It’s not terrible, sweetie. It’s life. You didn’t really know Maude; even your aunts and I didn’t. We tried to reach out, to get her to move east to be closer to family, but— Not that red one, sweetie. It washes you out.” The red sweater went back into the closet. “And, besides, she loved that house. She always said they’d carry her out feet first. Not the yellow one, sweetie. Makes you look jaundiced.” The T-shirt was replaced by a pink one.

  “Feet first! Ew, that’s fucking morbid.” I shivered slightly. I’d be in her house soon.

  “Vivvie! Language. Besides, that’s how old people talk. They don’t think of it as morbid; they’re just being obstinate. ‘Feet first,’ she’d say whenever someone would suggest maybe she should think about moving into a retirement community. That’s a pretty one. Green has always been a good color for you, especially with your eyes.”

  “Mom, I’m not going to a garden party.”

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt to be colorful, no matter the occasion. Now, where are those cute sandals I brought you last week? You have such cute, tiny feet, Vivvie, I wish you’d stop burying them in those combat boots. Who knows who you’re going to meet out there! Why you could meet The One! A nice man with a good job and . . .”

  I tuned out all her nice-man talk. I knew what I was hoping for out there. And it had nothing to do with nice . . .

  So now I stood at the curb at the airport, surrounded by suitcases and duffel bags, ready to head west. I had a new romance novel downloaded to my Kindle for the five-hour flight, and a bubbling excitement at embarking on my very own adventure, just like the ones in my favorite books.

  Bring it.

  I’m pretty sure that in my romance novels, the heroine always arrives at her new destination fresh and unwrinkled, smelling of gardenias and excitement.

  I arrived at San Francisco International Airport with swollen ankles and a T-shirt covered in marinara sauce from an in-flight argument with a chicken parm. I smelled like recycled airplane air. I was exhausted and cranky from staying up late with last-minute packing, and annoyingly horny due to my marathon read of Loins of Endearment.

  I struggled to load my luggage into a cart, then struggled to get it onto the rental car bus, and then struggled to load it into the freaking golf-cart-size car they gave me. I don’t know where the midsized SUV I’d reserved had disappeared to, but at this point I would have driven a scooter to Mendocino. I just wanted to get there.

  Firing up the putt-putt-mobile, I consulted my GPS, turned on some tunes, and hit the freeway. And then got stuck in traffic. Then hit the open road! Then more traffic.

  Determined to keep my adventurous spirit intact, I rolled down the windows to breathe in that California air. Certain that it would be laced with flowers and sun, I was surprised when it smelled the same as Pennsylvania. But no matter. I was here! Aaaand back in traffic again.

  Two hours later, I finally saw signs of the shoreline. The state highway began to wiggle back and forth along the coast; I started noticing tiny slivers of peekaboo blue. Rocks rose majestically out of the water, cliffs sprang up and out toward the deep blue water. The Pacific looked angry, crashing against the shore as though it was taking it personally. I found it invigorating; it could thrash itself as much as it wanted to. I loved the sea spray it created; the hidden caves bubbling the water back out as quickly as it was pushed in.

  As I neared the seaside town at a grandmotherly pace of forty-seven miles per hour (thank you, weenie car), I decided that it was a blessing to have to go slow. To take in the beautiful surroundings, to not have anywhere in particular to go—and I’d get there when I got there. It was liberating, it was freeing. I had a devil-may-care feeling: I could go anywhere, be anything I wanted—

  Honk!

  What?

  Honk honk!

  There
was a line of cars on the highway behind me that didn’t care for my joie de vivre. Loins of Endearment had been set in wartime Paris, so I had French on the brain. And by French I mean a great war hero, member of the resistance, and the owner of his own very ample baguette. He had taken his lover up against the counter in a bakery, and when he pushed into her, taking her virginity for God and country, the moment was frozen in time. Never mind the bombs falling, never mind the countryside wracked with woe, this was here. And now. And the only thing that could stop the invasion into her heart was the—

  Honk honk!

  “I’m going, I’m going!” I yelled out the window, pushing the damned car to fifty-five, causing the entire frame to shake and shimmy. Baguette, indeed.

  I spied the town of Mendocino in the distance, and pushed it to fifty-seven. Now we were talking!

  My GPS took me straight to the coffee shop on the main drag where I was meeting Mr. Montgomery, the attorney who had contacted me. I gazed in wonder at the beautiful town, noting the Victorian homes and neat-as-a-pin front lawns. Cottages large and small dotted the twisting streets, built to take advantage of the natural landscape and picture-perfect ocean views. Set high on a cliff, the town looked down onto the sea below.

  With a wide grin, I pulled into the parking lot near the coffee shop. Stretching out after my long drive after an even longer plane ride, I then headed toward a row of rocking chairs on a long porch where a gentleman sat.

  He smiled at my approach, standing. “Ms. Franklin, I presume?”

  Who says that anymore?

  “Just Viv, please. Nice to meet you, Mr. Montgomery.” I smiled, shaking his hand. He was tall and stately, his black suit and tie seeming at odds with the casual atmosphere of this little artsy village. But his smile was genuine, and his blue eyes danced. I looked down at my ripped jeans, combat boots, and sauce stained T-shirt, and zipped up my leather jacket. “Turbulence. Not great for eating pasta at thirty thousand feet,” I explained.

  “Not to worry. I’m sure once you get settled in at the house, you’ll be able to relax and clean up a bit. Shall we take care of this business so you can be on your way? I’m sure you’re anxious to see everything.” He gestured toward a table and chairs where he had some paperwork set up, and I nodded. As we sat down, a pretty woman with dark blond hair crammed unsuccessfully into a ball cap approached.

  “Any coffee for you?” she asked, and as I looked down I saw that Mr. Montgomery did indeed have a coffee there. I looked around her to the restaurant we were seated outside. Cliffside Coffee was the sign on the door, and now that I noticed, on her ball cap too.

  “Oh, um, yeah that’d be great. Black. Thanks.”

  “Sure. You the Franklin girl who’s taking over Maude Perkins’ place?”

  Surprised, I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Small town. Coffee shop. I know everything.” She grinned. She had an easy way about her, pretty face, good energy, unfazed by my piercings—you never know how some people will react. “Been out to the house yet?”

  “Literally just got into town, but you already knew that?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I totally did—just making conversation. I’ll be right back with your coffee,” she said, heading back inside. “Name’s Jessica, by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the swinging door.

  I looked back at Mr. Montgomery, who merely smiled and readied the papers for me to sign.

  Frickin’ Mayberry.

  I liked Mayberry.

  “Any idea what you’re going to do with the property, now that you’re the sole owner?” he asked a few moments later, after I’d signed my name with a flourish.

  “Not sure yet. Right now the only thing I can think about is a shower and a nap. In exactly that order.” I groaned, feeling the grit of the day literally beginning to settle into my skin. But I would be taking a little tour of my new homestead, grit be damned.

  I imagined the way this bit of coastline must have looked back in the 1850s when the town was first settled. Men and women, drawn west by the promise of gold, had arrived with only what could be carried in the back of a covered wagon. Moved by a sense of purpose and adventure that I now shared, did the women stare at the ocean with excitement? With wonder? Covered in actual trail grit, would they be too tired when their husbands, weary but journey strong, cast their eyes toward them with longing? And when the last waning sunbeam from across the ancient Pacific cast its luscious golden light upon her cascading bosom, did he push her back against the wagon wheel with a lusty groan, spilling kisses across her salty skin? And when he had tethered his oxen team to feast upon the fragrant sea grass, did he return to the wagon to unleash his own pair of—

  “Ms. Franklin?”

  I shook my head to clear it, punchy from my travels and more than a little worked up now. Sick, sick, sick in the head. I smiled innocently at Mr. Montgomery.

  “Sorry, daydreaming.”

  “You’ve had quite a busy day. I think you’ve waited long enough. Shall we head over there now?” he asked.

  “No need, just point me in the right direction and I can take it from there.” I was used to handling things by myself, and while I appreciated the offer, I didn’t really want anyone else there when I saw the house for the first time in years. In my head, it was all very dramatic.

  “Very well, Ms. Franklin, is there anything else I can do for you today?” he asked, sliding an old-fashioned key across the table. As I picked it up, I felt a thrill roll through me. My key. It was my key now. Antsy, I stood.

  “Nope I think I’m good! So which way is it?”

  “Just down the main road a bit here and then curve down Maple Street. You can’t miss it,” he replied, standing and gathering all the paperwork for me. “You let me know if you need anything, promise?”

  “I promise. Thanks for everything,” I answered, shaking his hand and then practically prancing down the walkway.

  Turning down the street, potentially my new street, brought a ton of memories flooding back. An entire summer I’d spent here, the sun on my face and the sand underneath my feet. This town had been my universe, tiny and enormous existing within the same space. I’d often wondered if I’d had the chance to come back again, would it be the same? Would it be as magical, as picturesque, as quaint? As comfortable? They say you can never go home again, but this was never my home. It was my fairy tale.

  And as I turned into the long and winding driveway that led up to Seaside Cottage, I was struck by how much more it was. It was even better than I had remembered it. Set apart from the town by maybe not even a quarter of a mile, the house stood sentry over the ocean as it had for more than a hundred years.

  I pulled the car into the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the tires. I gazed up at the two-story Victorian, the tall pitched roof concealing the enormous attic. It was cozy and homey, grand and stately all at the same time. From the car, the sightline was all house and ocean. Once I started for the front porch, the cliff behind was revealed, with the winding wooden staircase I remembered just peeping over the edge, leading down to the beach below.

  Looking around to make sure I was alone, and I was, I let out a nervous giggle as I practically danced up the front steps. Whitewashed and bleached out from the sun and salt, the wooden bannister felt warm beneath my hands, solid and perfect. And as I ascended the last charming creaky stair, I stepped onto the wide expansive porch, dotted with ferns and flower boxes filled with a riot of color. Purples, pinks, sunny yellows, and—whoa!

  My left foot went through the floorboard, pitching me to my knees and tossing the contents of my bag across the planks.

  I took a moment to mentally assess. Foot? Still attached. Shin? Felt scratched up a bit but not too bad. I cautiously pulled my leg from the hole in the porch, testing my weight on the surrounding planks. I’d
shredded my already ripped jeans, and it looked like I had a nasty scrape, but I was otherwise unharmed.

  “Nice work, Viv, you broke the house,” I chided myself. My voice was carried away on the wind blowing in from the ocean. Mmm, salty. Briny. Oceany. I dusted myself off and put my bag back together. Undaunted but with a slight limp, I approached the grand front door, the window just above the doorknob covered in a lacy curtain.

  Would it look the same? I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my memory run wild. I recalled the front entryway, deep burnished oak halfway up the walls with a built-in bench just inside for shoes and boots, the space above studded with old-fashioned hooks for jackets and coats. A long mirror, creating the illusion of a space larger than it really was. Wide, shining planked floors leading the eye to a grand staircase of more honeyed wood. The scent of wood soap and lemony oil rubbed into the wood to make it gleam. I could almost see it.

  And I would, as soon as I managed to get the old key to work. Twisting it this way and that, I finally got it to turn. I held my breath as I let myself into the house. Preparing myself for the beautiful woodwork, the gentle sun shining through a picture window on the west side, I stepped inside.

  I breathed deeply, waiting for the lemon and the pine and the wood soap. But what I got was . . . mildew? It was dark inside, and I let my eyes adjust as I let out a mild cough. Throwing open the yellowed curtain on the door to let some light inside, I turned in a complete circle, taking it all in.

  Dull, scratched woodwork. Stacks of old magazines. Clothes in piles along the stairs. Dust bunnies the size of their namesakes. The long mirror, foggy and shadowed. And every single hat that had ever been manufactured on the West Coast gathered on a hat tree that was leaned toward me in an imagined jaunty greeting.

  I went further into the house, the formerly elegant but cozy living room now almost buried under piles of old calendars, boxes full of what looked like teacups, and again, stacks and stacks of magazines. And old tin buckets; everywhere with the buckets. The dining room? The old table was still there, covered with dolls of all shapes and sizes and about an inch of dust. Into the kitchen I went, and promptly turned right around and came back out. Covering the counter were industrial-size cans of Beanee Weenees, stacked three high like someone was getting ready to cook for a summer camp.