Screwdrivered

by Alice Clayton

  “Lobsters? What lobsters?” I’d asked, to the tune of “Rock Lobster” by the B-52’s, of course. He’d pointed down, and I was horrified to see my legs were now lobster claws, clacking up and down the beach.

  I woke in a cold sweat. But the soothing sound of the waves lulled me to sleep again, and I was back to the Land of Nod in no time.

  I woke again as the morning light began to creep into the sky, my body still on East Coast time. I needed to stay up later tonight, try and get on West Coast time. Except for the disturbing dream, I’d slept like a rock. No drips, no leaky roof.

  I pulled the covers over my face, trying to squeeze in one more set of forty winks, but it was useless. Then I realized that it was after six. And that meant . . .

  Coffee!

  I threw on some leggings and a fleece, pushed my hair back into a headband, and clattered down the front steps. I decided to walk into town, wanting to stretch my legs a bit after the hard work they’d done the day before, and would surely do again today. Down the long driveway I went, turning down the main street into town. Maybe a quarter mile or so, I could walk it in less than ten minutes, which was nice to know. As I came upon the main drag, I noticed a shop that specialized in antiques, and notably, old paintings. Landscapes, several of the town. I wondered if any of Aunt Maude’s paintings would be worth anything. Might be a good idea to keep in mind.

  But now coffee called, and I answered it. Pushing open the tinkly door, I looked for Jessica’s smiling face behind the counter. She waved, and I headed down to the last seat again.

  “Same as yesterday?”

  “Yes, please, I’m starving. I forgot to eat dinner last night.” I sat down and picked up a newspaper someone had left.

  “I’ve never had that problem, but that’s because John is such a good cook,” she proclaimed, pouring me a cup of coffee and sticking a ticket with my Hungry Man on the hook behind the counter for the short-order cook.

  “I can see how that would never come up,” I agreed, nodding a hello to Mr. Martin in the seat next to mine. I began to read the news of the day. Did two days in a row create a breakfast routine? Not sure, but I liked already where this was going.

  After I ate my weight in bacon, I headed home. The sun was shining fully now, and it promised to be another clear and warm day. Autumn was beginning back home, but here it was still full summer. As I walked back to the house, I marveled once more at the view. I would never get tired of looking at that ocean. Gulls surfed the thermals, dive-bombing and swirling. As I reached the garage, I stopped to peer through the grimy windows, trying to see what was in there. Boxes, sitting on top of a tarp, which covered a car. I wondered what kind it was. Best guess? A pink Pinto.

  I flipped through the keys on my ring, trying a few until one slid home. The door creaked open, disappearing into the rafters with a puff of dust. I coughed a few times, the dust stinging my lungs. I’d inhaled so much of it over the past few days, I’d no doubt that if you patted my lungs, puffs would rise.

  I entered the garage, cracked concrete below my feet. I removed a few boxes from the hood, gearing up for the big reveal. Holding my breath as I gripped the edge of the tarp, I pulled it out into the driveway, revealing . . . miles and miles of painted Detroit iron.

  A 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. White fins. Whitewall tires. Powder-blue body. Not to mention steering wheel.

  “You beautiful thing, you,” I breathed, running my fingers across the trim. It looked like it was in good condition, and I could barely believe my good luck. I couldn’t wait to drive it! I reluctantly covered it once more with the tarp, then closed the garage door. And as I started walking back toward the house, I noticed the barn door was ajar. I course corrected, heading for the open door. I could hear the rustle of hay inside, and as the chickens hurried from my path I watched for any calling cards the horses may have left. I wasn’t doing that again . . .

  As I poked my head inside, there was Hank. Good God almighty, he was a sight.

  Shoveling hay down from the loft with a pitchfork, he was already working up a sweat. I leaned against a barn post, the sweet smell of hay thick in the air. And speaking of thick, his white T-shirt clung to his broad body, which was ridiculously strong. He was like a steak, a prime cut of man.

  He pivoted, catching me off guard, tossing down a load of hay right in front of me.

  “Hey! Hay!” I cried out, trying to dodge it in time but getting a tuft in my mouth in the process.

  “Told you to stay out of the barn,” he called down, throwing the pitchfork aside and descending the ladder with perfect grace. I started to brush myself off, irritated with his attitude and also the feeling of hayseeds in my bra, and more than ready to tell him I could go in the barn whenever I darn well pleased when he . . . began . . . to brush me off.

  Strong, capable fingers made deft work of the remaining strands, his hands dancing lightly over my collarbone, straying closer than was probably necessary to my breasts. I held my breath as he continued, his body noticeably warm within the confined space. His cologne once more rose up in the air and swirled, making me drunk. Making me swoon. Making me sneeze.

  “Achoo!” I blew, and hay flew.

  In a romance novel, it would have been dainty and darling, a sneeze one could write sonnets about. In the life of Viv Franklin, it was powerful enough to scatter chickens.

  His hands left my shoulders and he exited the barn.

  I followed. “So, what exactly do you do here, Hank?”

  “I take care of the animals,” he answered, striding toward his truck.

  “Yeah, I got that. But is that like daily? Twice daily?” I asked, still hurrying after him. Ridiculous.

  “Depends,” he said, swinging up into the cab. He was a man of few words. And pecs you could cut your teeth on. Yes, please.

  “Depends?” I asked, slowing down and trying to recover a little bit of mystery, a little intrigue.

  “Yeah, it depends. I’ll be back later today, going to ride Paula.”

  Who was Paula, and how much could I kill her for getting to be ridden by Cowboy Hank?

  “Paula?” I asked, my voice darkening.

  “The mare. I took Paul out yesterday, so it’s Paula’s turn.”

  “The horses’ names are Paul and Paula?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who the hell came up with those?”

  “I did,” he replied, raising his own eyebrow. It was a strong eyebrow. I wondered what else he could raise with that eyebrow.

  “Those are great names,” I whispered. “Really great.”

  He just nodded his head and started the truck. “Stay out of the barn.”

  Storming back into the house, I berated myself for turning “idjit” every time this sonofabitch was around. I was determined to make a better impression the next time. But for now, I had more important things to do.

  I needed to call my mom.

  “Well, it’s about time you checked in,” was her greeting.

  I smiled, sinking down onto a green velvet love seat in the living room. I hadn’t had a chance to clean in here, so it answered with the appropriate dust puff.

  “Sorry, Ma, I’ve been a little busy,” I started, knowing the response I was going to get.

  “Busy, my foot, you’re never too busy to call your mother. If it wasn’t for your text letting me know you’d actually gotten there I’d have been a nervous wreck.”

  “I’m good, Ma, everything is good. How’re things back home?” If I didn’t get her off the guilt train, we’d move to hand wringing and heart palpitations.

  “Here? Oh the same as always, getting ready for the big bingo benefit at St. Gabe’s next weekend. Did I tell you we got Father Mike to agree to a new caller? I mean, everyone knows Father Mike has called bingo for years and years, but we thought this year we needed some new blood, so—”

  As she prattle
d on about the St. Gabe politics, I tuned out a little bit, letting my eyes wander around the living room. On the opposite wall there was a grand fireplace, mahogany by the look of it, inset with green marble. I pulled myself off the love seat while my mother talked about Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. O’Halloran fighting over who made the best fish batter, and began wiping the grime from the mantel with a cloth. In the hearth was a beautiful old iron grate, in which Aunt Maude was storing her collection of Johnny Mathis records. As one does . . .

  “So tell me, how’s the house?” she asked finally.

  “It’s good. More cluttered than I remember, but it’s still good.”

  “Aunt Kimberly mentioned that the last time she was out for a visit it had started to look a bit worse for wear. How bad is it?”

  “It’s not great.” I sighed as a piece of the mantel came off in my hand. Oh, for the love of—

  “Oh, boy. Do you want your father and me to come out?” she asked as I set the piece of the mantel against Johnny Mathis.

  “No no, I’ve got this. It’s just more than I bargained for, I guess,” I replied, looking around at the amount of work that needed to be done. “What the hell was she thinking, leaving this to me? It makes no sense.” I slumped back into the love seat.

  “It makes perfect sense, if you ask me,” my mother said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maude knew exactly what she was doing when she left this house to you. You’re the only one in the family who wouldn’t immediately sell it. Do you have any idea how much the land alone is worth? Oceanfront property in Mendocino?”

  “Dad might have mentioned a few numbers,” I answered. Zeros upon zeros upon zeros. It was enough to make me dizzy.

  My family lived in a part of town that was considered old money, blue blood money, with the occasional new money like us thrown in. We’d been solid middle class until my dad struck gold in computer technology. So while money was something we enjoyed, we also appreciated its value. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table one morning, one of my older brothers pestering my dad for an advance on his allowance to buy some new something or other. “It’s only a hundred dollars” was the phrase he used, and a phrase he will never forget. The tirade my father launched into about how we will never be the kind of people who say things like it’s only a hundred dollars became a family legend.

  Now don’t get me wrong, my father gave a lot to his family. We enjoyed a very comfortable life, we belonged to a country club, we went to private schools, we vacationed every summer, Christmas, and spring break, and my parents each drove a new Mercedes every two years. But when my friends at school were driving their parents’ two-year-old Mercedes, I was driving the Blue Bomber, an old Buick LeSabre that had been passed down to each brother and in turn, to me.

  For the record? I loved that car. When it finally went to the junkyard, I shed an actual tear. I’d lost my virginit—wait. I’m not sharing that story. All I will share is Beck on the radio, a foot on the ceiling, and a seat belt buckle imprint still on my ass the next morning.

  But I digress. The point is, my family had done well. And my brothers had done well.

  And when I sold my app to Google, I did rather well myself. But not nearly as well as the worth of the land this house was sitting on. Although, could you sell a house that was on the historical register? Is that even possible? I could think of a certain librarian who would know the answer to that . . .

  “You think Maude knew I wouldn’t sell it, huh?”

  “I know she did, Vivvie.”

  “But, Ma, you should see what a wreck it is. I can’t even imagine how much it would cost to renovate this place.”

  “So sell your business to your father. You know he wants it. That’ll give you some breathing room to decide what you want to do.”

  “Sounds like you and Aunt Maude already know what you think I should do.”

  “She was crazy, not stupid.”

  I snorted. “She keeps her Johnny Mathis records in the fireplace, Ma.”

  “I rest my case.”

  After I hung up with my mother I weighed my options, my thoughts swirling. If I stayed and tried to make this work, I’d have to sell my business to my dad, which wasn’t the worst idea in the world. I was proud of the little business I’d built but I could do it again. If I wanted to. The cash would allow me the opportunity to decide what I wanted to do. I looked out the window, to see if the answers were out there.

  They were. Jessica was walking up the front steps carrying a pizza. With a smile, I pushed myself off the sofa and reached the front door just as she was about to knock.

  “I know I called you nosy, but this is bordering on Single White Female,” I joked as I opened the door.

  “You’ve met the pizza man, you know I ain’t single,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I told you I’ve been dying to see the inside of this house.” She started to walk back down the steps in an exaggerated way. “Or I could just take this box away; I’m sure you’ve already got lunch plans.”

  “Get in here. But I’ll warn you in advance, it’s a freaking mess,” I said, holding the door open so the pizza and my new, insistent friend could come inside.

  “If I’m going to make the Butcher Block special a constant in my life, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that, I’m going to have to start running again.” I groaned, patting my stomach. Jessica and I were seated around the grand dining room table, the dolls now uncovered and arranged so we had an audience. She didn’t find them as creepy as I did.

  “There’s some great trails around here. You know where the state park is?” she asked, also patting her own stomach.

  “I think so. I passed it on the way into town. The Headlands?”

  “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.”