Starting Over on Blackberry Lane--A Romance Novel

by Sheila Roberts

  He gave her a sly grin. “You know where they are.”

  Yeah, but where was he? She hurried up and down the various aisles, passing everything from sandpaper to gardening supplies. Had she imagined him?

  No. She turned a corner and ran right into the man. He dropped the tube of caulk he was carrying and she dropped her jaw. “Oh, my gosh. Mr. Clooney, I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries,” he said, bending to pick it up. “And I’m afraid I’m not George Clooney.”

  “You’re not?” He stood and she studied his face. Okay, maybe not. This man’s nose was a bit different, and he had a few more wrinkles. But still, wow, you could’ve fooled her. Oh, yeah. He had. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. What would George Clooney be doing in a hardware store in Icicle Falls? Except I thought someone was going to make a movie here or...something.” Lame. Totally lame.

  He smiled. “It’s okay. It happens a lot.”

  “That must come in handy when you’re traveling. Free drinks on planes, stuff like that?” Okay, she sounded like a complete moron.

  He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he introduced himself.

  “The Honey Do man! We were just talking about you. Both my friends want you.” Hmm. Did that sound a little...sexual?

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “We’re all going to be at the Raise the Roof fundraiser,” she went on. What did he care? “I guess we’ll see you then.”

  “I guess so. And your name is?”

  Idiot Girl. “Griffin James.”

  “Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m Grant Masters.”

  He had a friendly smile, and he wasn’t looking at her as if she only had one brain cell. She didn’t feel quite so stupid now and smiled back. “Nice to meet you, too. See you at the fundraiser.”

  “Or maybe in here again.”

  “I promise not to ask for your autograph.”

  “At least wait until I’m famous,” he said, deadpan.

  “Oh, sure,” she said. Her cell phone rang and she excused herself and hurried out of the store, answering as she went.

  “Did you find him?” asked Stef.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t him.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s too old for you, anyway.”

  “This man really looks like him, though. And guess what? He’s the new handyman and Mrs. Donaldson wasn’t kidding. He’s so nice.”

  “That’s not surprising, considering how nice his son is. Dan’s always sending Charley flowers. And he bailed Cass out when her roof was leaking.”

  Steve had gotten Griffin flowers. Once. For Valentine’s Day. After she bugged him to. She thought of the broken back porch step and frowned. “Too bad somebody can’t clone him.” Dan, not Steve. One Steve was probably enough.

  “I think he’s got a brother. I hear he’s single.”

  If the brother looked anything like Dan Masters or his dad... Woo-hoo. Oh, well. She was on her way to New York. She’d hold out for some slick metrosexual. Meanwhile, here in Icicle Falls, she had things to do.

  She spent Friday morning working with Beth on another photo shoot—rhubarb-strawberry crisp—and then spent much of the afternoon editing. Come five o’clock, she tossed together cut-up sandwich meat and spinach and called it good (no one would ever take pictures of her cooking). Then she settled down on the couch to eat dinner.

  All by herself. On a Friday night.

  She’d complained to Steve about their life being boring, but at least they’d had one. Often on Friday nights they’d gone over to Brad and Stef’s to play Mexican Train or watch a movie together or, when she insisted they had to get out, to Zelda’s. She didn’t want to go to Zelda’s alone, and somehow it didn’t feel right to go over to Stef’s when it was only her. Friday night was couples’ night. She wasn’t part of a couple anymore. Now she was a third wheel.

  Maybe she’d see if Cass wanted company.

  She put in a call and got Cass’s voice mail. “If it’s after eight, sorry, I’m in bed. If you’re calling on a Friday, sorry, I’m pooped. Leave a message, though, and tell me what I missed.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” Griffin said at the sound of the beep. And how pathetic was that? Oh, never mind, she had a new Susan Wiggs book to read. She’d spend her evening with that. Then tomorrow it would be paint day. Oh, yeah. Look at the exciting new life she had now that she’d broken up with Steve.

  It was going to be exciting, she promised herself. And it was going to be good to get her house fixed up. Who knew—maybe once it was all painted and pretty, she wouldn’t want to move.

  The next morning she donned her grubby jeans and an old sweatshirt and got busy. She decided to start with the living room, the first thing people would see when they walked in. She laid out her drop cloth and opened her paint can. Then she went to the shed in the backyard and hauled in the ladder, a rickety old thing that had probably been around since the fifties. Just as well she didn’t weigh a lot, otherwise it might not have held her.

  She poured paint into her tray, set it on the ladder and went to work with her trusty new roller, starting from the top of the wall and working her way down. After she’d done a section, she stepped down to admire her work. Oh, yes. This place was going to look good enough for an HGTV show by the time she was done.

  Back to the ladder, up to the top step. Paint, paint, paint, reach out just a little farther...lose balance, let out a screech, grab for the ladder and miss, tipping the roller tray and sending it—and her—flying. Land on right hand, right hip in roller tray. Experience pain. Big pain, super pain. Sit on the floor and wail. Yes, home improvement was such fun.

  * * *

  Her baking was finished for the day, and the kitchen was cleaned. Cass was ready to sneak away and leave Gingerbread Haus in the capable hands of Misty and Jet, her Saturday crew, and go home to shower and take a nap. Then, for the evening she had big plans—watch all her favorite TV shows that she’d recorded during the week. And make some popcorn. Popcorn and TV, real exciting. As Charley had said, she wasn’t that old. Why was she living like it? Why did her life suck?

  Your life doesn’t totally suck, she reminded herself. She had three great kids, whom she’d raised single-handedly, thanks to her ex. He was finally back in the picture, along with his trophy wife and her ridiculous little dog and their trophy toddler. Ever since Dani’s wedding, they’d made a habit of coming up and staying with her at Christmas, along with the kids, giving family holiday gatherings the feel of a cringe-humor movie. But, in spite of that, life in the family department was good. Her business was thriving and she was well respected by everyone in town and had great friends. Okay, her life didn’t totally suck. It only semi-sucked.

  But...she’d like to have sex again. Yes, sex would be nice. So would going out to dinner once in a while with someone who had a voice lower than hers.

  Remember Mason.

  Reminding herself how miserable and frustrated she’d been with her former husband was usually enough to convince her that she didn’t want a man. Men were, for the most part, a selfish and inconsiderate breed. Yes, Charley’s husband was great, and her other best friend, Samantha Sterling-Preston, had done okay. So had both of Sam’s sisters. But Cass was still convinced that those were the exceptions, not the rule. At this point in her life, she didn’t want to sort through the losers to find a winner. That would be like looking for a diamond in a gumball machine.

  She’d just removed her apron when Misty raced into the kitchen. “OMG! You’ve got to come see who’s here.”

  No, she didn’t. She hadn’t slept well the night before and she wasn’t wearing any makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was still in a hairnet and she was in her grubbies.

  “I’ll pass,” she said.

  “No, really!” Misty st
arted towing her out of the kitchen, babbling as they went. “I don’t know what he’s doing in Icicle Falls. Maybe he has family here? Maybe he’s hiding from the paparazzi.”

  “Hiding from the paparazzi in Icicle Falls?” Cass repeated with a snort. “Who are you talking about?”

  They stepped out into the shop and she didn’t have to ask. For a moment her heart forgot to beat.

  “Hi, Cass,” called Dan Masters. “You remember my dad, right?”

  She’d have to have been brain-dead to have forgotten.

  “I’m taking him around town to meet people. Thought we’d stop in for a cookie.”

  Why was she wearing this stupid hairnet? And why didn’t she ever bother with makeup? Why hadn’t she stuck to her diet? Why, why, why?

  “How about it?” Dan prompted.

  “Hmm?”

  “Cookie?”

  “Oh, yeah. A cookie, of course! I do owe you cookies for life.” She’d give his daddy cookies for life, too. She’d give his daddy anything. “Jet, how about a couple of cookies for the gentlemen?” she said to her other gape-mouthed employee.

  Jet nodded and produced the requested treats.

  “No more leaks?” Dan asked Cass.

  “So far, so good.”

  “Okay. But don’t push your luck. You need to get that roof fixed.”

  Cass gave him a salute. “Yes, sir. Will do!” He chuckled.

  “We’re off to Zelda’s for lunch. Wanna join us?” he offered.

  Like she wanted to sit at a table with Dan and his gorgeous father for an hour so she could leave the man with an indelible impression of herself looking like this. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

  “Okay. We’ll catch up with you later, then,” Dan said and started for the door.

  “Nice seeing you again,” said his dad.

  “Same here,” Cass lied. Nice was hardly the word for it. Torture would be more appropriate.

  “I thought for sure he was that actor,” Misty said after they left. “He looks so much like him.”

  Yes, he did. Dan’s father was the male equivalent of chocolate, cream puffs and key lime pie all rolled into one. He definitely made a lasting impression.

  She didn’t even want to try to imagine what he might have thought of her. Not that she was butt-ugly, but she wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. A man like that wouldn’t look twice at a woman like her. He probably hadn’t even remembered her.

  But since she wasn’t in the market for a man, who cared, right? She took out the chocolate cake she had in the display case and cut off a large piece to take home. There. Who needed a man when you had popcorn, TV shows and chocolate cake?

  Chapter Six

  Of course, Brad couldn’t work on the house this weekend. Petey had his T-ball game that afternoon. “We got up too late,” Brad pointed out.

  Yeah, because they’d been busy in bed, working up an appetite for breakfast. “We have three hours until Petey’s game,” she said.

  “I know but I’ll just get going and it’ll be time to stop. There’s no sense starting something I can’t finish.”

  Was he kidding? It was all she could do not to snatch away his plate of pancakes. Her husband didn’t deserve pancakes. “You’ve started things all over the house that you haven’t finished.”

  “I’m gonna get to them. Give me a break, Stef.”

  Stef, not Sweet Stuff. Okay, he was pissed. Well, so was she. She’d given him sex and pancakes, and this was the thanks she got? “All right, you had your chance,” she growled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you can be replaced.”

  His brows dipped down. “You shouldn’t even joke about stuff like that.”

  “I meant as a carpenter. I’ve had it, Brad. I really have.”

  “Oh, come on, now. Don’t be like that.”

  Yes, don’t be so demanding. Be happy your house looks like a war zone.

  “Is Mommy mad?” asked Petey, looking from one to the other.

  “Not at you, sweetie.” She leaned over and kissed the top of Petey’s head. “So, guess what?”

  “What?” he asked eagerly.

  “You and Daddy get to hang out this morning and watch cartoons while Mommy goes out for a little while.”

  “Are you coming to my game?” Petey asked.

  “Of course. I’ll be back in plenty of time. We’ll have lunch and then we’ll all go together, and maybe Mommy can get in some batting practice with Daddy,” she added, giving Brad the faux sweet smile that telegraphed you’re in deep kimchi, dude.

  That made Petey giggle. “Mommy, you don’t play T-ball.”

  “I know. I won’t have to worry about hitting the ball. I’ll have a much bigger target.” She drained the syrup out of her voice and said to her husband, “See you later.”

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “Someplace where I don’t have to look at this,” she said and grabbed her purse.

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that patience is a virtue?” he called after her.

  “And didn’t yours ever teach you to finish what you started?” she called back, then stormed out the door, slamming it after herself.

  Honestly, he made her so mad. She needed a sympathetic ear, and that sympathetic ear was only a few houses down Blackberry Lane. The front room curtains at Griffin’s house were open, and as Stef walked up the front walk, she could see signs of home improvement—a ladder, a drop cloth... She got closer and saw her friend sitting on the floor, holding what looked like a package of frozen vegetables on her wrist and rocking back and forth.

  She banged on the door. “Griffin!” She anxiously turned the doorknob, found the door unlocked and rushed into the living room, where Griffin sat, tears racing down her cheeks. Her jeans were covered in paint and she was whimpering.

  Stef knelt down beside her friend. “What happened?”

  “I fell off the ladder,” Griffin said through gritted teeth. “I think I broke my wrist.” She moved aside the frozen peas to reveal a very swollen purple mess.

  “Oh, not good,” Stef said. “We need to take you to the emergency room.”

  “The paint spilled. Everything’s a mess,” Griffin wailed.

  It was. There was paint all over the floor. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll clean it up. Let’s get you taken care of first.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital like this.”

  “Okay, I’ll find you some new pants,” Stef said.

  “In my bedroom dresser. Ooh, this hurts.”

  Stef fetched a clean pair of jeans, and between the two of them, they changed Griffin out of her paint-covered ones and into the new pair. Then they got into Griffin’s car and Stef drove her to the Mountain Regional Hospital emergency room.

  Fortunately, not too many people were having emergencies on a Saturday morning, and Griffin was admitted right away. The doctor who examined her was an older man, a kindly father figure, who strongly suspected a radial fracture. “But we’ll do an X-ray and a CT scan to be sure.”

  “If I’ve broken it, I’ll never get my house painted,” Griffin lamented.

  Stef wasn’t in a hurry for her friend to get her house fixed up and on the market, but she certainly didn’t want her to have a broken wrist. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  The doctor’s final prognosis was, indeed, a broken wrist. “I’ll prescribe something for the pain, and we’ll put it in a cast to make sure it stays immobile.”

  “A cast?” Griffin repeated weakly. “For how long?”

  “Plan on six weeks.”

  “Six weeks,” she groaned as they went to the pharmacy for her painkillers. “My house will never get painted at this rate.”

 
; “Not unless you hire someone,” Stef said.

  “Looks like I’m going to be bidding on that handyman, too,” Griffin said with a sigh when they got back to her house.

  That made three of them, Stef mused as she mopped the spilled paint off the floor for her friend.

  “Just leave the rest,” Griffin said. “Maybe I’ll be able to at least paint the bottom half of the wall.”

  “Okay, but I’m thinking you’d better leave this for the handyman. I wonder how many people are going to be bidding on him.”

  “Probably a lot,” Griffin said with a frown.

  “This could get ugly.”

  * * *

  Sure enough, on the night of the Raise the Roof fundraiser at Festival Hall, a day’s work provided by Grant Masters, owner of Honey Do, was a popular item. In fact, it seemed there were more people mingling by the two long tables filled with silent-auction items than there were over at the table with all the cupcakes and cookies for sale. The majority of them were women, many of whom kept circling the table and checking the numbers on that sheet of paper beside the gift certificate with the graphic of the hammer.

  “This place is a mob scene,” Brad grumbled as Petey bounced between him and Stef, clamoring for a cookie.

  “That’s good, since it’s a fundraiser.”

  He scowled at the paper where her name already appeared three times, each with a higher bid. “That’s too much.”

  “Nothing’s too much to get my house back,” she retorted.

  “Mommy, I want a cookie,” Petey begged.

  “All right, let’s get you one,” she said. She left her husband standing at the silent-auction table frowning and walked with her son over to where the goodies were being sold.

  Next to that two more tables displayed the baked items that were competing for a first-place ribbon and a dinner for two at Schwangau. All these items would be going up for auction later. Janice Lind, the reigning queen of this competition, had entered a three-layer cake that made Stef’s mouth water. She heard that Janice won every year, but some of the other entries looked good enough to give Mrs. Lind a run for her money. Cass had created an entire gingerbread town, a miniature of Icicle Falls, with colorful icing murals on the shops and a gazebo downtown. Maddy Donaldson had entered some kind of cream pie topped with coconut, and Bailey Black had entered a three-layer cake labeled as Chocolate Orange Delight that was decorated with chocolate-and-orange-tinted roses. Pies, cinnamon rolls and elaborately decorated cupcakes all cried out for attention. How did the judges manage to pick only one grand prize winner?