I spent the morning cleaning out the bedroom with the best view of the ocean. Wiping a thick layer of sea salt and grime from the windowpanes, I continued to hum the theme to Bad Boys as I worked. Once the blue of the Pacific sparkled through once more, I searched for more clean rags in the linen closet in the hallway and was thrilled to find a fairly new set of sheets. Buoyed by the thought of sleeping in an actual bed tonight, I headed for the basement to see if the washing machine still worked.
Opening the basement door for the first time, I realized two things. One, the lightbulb was burned out. Two, the motherfucking lightbulb was burned out. Sighing loudly, I threw back my shoulders and bravely tromped down the steps. Into the dark basement of a hundred-plus-year-old house, with nothing but old sheets to protect me.
So there’s stupid, and then there’s stupid. I’ve had picnics in cemeteries. I went on a tour of the underground catacombs when I lived in Paris. I was always the last one standing when we played Bloody Mary at slumber parties. But by the time I made it to the bottom of those basement stairs, I was shaking like a horrified leaf. Basement danger, the worst kind.
The sun shone dimly through one dirty window. If I remembered correctly, the washer was on the other side, by the furnace. Turning away from the light, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the washer . . . next to a pile of heads.
Sheets dropped, mouth opened in a silent scream, my entire body went on lockdown as my brain tried to catch up to what I was seeing. By the time I processed the Halloween label on the box and realized they were just masks, it was too late. Forever in my head, they’d be heads.
You have never seen someone start a load of laundry as quickly as I did. Whistling a happy tune to distract myself, I covered the heads with a big trash bag. Between the dolls and the Halloween props, I was beginning to understand why people can go a little funny when left on their own too long.
I thought about all this afterward up in the kitchen, the basement door firmly latched behind me, and I shivered when I realized I’d have to go back down there to put the sheets into the dryer.
Then I heard a knock at the front door. Would it be Hank? Returning for another round of witty banter?
Wiping my face on the inside of my T-shirt, I realized that I was disgusting and badly needed a shower. Oh well. Resigning myself to it, I headed out into the foyer. Peering through the lace at the window I saw a man, but the profile was leaner than Hunky Hank’s. Soccer player vs. football player. Breathing a sigh of relief that I’d have more time to prepare myself for our next meeting, I opened the door.
Brown hair. Brown eyes behind dusty-looking eyeglasses. White button-down. Tweed jacket with . . . elbow patches? He was tall, carried a briefcase, and looked exactly like Tom, Dick, and Harry. I could handle this. Hell, I’d just defeated an entire legion of heads.
“Hiya,” I announced, surprising him. Pushing his glasses up onto his nose, he glanced down at me. I was dressed for cleaning in a tank top that I’d sweated through, denim cutoffs that showed most of my legs, and a headband, and he took me in with an appreciative glance. Amused, I let him look, and when he finally met my eyes again, I let him know with my look that I’d caught him peeking.
A blush colored his cheeks, and he pushed his glasses up once more.
“Vivian Franklin?” he asked, his voice deeper than I thought it’d be.
“It’s Viv. Who’s asking?”
“Vivian, my name is Clark Barrow. I heard you were looking to make some changes to Seaside Cottage?”
“Hell yes, probably starting with this porch. It’s a death trap, Clark,” I affirmed, thumping on the column, which wobbled. “You should see the cut I got on my leg yesterday when I went through the plank.” I propped my leg up on the railing just to the right of him, running my hand down to highlight the bandage.
His eyes followed my hand. “That looks like a doozy of a cut,” he agreed, his gaze on my skin.
I cleared my throat.
He still stared.
“So, Clark, you’re here to put in a bid?”
“A bid?” he asked, looking up.
“Yeah, you said you heard I was looking to get some work done, right? I don’t know for sure if I’m staying, but if I’m even going to consider it I’ll need to have an idea of what kind of money I’d be shelling out to make this house livable, know what I’m saying? I’m thinking we’ll start with the front porch; all these rotten boards are going to need to be torn off. The roof’s leaking, so that’s obviously the first thing we’ll need to start on, and when I was trying to get to sleep last night, before the rain started that is, I could have sworn I heard something scuffling around behind the walls. I’d hate to have to rip out that plaster, but I’m not going to have anything furry surprise me some night so—”
“Rip out the—wait, no. No, no, you can’t do that.”
“What the hell kind of a contractor are you, Clark?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.
“I’m not a contractor, I’m a librarian. I’m also the town archivist, and that’s really why I’m here,” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“I’m confused. If you’re a librarian, why are you here about ripping off my front porch?”
“No one is ripping off anything, Vivian, least of all this front porch.”
“What the hell kind of librarian is in charge of front porches?”
“Not just front porches, the entire house. Seaside Cottage is on the historical register, as is much of the town of Mendocino. So any repairs, small or large, have to be approved by the town—specifically, the director of the historical society,” he replied, straightening his lapel.
“And that would be?” I asked, dryly.
“Me,” he answered, puffing up a bit.
“I see.” I turned away, walking back and forth along the porch, ever mindful of the splintered floorboard. I fingered my cameo while I contemplated this wrinkle.
“So I can’t make any changes without consulting you first?”
“Correct.”
“Including the front porch.”
“Correct.”
“Or the wobbly bannister?”
“Good God, no! It was handcrafted by Jeremiah Wo—”
“Easy, Clark, easy,” I soothed. “So where does that leave us?”
He looked past me into the house, easily seeing the stacks of boxes. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that your aunt was a bit of a packrat, but many of the things she owned could easily be donated to the historical society. You know, to make more room for you?” he asked hopefully.
I thought of the paintings in the closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to just let things go quite yet.
Channeling Aunt Maude? Yikes.
“Look, Clark, so here’s what I’m thinking. I just got here, haven’t even cleared off a bed yet. I slept on the floor last night, can you imagine?” I said, taking his arm just above the elbow patch and guiding him back down the steps.
“I can imagine. I mean, not about the bed of course but—” he stammered, blushing a deep red. I may have let my boobs brush his arm. Sweeten the pot when you can, right?
“So how about you let me get settled, carve out a bit of living space, as it were, and then we can talk some more?” I asked, walking him right back to his car. A Taurus, of course. Safe. Dependable.
“Well, that’s just fine, Vivian,” he answered.
“It’s Viv,” I said with a sweet smile. “And if I decide to rip off my front porch, I’ll make sure to call you first, huh?”
“I’m not too comfortable with that phrase. Restoration work has to be slow and methodical. Patient.”
I leaned one hand on the car behind him, bringing me a bit closer. It was fun making this guy blush.
“I don’t know. Sometimes fast and hard and furious has its place—know what I mean, Clark?”
Cue blush. Also c
ue eye sparkle. Although to be fair, they were more than sparkling. They were burning. Hmmm.
He thrust a pamphlet into my hand, got into his car, and drove away. It was a pamphlet from the Mendocino Historical Society. On the back, his name was listed.
Clark Barrow. Historian. Archivist. Librarian.
He forgot to list Elbow Patch Rocker.
I turned back to the house with a chuckle. And almost stepped on the bad plank again. Slapping the porch railing, which wiggled generously, I muttered, “Can’t make any repairs? We’ll just see about that.”
I worked my ass off all day, stopping only for leftover pizza and beer while standing in the kitchen, picking at contact paper on the pantry shelves. Was this historical contact paper? Was I allowed to pick this off? Or does the future of this town rest on the 1970s snail-and-grasshopper motif on this very contact paper?
After my standing lunch I ventured back to the basement, armed this time with three flashlights and a box of lightbulbs I’d found under the sink. Now fully lit, it wasn’t nearly as scary as before. I investigated the cold room, pleased to see that Aunt Maude’s jars of vegetables and preserves were still stacked neatly along the shelves, all dated from last season. Yum, blackberry jam. Heading back into the laundry room, I stalwartly ignored the box of heads as I put the sheets into the dryer. I brought the camp blankets upstairs and pinned them on the line out back, letting the winds blowing in from the west catch them on the breeze, snapping the ends. Then I trooped back upstairs, determined to restore order to the bedroom I’d be claiming for now. I scrubbed the floor, carrying bucket after bucket of dingy water out back to dump. I pulled down the old curtains, thick with dust, and contemplated throwing them out. But now that I was thinking about the frickin’ historical significance of every last item in the house . . .
Grumbling a little, I folded them neatly and set them aside. At some point, things were going to have to get thrown away. But apparently an archivist librarian had to be here for that.
I tackled the hall bathroom upstairs next, and with elbow grease and the grace of God, I got it spick-and-span. I’d found an old box of baking soda in the linen closet and with a bucket of warm water and a brush, I scrubbed the little octagonal floor tiles until they gleamed. The iron tub was still stained a bit despite all the bleach I’d used, but the old chrome faucets shone so I could practically see my face in them.
By the time dusk was setting in, I was tired and stinky, but I had a sparkling clean bedroom and bath. Too tired to even think about food, I stood under the shower and washed quickly, shampooing my hair as fast as I could in case the hot water ran out. Once the particulars were taken care of, I luxuriated under the warmth. Running my hands down my skin, I could feel every muscle that ached from the hard work.
I could also imagine feeling a very particular muscle, one that belonged to a cowboy named Hank. But as quickly as I was beginning to heat up, the water cooled down, shoving my daydreams out of the shower. I toweled off, listening to the house settling in for the night. I finger combed my curly hair as I dried it most of the way, literally too tired to even hold the hair dryer for too long. Clutching my copy of Loins of Endearment, I crawled into the most sinfully plush bed ever created, loving the scent of clean linens and line-dried sunny blankets.
I was asleep before even one loin was endeared.
chapter four
I dreamed of a man on horseback. Splashing through the surf, his very presence called to me. Walking across the sand packed firm by the waves, I stared at the beautiful man jumping down off his mighty steed and starting toward me. But at the same time, a man who looked curiously like Clark waded in from the sea with a briefcase full of clamshells, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t to throw out any of the lobsters I might find in my shoes.
“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 s
mell 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?
The Cocktail Collection Page 63
