“So, who’s Blake?” I try to keep things nonchalant. At least I think I’m being nonchalant.
I’ve got three batches of sugar cookies successfully baked, one burned due to a setback that is all Carter Blackwood’s fault for taking his trash out with no shirt on, and about six more to go. Once I frost them, I can wrap it up, put them in the fridge and pass out in my nice comfy, king sized bed that awaits me down the hall. Then I can make a mental list of all the things I need to take care of at work in the morning.
“Just some guy, mom.” She lets her backpack drop from her shoulder and onto the floor. She plops herself into our lazy-boy recliner and turns on the T.V. The iPhone is out shortly after and she begins to text the very friends she most likely just said goodbye to.
“Some guy who?” I want to know this boy’s age, date of birth, parent’s names, address and maybe even his social security number. You can never be too careful.
“Hmm?”
Either the late hour gets to me, or the flippancy of her attitude; I’m not sure. Either way, I slam the cookie sheet down and that grabs her attention.
“What’s your problem?” she asks.
“I’m talking to you, Allison. That’s my problem. And when I’m talking to you, while in the middle of baking cookies . . . for your school event, that you volunteered me for, I expect you to look me in the eyes when I’m doing it.” I take a breath after my rant.
Ally sets her phone down, gets up, walks over to where I’m standing and leans in to take a cookie that hasn’t been frosted yet.
“Everyone loves your cookies,” she says, matter of factly. Then she takes a small bite.
My fury dwindles at the way she says it. She knows how to soften me up, that’s for sure. I pick up the cookie sheet and push it into the oven, then set the timer. Before I start again, I swallow down any anger or irrationality that might be lingering.
“I get it, Ally, I do, but I don’t like you riding home with people I don’t know. If something was to happen--”
“He’s friends with Karen’s cousin. He’s cool, mom,” she says. And okay, Karen I know – and her mom. I feel better now.
It doesn’t escape my attention the way she says, he’s cool. This is code for: he’s totally cute mom and please don’t tell me I can’t ride home with him anymore it will be the end of my LIFE.
“Think you can manage to speak to your mother with respect next time you’re on the phone in front of Blake?”
Ally rolls her eyes, which does not impress me one bit but it’s all the rave these days with teenagers. I overlook it this time; mostly because I don’t feel much like arguing all night. And believe me when I say we will argue, all night.
“Okay,” she finally says.
She must not want to argue either. Lucky for me. I smile. “Okay.”
And that’s that.
She steps toward me and smiles, slightly. Then she kisses me on the cheek and heads back to the living room. This time, she doesn’t plop down into the recliner. Instead, she picks up her book bag she slings it over her shoulder.
“I’m gonna go do my homework upstairs.”
I’d answer her, but she’s already texting her friend again and nothing I say will penetrate past the barrier that is friend texting. She laughs at something as she walks up the stairs and I take the ten minutes that my cookies will bake for to try and decompress a little bit. I lean against the sink and stare out our front room picture window, toward Carter Blackwood’s house. I’m half hoping he’ll make another trip to the curb side trash can again; half wondering exactly how long he’ll be here in Spangler. The lights are all still on and the faint buzzing of whatever tool he’s using hums from somewhere inside.
I momentarily think of the woman who used to live across the street. It would make her absolutely crazy if she knew he was over there, messing with how she’d had things. My heart sinks because we were close once. Of course that was before her husband died and my husband became dead to me. The timer on the oven goes off and I’m brought back to the task at hand. I tell myself not to worry about Carter Blackwood anymore. He’ll be finished with his “flip” soon, selling it to the highest bidder and then I can spend my energies getting to know the new occupants.
Only five more batches to go.
* * *
“Allison!”
I sit and breathe, and make sure I have everything while I wait for my daughter to come downstairs.
Every. Damn. Day with this girl.
I check my watch. I’ve timed this morning out perfectly so I won’t be late even with the cookie drop off at Ally’s high school, but if she doesn’t get down here soon, I’m going to have a heart attack.
Just as soon as I think it, she’s hurrying down the stairs.
“Thank you,” I say. She doesn’t bother replying but she grabs one of the trays of cookies off of the table and takes it to the car. As we get everything situated on the back seat, I sneak a peek over at Carter’s house but I don’t see him outside today. I’m glad. Really I am.
“Can we listen to 102.9 this morning? They’re supposed to mention the bake off.”
“What? No, I don’t care, go ahead.” I pull out of the driveway and take one more look at my neighbor’s house but there’s no movement going on whatsoever over there, so I press on the gas pedal and off we go to another fun filled day at the office. Not.
When I pull onto the campus of Ally’s school, she looks around. She’s calm at first but it’s not long before she becomes restless in her seat, shifting to search behind us.
“Crap, Lilah said she would wait for me; can you help me carry the cookies in, mom?”
“I don’t have time for this today, Ally.” I grab a hold the steering wheel, tightly.
“Mom, please.”
I sigh. Her desperate pleas get me every time. It won’t be the end of the world for her if she has to take the cookies in, gasp, alone. But I help her because I’m her mother, dammit, and because it’s either wait in the car while she makes several trips or suck it up, park, and make this go as fast as I can. I park and suck it up.
We hurry ourselves into the school and once Ally has placed her tray of cookies onto the counter in the office for me, I tell her to go ahead and get to class so she doesn’t get marked late. She has too many tardies as it is, this year. I head out to the car and grab the last two trays. It’s difficult to balance the both of them with my purse over my shoulder and my phone in my pocket, but I manage. Until I get to the front door again, that is, because it’s stuck.
“For the love of . . .” It happens. A lot actually, but I don’t have the patience for this and when I’m finally able to push it open, I nearly drop every cookie I’m holding. It shuts on me and I reach out to try again, but before I can, someone pulls it wide for me.
I smile and am about to thank the Good Samaritan but when I see who it is that’s holding the door open for me, I stop short.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s Carter freaking Blackwood. Of course.
He smiles that ridiculously bright, white smile of his and lets out a soft snicker. “I’m fixing a floor for a friend, what are you doing here?”
It’s completely obvious what I’m doing here, seeing as I’m carrying two huge trays of sugar cookies in my arms.
“A friend? You just moved in. How do you have friends already?” I say it a bit harsher than I probably should but honestly, how does he have friends already? James and I were here a good six months before people started really talking to me. It was a year before I could call any of them friends. The edges of Carter’s mouth turn down and his head dips to one side as his shoulders hunch then settle.
“People like me, I guess.”
The smug look on his face is enough to make me want to slap it. Or kiss it. Wait. Not kiss it. I didn’t mean kiss it. Why am I staring at his lips?
“People who don’t want to kill me that is. Are you okay?”
I blink and search my brain, but I�
��m still not quite sure what to say to him, so I extend my arms. “I brought cookies.” As soon as I say the words, I hear them. I sound ridiculous and Carter’s bright eyes crinkle with amusement.
He closes his lids and he breathes the baked goods in. Then hums. The sound of his voice sends a vibration through me and I shiver. I am eternally grateful that he doesn’t see it happen.
His eyes open slowly. When they reach mine, I’m glued to his stare like a deer in headlights.
“Those cookies smell really fucking good, Iris.”
The bedroom eyes catch me off guard and my mouth falls open so I snap it shut. I’m a buffoon with no ability to speak.
“Can I have one?” He reaches out and I balance the platter with one hand and slap his fingers with the other while I find words. A word that is.
“No.”
“Ow.” He pulls his hand away, like a child getting reprimanded, only when we make eye contact again, he doesn’t seem child like to me.
I wouldn’t say he’s angry. He doesn’t exactly laugh, either. And his eyes gleam as he stares at me. I hate his eyes almost as much as I hate his teeth. Maybe more. Dammit, I’m staring, again.
“They’re for Ally’s class,” I tell him. “Fundraiser, I mean bake sale.” I fumble my words. He’s so frustrating.
“Ally? Oh, your daughter.” A light bulb goes off over his head
“Who else?” I’m not sure why I snap at him like that.
He studies me for a brief moment, then the cookies. His mouth turns upward on one side like he’s debating whether he should devour them anyway.
Or me.
The thought of Carter Blackwood devouring me sneaks into my thoughts and I literally choke at where my thoughts went. Then I nearly drop the cookies – again.
“Shit, are you okay?” he asks.
Carter grabs the tray from me with one hand and holds me up with the other while I try to breathe in between sputters. Gail, the six foot something, two hundred pound or so vice principal of Ally’s school, rushes out from behind the front desk when she hears the commotion and pushes my neighbor out of the way. I reach for the cookies but Carter steps away and Gail now has her long, strong arms wrapped tightly around my midsection from behind and is punching me in the diaphragm as hard as she can.
I’m panicked. Not only because I’m not actually choking on anything that needs to come up out of my body but I’m worried Carter is going to disappear with my cookies during the chaos. Regardless, as Gail works her talents on my midsection, I groan and cough and try my best not to puke up my breakfast.
“I don’t think she--” Ah. Carter hasn’t made a get-a-way. I’m slightly relieved, in between heaves, that is.
“I’m a trained professional young man, stand back.” Gail instructs Carter as she lifts me into the air and pumps my stomach again.
My neighbor looks on in horror as my daughter’s vice principal gives me the Heimlich and I cannot get a word out to tell her, I’m not choking, I’m just . . . choking.
“G--” I manage to cough out but it’s not enough.
Carter makes another attempt to explain.
“I really think she was just--”
“I’ve . . . got . . . this.” Gail grunts as she tries to free the non-existent lodged food from my system.
Only by a stroke of sheer luck am I afforded enough air to speak and I yell as loud as my voice will let me. “Gail!”
She lets go and I fall to my knees. I’m weak from struggling against her.
“Did you see it?” she asks the onlookers. “Did you see the food come out? She could still be choking.”
She comes at me, again, determined. I hold my hand up from the ground to stop her from assaulting me again and I gasp for more air. “I’m not . . . choking, Gail.”
A hand lowers, offering to help me up and I take it.
“Technically, you were choking.” Carter whispers as I come into a full standing position. If I could shoot lasers with my eyes right now. He’d be dead.
“Okay people, you heard the woman,” Gail hollers to the crowd, waving them along. “Nobody’s choking here. Go on about your business.”
I’m still holding Carter’s hand as Gail leans in to me. I pull it away. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea. There’s nothing going on between us, after all.
She’s quieter now. “You sure you’re okay Iris? I can have Tilly take a look at you if you want.”
Tilly is the school nurse. I don’t need a nurse, I need a drink. I shake my head and swallow properly this time.
“I’m fine, Gail.” I’m still trying to get my breathing to regulate.
With a nod of her head, she turns and leaves to go make sure order is restored in her school and I’m left with gawking front desk assistants and a Carter Blackwood, who’s still holding my cookie trays. I take them from him and set them on the counter.
“Bake sale, Allison Alden. Fifth period.”
One of the ladies behind the desk nods and takes a piece of paper, writes down what I’ve said and takes the cookies away, giggling with another assistant as they huddle together in the corner of the office. About me, no doubt. I smooth my hair and turn to go. Carter is trying very hard not to laugh.
“What?” I snap.
“That was priceless.” The delight in his voice is comparable to how I’ve reacted when the town’s Christmas tree lights up December twentieth every year. “She’s an animal. How did you even survive that?”
I rub below the underwire of my bra and moan softly, trying not to pay too close attention to the contagious excitement behind Carter’s words.
“I think she cracked a rib.”
And now Carter has lost all control of himself. I’m about to tell him how rude it is to laugh at someone else’s pain when I notice the wall clock behind him.
“Crap, I am so late.” I push past my perfect toothed, crinkled eyed, hard bodied neighbor and rush out of the office without another word to him.
“Hey! Cinderella!” he calls out when I’m about two-thirds of the way to the car. I stop and turn around to see him holding up my purse.
“You might need this later.”
Not only is he smug about it but he makes no attempt to even meet me halfway. I stalk back to him and snatch my bag out of his hand. Then make my second attempt to get back to the car so I can finally get out of here.
“You’re welcome.” The blatant cockiness I remember from the night before is back again.
I don’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t deserve a thank you; this was all his fault anyway. Had he not given me that look that made my blood race and my knees buckle, I wouldn’t have choked on my own saliva. Gail wouldn’t have thought I was dying, consequently, nearly killing me via the Heimlich maneuver. I wouldn’t feel like I’d just done a million sit ups, and I most certainly wouldn’t be late for work the one day this week that my boss expects me to help him with the presentation he’s due to present in about two hours.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Chapter 4. Carter
I shouldn’t be smiling right now. What I should be is perturbed, annoyed, angry even, considering the side job I took on over at Spangler High School exactly didn’t pan out like I’d expected. What was supposed to be a simple repair job of the drama department’s stage turned into an all-afternoon affair. I ended up needing more supplies than I thought I would, so of course I had all the wrong tools and ended up losing money on the damn thing because I didn’t have the heart to tell a public school administrator that I needed more money to cover my costs. Despite my setback, though, I smile.
Why?
Two words. Iris Alden. She’s a pistol, that one. If the look on her face when I opened the school’s front door for her this morning wasn’t enough, the one she shot me when she left was. I felt kind of bad about her choking episode and all, but come on, that was priceless. So I smile while I pack my shit up. I smile as I leave the school for the night. I smile as I drive home.
My bliss is disrupted as I pull up to the house.
“Oh boy.”
I catch the tail end, literally, of Paul the nudist as he rushes inside his home. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to his love of being naked but I’m kind of rooting for the guy. Power to the people and all that. I have to remember not to mention I saw him in all his glory to Iris later on. If I see her that is. I probably won’t see her. Why would I see her?
“Hell.” The garage door sticks when I go to pull it open. I need to get on the stick with installing an automatic door opener for this thing. Not too pricey for an upgrade but it does require a specialty tool which means more money I’ll be dumping into this place that I hadn’t anticipated.
“Ah, well.” I toss my tool bag down and go back to the truck to unload the scraps of wood from today.
My ten year plan includes learning experiences for at least the first three flips or so. I didn’t expect the learning experiences to eat away at my living expenses so quickly, though.
Or Spencer’s.
My phone rings, distracting me from taking a nose dive into self-reflection, and for once, I’m happy to answer it.
“Hey, Frank.”
The hustle and bustle of daytime San Francisco goes on in the background before my uncle responds. It always sounds so sunny there. He always sounds so sunny.
“How’s the flip going, Carter?” His voice blares with enthusiasm that I can tell is accompanied by a wide grin. A distinct contradiction to my father, his brother.
“It’s . . . going,” I abandon the wood for now. “Thanks again for the tip by the way.”
“Glad to help. Anything you need?”
About five thousand dollars? “Nah, I’m good, just ran into a few snags.”
His laugh is deep with experience from the other end of the phone. “Comes with the territory, son.”
He’s right. Even if I’d known before I started, how much this profession would cost me, I still would have done it. I love building things. Always have. In fact, it was Frank who first got me interested in construction, technically. He introduced me to what a hammer and nails were capable of one summer and it’s stuck with me ever since. He taught me to make a birdhouse, the epic first creation of an anxious eight year old. I was so excited when I got home, that I ran straight to dad to show him. Of course, he was too busy prepping for a case he had the next day to even look at what I was holding up for him see. That was the first time I recall wishing Uncle Frank was my dad. So when he calls me son, I really don’t mind.
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