My First My Last My Only

by Denise Carbo

  Instead, I look at my surroundings. The grass around the house is mowed. Fresh areas of dirt and stumps mark the spots where someone removed overgrown trees and shrubs. Hedges nestle against one another in varying shapes. They haven’t been trimmed in a long time, but I can see the remnants of gardens.

  He directs me up a wide set of steps onto the blue stone patio which stretches almost the entire length of the house and towards a set of French doors. “The house is being renovated, so it’s in quite a disarray. Watch your step.”

  Stepping inside, I blink so my eyes will adjust from being outside. A cavernous room greets my gaze. I understand what he means when I notice the walls opened to bare the inside wires and wood, and piles of debris in the middle of the room.

  “Wait here for just a minute while I grab something for you to wear. I have a few items here since this is where I spend most of my days.”

  Mitch jogs off to the left and disappears beyond an archway. Removing the life vest, I step farther into the room rubbing my frigid arms. A granite fireplace with an ornate wooden mantel is centered on the right wall. I hope he isn’t planning to destroy it. There’s a musty smell in the air from disuse, and construction dust coats everything.

  Reappearing with a bundle of gray and black in his arms, he holds them out. “It’s a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and T-shirt. Pretty much all I’ve got here. They’ll probably hang on you but at least they’re clean and dry.”

  He’s donned a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans himself. Looking away, I try not to mourn the loss of seeing his bare chest. I take the clothes from him with a smile. “Thanks.” I refuse to comment on how they might fit. I’m no petite little flower. More like an orange headed giraffe.

  I doubt they’ll be hanging on me. A few days after my eighteenth birthday I had a physical and my doctor told me I was no longer considered overweight. I almost hugged her. I’ll never be dainty. It’s just not in my genes.

  “You can change around that corner. There’s a powder room still intact.”

  Nodding, I trudge off with the dry clothes held out in front of me so they won’t get wet from the sodden clothes dripping from my frame. Intricate crown molding at the top and base of the walls decorates the wide hallway he directed me down. There are several closed white wooden doors with crystal doorknobs I’m itching to peek behind farther along the hall, but the first door is open, and it’s the powder room he mentioned. It’s sweet how he used the old-fashioned term for it.

  Tiny white hexagon shaped tiles dot the floor with little black accents sprinkled throughout. Peeling floral wallpaper covers the walls. A counter spans the length of one wall with a white porcelain sink in the center. Cascading ribbons mold the sink from top to bottom. A shiny brass faucet with the spout and handles shaped into swans perches over the sink.

  After placing the dry clothes on the counter, I shut the door and peel my wet clothes from my body as quickly as I can and drop them onto the floor with my wet shoes. Shivers race over me as I dress in his dry clothes. My bra and panties are soaked and resting in the pile on the floor, so I must go without.

  Let’s face it, I can get by without a bra just fine if I were only more daring. Zipping the black sweatshirt all the way to the top I glance down at my attire. The light gray pants are baggy, and a little long, but I won’t be tripping over the hem nor am I worried about them falling for being too loose.

  Dark wood etched with flowers frames the mirror over the sink stretching the length of the counter. My reflection stares back at me in horror.

  Not only have I lost my baseball cap somewhere in the lake, but there are wet weeds sticking out of my orange hair. Leave it to me to carry the lake’s plant life home with me.

  Chapter Seven

  The all over blush of embarrassment raises my body temperature a few more degrees. Between that and the dry clothes I am no longer shivering. I pluck out the weeds and stuff my unruly hair into a bun on top of my head. Thankfully the water is working, and even warm, so I wash the best I can using the sink. I stoop, collect my clothes, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  Mitch is waiting in the hallway leaning against the wall. I grab the door jamb to prevent another awkward fall.

  “I was debating whether to knock to see if you were okay.” He pushes off from the wall and holds out a plastic bag. “I found this for your wet things.”

  “Thanks.” I take the bag from him, stuff my clothes into it, and clutch the bundle to my chest. I look back up at him.

  He stands with his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “You good?”

  “I’m fine. Most importantly, dry.”

  His smile sends flutters in my chest. I grind my back teeth together. His smile has caused that reaction in me for much longer than I care to admit. Casting my gaze away from him, I tilt my head to the side to peer down the hallway I’m longing to explore.

  “Want a tour?”

  “I’d love one.” The words slip out of my mouth and I wince. I should head home as quickly as possible. “If it’s not too much trouble.” Curiosity wins out. This might be my only chance to see the house I’ve been dreaming of exploring for years.

  “No trouble at all.” He strolls by me. My gaze drops and I can’t help but appreciate the view as he moves past me along the hall. The worn denim cups his well-shaped butt.

  So sue me, I’m only human. Besides looking at and appreciating what God gave him shouldn’t get me in too much trouble.

  Especially when he can’t see me doing it.

  “You coming?” He glances over his shoulder at me still lounging in the doorway.

  “Hmm… oh of course.” Please don’t let him be aware I was ogling him behind his back. Although he must be accustomed to women’s covetous looks considering it was once part of his profession. A particular advertisement comes to mind where he posed for a famous designer. He was on the beach in a tight swimsuit and nothing else but a pair of lowered sunglasses, his intense blue eyes gazing over the top. The ad was for the sunglasses, but I can’t recall a single thing about them.

  I trail behind him and drag my gaze from admiring him to admiring the house. We step through a wide archway into a giant foyer with a marble floor and curved grand stairway. My mouth drops open.

  “The place needs a ton of work, but when I walked into this room, I knew I had to have it. They don’t build houses like this anymore.”

  Wood paneling lines the two-story walls and ceiling. A gigantic crystal chandelier hangs from a chain centered in an ornate ceiling medallion in the middle of the coffered ceiling. “It’s spectacular. All the times I fantasized about this place I never imagined it was this magnificent.”

  “You fantasized about this place?”

  I said that out loud? “Um… well… yeah.”

  His grin ratchets up a few notches. I might not have believed it possible, but damn the man’s smile really can melt hearts. His hand is resting on the carved wooden banister which depicts a vine of roses winding up its base. The woodwork is stunning and intricate. How many hours of labor were required to create this masterpiece?

  “Then I must give you the grand tour. Come on, wait until you see the view from upstairs. They haven’t worked up there yet, so you still get a strong impression of its turn of the last century charm.”

  He takes the stairs two at a time and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. I’d feel the same way if the house was mine.

  Large wooden double doors stand at the top of the stairs. A hallway stretches in either direction with multiple doors off each one culminating in floor to ceiling windows at either end allowing light to pour in.

  He opens the doors to reveal an enormous master bedroom. A fireplace is centered on the wall to the left flanked by two open doors. I can see that they’re both closets. Mitch strides in front of me and across the room to a set of French doors which open onto a wide balcony. He has to lean against the door and give it a shove to get it to open.

  A loud creak sounds befo
re it swings open with a flourish. Mitch steps to the side and holds open the door. “The balcony is safe and sound, I promise.”

  Stepping past him, I can’t help but inhale sharply when a faint scent teases my nose. A masculine mixture of wood shavings, exertion, and him—it’s an aphrodisiac I want more of.

  Metal scrolled railings at waist level edge the balcony which extends the length of the second floor, but it’s the view that captures my attention. From up here, the lake shimmers for miles. The sun is setting and layers of pink and lavender stretch across the horizon.

  A few of the many islands inhabiting the lake are visible. Some are little more than a stand of trees and rocks. Others are several acres with houses on them. What it is like to live on an island? You can’t just hop in your car and go to the store. You have to hop in your boat and then your car unless you want to do all your shopping in the village. It must take an organized soul. A few of the houses are year round so travel gets even more precarious and requires careful planning. I’m not sure I’d enjoy being trapped on the island until the ice is thick enough for snowmobiles. When I run out of something, I want it immediately, not at the whim of the weather. What happens if there is an emergency and someone needs immediate medical care? It’s doubtful a helicopter could find a place to land on the tree clustered islands.

  Mitch leans on the balcony next to me and we both silently enjoy the panoramic view. The mountains surrounding the lake are thick with evergreens. A few houses peek out of the trees on the hill tops, but mostly unspoiled nature fills the vista.

  The air cools and a breeze tickles a lock of hair curling behind my ear. I sense his gaze on me, so I veer back towards the inside of the house.

  I lose count of the number of bedrooms he shows me on the second floor. There’s something unique found in each, whether it be a stained-glass window, a window seat, a quiet alcove, or built in bunk beds in a room meant for kids. Back downstairs, I follow him from room to room as he points out the house’s treasures and explains the renovations he has planned.

  To my everlasting relief, he plans to maintain the house’s grand history. He appreciates its value. My fears he may have purchased it for the land alone are unfounded. Other than asking a question here and there concerning the renovations, I’m relatively silent throughout the tour. The deep timbre of his voice lulls me into a relaxed state. No wonder he was such a successful actor.

  “Have I bored you to tears?”

  I owlishly blink at him as we stand facing each other in the formal dining room. “No, not at all. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you plan to keep all the wonderful elements of the house intact. The house has far surpassed the limits of my imaginings.” I peek towards a swinging door on the side of the room. “Honestly, I’m dying to see the rest of the place, especially the kitchen.”

  “Coming right up.” He pushes through the swinging glass door to reveal a butler’s pantry filled with cabinets and a prep area and sink. It opens into what could easily hold at least three of my parents’ kitchen and their kitchen is large.

  My gaze flits around the room. Where to start? I want to take it all in and start opening cabinets and peering into drawers, but I clench my hands together behind my back instead and stroll around the room.

  “As you can see, the contractors haven’t started in here. I have yet to approve the final layout for the kitchen. Something isn’t quite right. Would you like to look at the architect’s plans sometime and give me your professional opinion?”

  I stare at him and desperately hope he isn’t kidding. Oh, what I could do with this space.

  “From your expression, I’ll take that as a yes?”

  Am I drooling? I close my mouth and smile. “I would love to.”

  “Great, it’s a date then.”

  A date? Did he say date? Yes, he did, but he didn’t mean date date. He meant it as an appointment of sorts, not the man-woman thing.

  Okay, when he offered for me to look at the plans, I envisioned I would take them with me and make notes and hand them back. Nowhere did my imaginings include Mitch being with me while I added my opinions about his kitchen.

  Get it together Franny.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. How about we get a pizza or something on the ride home?”

  He’s planning on giving me a ride home? “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’ve got the kayak and all. I should head back.”

  “Have you looked outside? It’s dark. You can’t kayak home.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ll stick close to shore.”

  “Franny, it’s not safe. You have no lights on the kayak. Boats won’t be able to see you. Not to mention, the temperature is dropping. I’ll drive you home and we can make arrangements to pick up your kayak.”

  One side of my brain knows he is correct, but the other part is busy trying to come up with excuses. I can use my phone for light. But it had been in my pants pocket when I fell into the lake. I haven’t thought to check if it even still functions.

  He’s renovating this house and bought my building. My intention to avoid him is not working, and I admit it wasn’t all that feasible once I found out he was living in the apartment over my bakery.

  The past needs to remain in the past.

  My new life plan is all about moving forward. I can’t do that if I dwell on ancient history and allow it to influence my actions and choices in the present.

  “A ride home would be great, thanks.”

  He leads the way to the front of the house where a blue pickup truck is parked on the circular driveway. I look around for the sports car or luxury sedan I expect Mitch to own, but he strides toward the truck.

  When am I going to stop making assumptions about him or anyone else? Time and experience keep showing me I usually make the wrong ones. Am I missing the female intuition thingy people are always talking about, or is mine asleep on the job? I’d like to have a word with my guardian angel as well. Then again, maybe mine is so overworked making sure I don’t kill myself with all the accidents I somehow end up in the middle of.

  A sharp piece of gravel bites into my bare foot and I wince. I prance my way along the rest of the path and over to the truck where Mitch is waiting.

  “I didn’t think about your bare feet. I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. I’m the one who decided to take a swim in the lake with my shoes on.”

  “So you planned that little swim?”

  I return his smile with a wry one of my own. “Planning had nothing to do with it. It was more like the result of the absence of planning.”

  Mitch chuckles as he holds open the passenger door for me and I haul myself up into the truck and shove the plastic bag with my things on the floor next to my bare feet. Looking up, I stare at the large stone fountain in the center of the loop. A sailboat crests a stone wave. Mitch walks around the front of the truck, climbs into the driver’s seat, and starts the truck. A moment passes before I realize we aren’t going anywhere.

  I glance at him and he quirks one side of his mouth up. “I don’t know where you live.”

  “Oh.” Damn, now I have to admit I still live with my parents. Either that or have him drop me off down the street at a random house and hope he never finds out it wasn’t mine.

  Forcing a tight smile to my lips, I mumble, “I still live with my parents.” Lying isn’t the answer. For one, I suck at it. I was always caught as a kid. And two, he lives in town now, he is bound to find out eventually. The town isn’t that big, and everyone tends to know everyone else’s business.

  New vehicle smell permeates the cab of the truck. The seats are a soft, tan leather. He presses a button on the dash and heat permeates from the top and bottom warming my back and legs. I snuggle back against them and luxuriate in the warmth.

  My car is secondhand, maybe third or fourth hand, a basic sedan with none of the extras. With my strict budget, frills like heated seats, or even adjustable ones are off the list. My driver’s seat has been stuc
k in the same position since I bought it. A few buttons on the side tease me with the option of movement, but I’ve resigned myself to accept they are there just for show.

  “Are you warm enough? I can raise the heat.”

  “No, I’m good, thanks. Can I take this heated seat home with me? I might sleep in it if it were mine. It’s more comfortable than my bed.”

  Ugh, stop talking Franny.

  “I might have napped in the truck last week, but don’t tell anyone. I’m not used to the physical labor of construction. Working out in a gym is a lot different from working in the sun all day on neglected grounds.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  The blinking neon open sign of Joe’s Pizzeria flashes when Mitch drives into the parking lot. “They still sell pizza by the slice?”

  “Um… yeah.” Joe’s is in an old Federal style building. The first floor is the restaurant and the second is a bar. The attic is split into a pair of apartments accessed by two sets of stairs on either side of the building. Maybe one of them is available for me to rent.

  Mitch jumps out of the parked truck and strides to the front door. He did say he was hungry before we left. Thankfully he doesn’t appear to expect me to follow him inside. There is no way I am going in public dressed in his sweatpants and hoodie. Especially with no bra and no shoes. Ha, they wouldn’t allow me in with no shoes, anyway. I have the perfect excuse, not that he even asked.

  The parking lot is full of cars. Is he being mobbed inside by everyone who’s dazzled by the new celebrity in town? The only celebrity, unless you count Annabelle Carpenter. Her claim to fame is the three appearances she made on the local news show as the resident expert on a local bird. She holds court at the library after each appearance and puts up flyers all around town. Mitch might attain her level of celebrity, but then again, to the older generation he might not.

  He steps out of the restaurant smiling at Maria, one of the waitresses, who trails behind him chatting away. She used to live in one of the apartments above the restaurant, I’m not sure if she still does. About three years behind me in school, she was a popular girl, a cheerleader. Maria holds the glass door open with one hand and props the other on her hip. Short black hair swings against her jawline as she tilts her head and winks at him. Dangly earrings rest against her cheek and a nose ring flashes in the overhead light.