Drive Me Wild

by Melanie Harlow

  “Yes. Is this Frannie?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry it took me a while to get back to you. Between my shop and my three stepdaughters, I rarely get a spare minute.”

  “That’s okay. I hope it’s all right that Cheyenne gave me your number.”

  “Of course! She called me this morning and told me about you, and I’m convinced this has to be fate, because I literally just said to my husband the other night, ‘I could really use some full-time help at the shop this fall.’” She laughed and lowered her voice. “I’m pregnant with twins, due in March.”

  I gasped. “Oh my goodness! Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it, you know?”

  “I bet.”

  “Anyway, I have someone working for me who’s really talented but she’s going back to school in a week.”

  “I’m sort of committed here in Bellamy Creek until Labor Day,” I hedged.

  “No problem,” Frannie said. “I can cover things until you’re ready to start. Would there be a day you could come up to Traverse City and interview? We could talk about the position and make sure it’s the right fit?”

  “I’d love that! I’ll need to look at places to live too. I’m sort of . . . starting over from scratch, so to speak.”

  “I totally understand, and I’ve lived here all my life, so I can help.”

  My throat lumped up. “Thank you so much, Frannie. I’m about to cry. You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “You’re very welcome. Cheyenne told me your story, and I completely sympathized. I had to get out from under my parents’ roof and do my own thing too. It’s not easy.”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard, you’re crazy successful, so I know I could learn a lot working for you. I have to wait for my car to be fixed before I can get to Traverse City, so would next weekend be okay?”

  “Sure! How about next Saturday around four o’clock? Week from tomorrow?”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  I thanked her again and ended the call, put the interview date in my calendar, and allowed myself a little victory dance. Then I turned on some Kacey Musgraves and hummed along as I made dough for a galette, and while it chilled I put together a filling with spinach, caramelized onions, white beans, and Gruyère.

  While it was in the oven, Griffin came up the stairs, stopped at the top, and sniffed. “What is that smell? It’s fucking amazing.”

  “It’s dinner.” I turned down the music and continued rinsing a bunch of grapes.

  “You made dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you wanted to go for a drive.”

  “I do.” I transferred the grapes to a plastic bag. “That’s why I’m packing us a picnic in the basket Mrs. Applebee sent our wedding gift in. Got an old blanket we could use?”

  “I think so. Try the hall closet.”

  “Okay.” I dried my hands and turned to face him, bursting with my news. “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I talked to Frannie MacAllister, the woman with the coffee shop near Cloverleigh Farms, and she is hiring! I’m going up there to meet her for an interview next weekend!”

  “That’s awesome.”

  “Isn’t it?” I twirled around. “I’m so happy, Griffin. Finally, something went right! I feel like it’s a sign!”

  “Good.”

  Dizzy, I leaned back against the counter and looked at him, unable to stop smiling. “This is the best day ever.”

  He grinned at me. “And it’s not over yet.”

  An hour later, I squealed with delight as Griffin pulled up in the front of his building in a bright red vintage pickup truck, windows down. “Oh my God! It’s adorable!”

  After throwing the truck in park, he got out and came around to the sidewalk. “Can a truck be adorable?”

  “This one can.” But it was Griffin who made me sigh as he opened the passenger door for me. His damp hair was combed but pieces kept flopping over his forehead, his faded blue jeans hugged his butt, the blue of his fitted T-shirt matched his watercolor eyes—my heart nearly jumped out of my chest as he reached for the basket in my arms.

  “Here, let me take that.” He placed it on the front seat and offered me a hand getting in.

  I tried to climb up without flashing my underwear at him, not easy in the short white sundress I wore—although, I admit, I’d chosen the dress on purpose since Griffin seemed to like looking at my legs. In fact, we were only at the first stop sign when I caught him staring.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  “Thanks. I know how you like me in a white dress.”

  His eyes rose from my legs to my face. “Funny.”

  I slipped my sunglasses on. “And all yours for the whole night. Lucky you.”

  He shook his head, grinning as he focused out the windshield again. “Lucky me.”

  For about twenty minutes, we just drove down country roads with the windows down, listening to the truck’s scratchy AM radio as the sun sank lower in the sky. We didn’t talk much, but that was okay with me—I was content to watch the scenery roll by, hum along to old-timey tunes, and inhale the fresh air. I felt happier than I had in a long time.

  Eventually, he turned off the highway onto a dirt road. Another mile or so down, he turned into a driveway blocked by a rusty gate with a PRIVATE PROPERTY sign on it. Griffin put the truck in park and said, “Be right back.”

  He opened the gate, pulled the truck just beyond it, then closed it behind us.

  “Whose property is this?” I asked once we were moving. The road curved through trees, up and down gentle hills.

  “It’s Beckett’s. He bought the land a couple years back—it borders one end of his farm—and put in a four-acre pond.”

  “For swimming?”

  “Well, you can swim in it, but mostly for water storage and irrigation. He stocked it with fish last summer and told us we could come hook our dinner whenever we want to.”

  I laughed. “Well, no pressure. I packed plenty of food.”

  Through a clearing up ahead, I saw the pond—a huge, oblong body of water with a wooden dock at the near end. The breeze rippled the surface of the water, and a few geese floated along in the center of it.

  Griffin parked the truck and got out, wandering a few steps toward the pond. I hopped out too, following him, looking around from the water to the trees to the sky. The light was golden and soft, the air warm and tranquil. The only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves, the crickets warming up their evening chorus, and the occasional call of a seagull overhead. “Wow. This is really beautiful.”

  “My dad almost bought this property.”

  “Really?” I looked over at his strong profile.

  “Yeah. He wanted to build a house on it. Retire here.”

  “Did he change his mind?”

  Griffin shook his head. “He was gone before he got the chance.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hesitated, but then moved closer, slipping my arm through his and tipping my head against his shoulder. “I like hearing about your dad. Tell me something else about him.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. What’s a lesson he taught you that you still think about?”

  He was silent a minute. “Never let a vehicle leave your shop unless you would be comfortable putting your family in it on the highway.”

  “I love that.”

  “Treat every little old lady like she’s your grandmother.”

  “Especially the ones who forget their bowling balls in their trunks.”

  He smiled slightly. “And everybody starts out as the ‘stack the tires’ guy, even the garage owner’s son.”

  “He wanted to teach you a good work ethic.” I squeezed his arm. “And he did. He’d be so proud of you.”

  “He’d have loved this.” Griffin’s eyes scanned the pond, the land, the trees beyond. “He’d have built a house over t
here, a barn over that way, kept a little rowboat tied up at the dock.”

  I could see it, everything he described. I knew he could too.

  “He always said he wanted to spend his golden years fishing, tinkering with old cars, and playing with his grandkids.”

  “I bet he would have been an awesome grandpa.”

  “Yeah. He was a great dad.”

  I took a breath and decided to be brave. “You’d be a great dad too.”

  He didn’t say anything right away. “Well, life never goes as planned, does it?” Then before I could dig in deeper, he went on, “Should we eat?”

  “Sure.”

  But we stood there a moment longer looking at the water, and he surprised me by taking my hand before turning around and walking back to the truck.

  Thirteen

  Blair

  “You packed real plates for a picnic?” Griffin stared as I unloaded our basket onto the red plaid blanket we’d spread out in the bed of the old pickup.

  “Yes. Picnic like the French. That’s my motto.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Kneeling, I set out plates and napkins, the galette and grapes. “Besides, you didn’t have paper plates. You did, however, have plenty of plastic forks.”

  “One of the many benefits of frequent takeout. So we’re using real plates and plastic forks?”

  “I said you had them. I didn’t say I packed them.” I pulled two real forks from the basket, the knife I’d included for slicing the galette, the bottle of Moët & Chandon from Mrs. Applebee, and two wine glasses, which I’d wrapped in kitchen towels. “Can you open the champagne?”

  He took the bottle from me and carefully popped the cork. “All this is way too fancy to be called a picnic. A picnic is, like, fried chicken and corn on the cob. Potato salad. Beer cans.”

  “Not if I’m planning it.” After taking my sandals off and tossing them to the ground, I set out the glasses and poured us each some champagne. Setting the bottle aside, I lifted my glass and sat back on my heels. “What should we toast? Our wedded bliss?”

  “Why not?” He grinned as he touched his glass to mine. “To the wife I never knew I wanted.”

  I giggled. “And probably still don’t.”

  “You’re not so bad.” His eyes held mine as we drank, and a funny feeling tugged at my chest—almost like sadness or regret. I realized I was already dreading our goodbye.

  But I didn’t want to think about that yet.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, setting my glass down. “I’m excited for you to try this. It’s one of my favorite things to make.”

  While I was slicing the galette, he pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and frowned at it. “It’s my mother. Do I have to answer it?”

  Laughing, I set a plate in front of him. “Probably.”

  Grumbling, he touched the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Mom.” He looked at me. “Yes. She’s right here.”

  I smiled and added a slice of galette to my plate along with a small bunch of grapes.

  “Okay, I’ll tell her.” He paused and held the phone away from his ear while she rambled on. “It’s fine, Mom. Not a problem. I have to go.”

  A full minute later, he was still trying to hang up, his eyes closed in frustration. “I know. I heard you. I won’t. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.” He jabbed a finger at the screen and tossed his phone aside.

  Laughing, I popped a grape in my mouth. “What’s going on with her?”

  “She wants you to know that she’s very sorry, but she won’t have my old room ready for you this week, because she’s coming down with something, and she really doesn’t have the energy to deal with the mess right now. Nor does she want to expose you to whatever germs she has. She’s not sure what it is, but she’s positive it’s very contagious.”

  I smiled. “Oh, dear.”

  “She also wanted me to know that she’s called around to absolutely everyone in town who might have space to rent, but didn’t have any luck.”

  “Well, it was nice of her to try.”

  Griffin grabbed his glass and chugged champagne. “I’m positive she didn’t make a single phone call.”

  “Listen, it’s fine. Tomorrow I’ll call the motel on Highway 31 again. Maybe they’ve had something open up.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not putting you at the motel, Blair.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, you still don’t have a car. How would you get to work?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly, fussing with the hem on my dress, bummed that the reason he didn’t want me to move to the motel was because I wouldn’t be able to get to work.

  “I’d have to come get you every morning and take you back every night. It’s not convenient. Plus I don’t like the idea of you staying alone at that motel.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I’m not convinced it would be safe. Neither is my mother—in fact, she is suddenly sure Highway 31 is teeming with serial killers who will murder you in your sleep. She made me promise to keep you at my place.”

  “Oh.”

  Safety and convenience and a promise to his mother.

  Not sexy.

  “Listen, I’m sure I’ll be fine at the motel,” I said, smoothing my dress over my thighs. “It’s only for a few weeks. And maybe I can rent a car or something.”

  “Blair.”

  I refused to meet his eyes, embarrassed that I was hurt over this. “Anyway, I’ll figure it out. Sorry this is falling on you.”

  “Hey.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist. “I want you to stay with me.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I should have said that first. Sorry.” He lifted his shoulders. “I’m not good at saying that stuff out loud.”

  “That’s okay.”

  He smiled, a crooked little half-smirk. “Come here.”

  I let him tug me toward him, carefully crawling over our picnic so our lips could meet. His kiss was soft and sweet, desire mixed with apology. Pulling back a little, I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For being so good to me. I promise you will not be stuck with me forever.”

  “Let’s not worry about it now, okay?”

  “Okay.” Kissing him once more, I giggled when I heard his stomach roar like an angry lion. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Good.” I sat back again and picked up my fork. “Dig in.”

  “What is this called?” he asked, looking at the galette on his plate. “It looks like dessert.”

  “It’s galette. It’s a pastry, but it’s savory. It’s got onions and spinach and Gruyère cheese. Taste it.”

  He stuck a forkful in his mouth and moaned. “Fuck, that’s good.”

  “Right? It’s like dinner and dessert had a baby.” I dug into mine too. “I make all kinds of these, some sweet and some savory. They’re perfect for lunch. And picnics. They’re good hot or cold.”

  Griffin’s was half gone already. “I could eat a whole one by myself.”

  I laughed. “Have as much as you’d like. I made it for you.”

  As the sun went down, the gulls quieted and the crickets got noisier. We ate and drank, made plans for painting the lobby tomorrow after the garage closed, and discussed the possibility of Andy taking on the task of social media.

  “Would I have to pay him more?” Griffin asked, forking up his last bite.

  “Well, yes. But it’s going to be worth it. Think of it as an advertising cost.”

  He grumbled under his breath but eventually conceded. “Fine. You can ask him.”

  When we were full, I packed up the leftovers while Griffin poured the last of the champagne into our glasses. We moved the basket out of the way and sat hip to hip, our legs stretched out in front of us, my bare feet and Griffin’s boots crossed at the ankle. The light was dusky and purple now, the surface of the water totally calm.

  I sipped my
champagne. “Can I ask you something?”

  “I feel like I’m going to regret this, but okay.”

  “Earlier, when I mentioned that you’d make a great dad, you said something about life not going as planned.”

  Silence.

  “What did you mean by that?”

  He shrugged. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

  “So did you think about having a family at one point?”

  He finished his champagne before answering, then reached over to drop the empty glass into the basket. “There was a time in my life I thought I would.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Was it with Kayla? Cheyenne mentioned her last night, and—”

  “Jesus Christ, my sister has a big mouth, just like everyone else in this town. I said I don’t want to talk about it.” His tone was edged with anger, which should have been my cue to shut up, but of course, I didn’t.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I was just wondering because—”

  “Well, stop wondering, okay? You don’t know me at all. You met me three fucking days ago. You have no idea whether I’d make a good father or not, and it doesn’t fucking matter, because I don’t want kids.”

  “Got it. Sorry.”

  “This isn’t real, you know,” he snapped. “This thing with you and me isn’t real. It’s just a joke, and it’s temporary.”

  I nodded, feeling like he’d suddenly pulled a knife and gutted me. Hugging my knees, I stared straight ahead. My throat grew unbearably tight, but I refused to cry.

  Thirty horrible seconds passed, and then he flopped onto his back. Covered his face with his hands. “Fuck, Blair.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “I’m an asshole.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did. But I get it—a girl like me probably does seem like a joke to you.”

  He sat up and exhaled. “I didn’t say you were a joke. I said us—I meant the marriage thing.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Again, he rubbed his face with both hands. “Look, I don’t like talking about the past. With anyone, not just you. And the whole thing about having a family is something I get all the time from my mother, so it sets me off fast. I’m sorry.”