Tall, Dark And Difficult

by Patricia Coughlin

  So. Has-beens of distinction were Rose Davenport’s specialty. How very fitting, he thought, irritable as only a man who’s recently been yanked from a sound sleep and slammed his head into a wall can be.

  Leaving the engine running, Rose hopped from behind the wheel and grinned up at him. Not, he couldn’t help noting, with anything resembling the lustful enthusiasm she had exhibited in his dream.

  “Did I wake you?” she called to him.

  “No,” he retorted, the rasp in his voice something only black coffee, and lots of it, would ease. “I always get up at…” He squinted over his shoulder at the bedside clock. “Six-thirty?” he bellowed. “Woman, do you know what time it is? It’s six-freakin’-thirty in the morning.”

  “Six-freakin’-thirty-five, actually,” she corrected. “Which means we’re already running late, so move your butt, Griffin.”

  “Late for what?”

  She threw her arms in the air. “Life, Griffin, life. Look at this beautiful morning, the sky, smell the ocean, hear the buzz of the bees. Aren’t you just revving to get out and be part of it?”

  He yawned. “No.”

  “I thought you military types were supposed to be early risers.”

  “Think again,” he suggested, turning away.

  “I have coffee.”

  Griff hesitated and turned back to see her reach into the truck for a steel thermos.

  As he looked on, she removed the cap and sniffed. “Mmm.”

  “Black?”

  “And strong as sin. There’re homemade blueberry muffins, too.”

  “You made muffins for me?” he asked, surprised.

  “Not specifically for you. I made them for a brunch I had a couple of weeks ago and there were some left in the freezer.”

  “I see.”

  “I thawed a couple just for you,” she added.

  “Thanks,” he said, feeling considerably less obliged to be polite than he had a few seconds ago. “Leave ’em with the coffee on the porch. I’ll be down in a few hours.”

  “That’s quite an imagination you have there. You can’t actually believe I rose at the crack of dawn to fetch you breakfast.”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  “Get real, Griffin. This is Saturday. In a few hours we’ll have thirty miles and a morning’s work under our belts.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yard sales, dozens of them,” she added, waving the classified section of the newspaper at him.

  “Thanks, I already have more yard than I know what to do with.” He yawned again, wondering if he crawled back into bed right then, the dream Rose would pick up where the real Rose had so rudely interrupted.

  “Very funny.”

  He frowned. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a yard sale is?’

  “I have a vague idea,” he admitted, “and no interest in learning more.”

  “But you do still have an interest in acquiring the pieces to complete Devora’s porcelain collection.”

  “True,” he countered, his smile amused, “but I hardly expect to find them amidst piles of used baby clothes and old exercise equipment.”

  She grinned broadly. “That’s the beauty of this business, Griffin—you can always expect the unexpected. You know what the seasoned veterans say…”

  “I’ll bite. What do seasoned veterans say?”

  “They say when it comes to junk, you just never know.”

  “And on that less than inspiring note…”

  “Who do you think coined the phrase ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’?”

  “A woman.”

  “Wrong. A yard sale enthusiast. In case you’ve forgotten, Griffin, you’re the one who asked me for help. You’re a desperate man, remember? And desperate men can’t afford to overlook a single possibility, no matter how insignificant it may appear to the eye of a raw, still wet-behind-the-ears novice.”

  The raw, still wet-behind-the-ears novice resisted the urge to toss something out the window at her.

  “So now that you’re up to speed on the day’s agenda, let’s get cracking,” she ordered, tossing the thermos and newspaper back into the truck. “Our first stop is an early-bird special in Middletown.”

  “I don’t even want to think about birds for another five or so hours.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “To shower and dress and get down here.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  “Would it help, from a motivational standpoint, if I pointed out that you are paying me by the hour…and that the meter’s been running since I turned into your drive?”

  He glared at her, but didn’t bother to protest. She didn’t seem to be in a capitulating state of mind this morning…if she ever was. Beneath Rose Davenport’s soft, pretty facade beat the heart of a cutthroat venture capitalist. Pride alone demanded he not allow her to bamboozle him out of any more money than absolutely necessary.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Did you really make these muffins?” Griff asked, polishing off his second and washing it down with a swig of very fine coffee.

  “Sure did,” replied Rose. “With frozen blueberries, because that’s all I could get. You ought to taste my muffins in August.”

  Was that an invitation?

  Griff glanced across the small cab at her. Her words held an erotic appeal that he was pretty sure she did not intend, and as tempting as it was to explore the matter further, he was smart enough not to risk it. His belly was pleasantly full, the coffee was just as hot and strong as she’d promised, and a taste of Rose Davenport would top the morning off nicely. Which was just one reason he put the notion firmly from his mind.

  He was in a better mood than he’d been in a while, a better mood than he’d have thought possible considering the morning’s inauspicious start. It was as close to content as he hoped to get, and he was in no hurry for it to end.

  There was also the matter of the damn birds. Because of them, he was more or less at her mercy…as his reluctant presence this morning demonstrated. A smart man knows when to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself.

  For several moments they drove in silence, across the bridge from the mainland to the tiny island of Jamestown. On the other side, another bridge connected Jamestown to Aquidneck Island—home to several towns, of which Newport was the most famous—and yet another, the Mount Hope Bridge, completed the circle. Rhode Islanders were geographically indisposed to driving long distances, and the trio of bridges helped to bring the entire state within their thirty-minute limit.

  The water was calm and blue, the fresh air and the hum of tires on pavement was lulling. The view of Rose’s long, suntanned legs was a bonus. He couldn’t recall when he’d seen someone work a clutch so captivatingly. He also realized that he had a real weakness for faded denim coveralls hacked off above the knee.

  He helped himself to another muffin from the napkin-lined basket on the seat between them. “Devora used to make blueberry pancakes for breakfast every Saturday morning,” he remarked, surprising himself by voicing the thought even as it drifted through his head.

  Rose smiled as she downshifted and changed lanes.

  “It’s one of the things I remember best about summers here. It was almost a ritual. On Friday we got the berries, either picking them ourselves or walking to that little market down on Haverly. The fruit was piled on round tables out front with big canvas umbrellas for shade— Is that place still there?” he interrupted himself to ask.

  Rose nodded. “Umbrellas and all.”

  He smiled, oddly pleased. “It was my job to wash the berries and pick off the stems, while she made the batter. I remember she had this special bowl, tan with two blue stripes. And she always wore the same apron,” he went on, gazing out at the sailboats on the bay, seeing instead the past as it unfolded inside him, one fragment of memory at a time
.

  “It was black, with bunches of blueberries and green leaves all over it. It matched the Saturday morning place mats.” He gave a short laugh. “I can still see them, with her white everyday china plates on top, and in the center of the table was this special pitcher for the syrup. Damn, I haven’t thought of any of this in years.”

  He wasn’t quite sure why he was permitting himself to think about it now, much less share it with someone else. If Rose had spoken or pressed him in even the most innocent way, he would have shut down instantly. But she didn’t, and her easy, tranquil silence was difficult to resist.

  “It was only as big as my hand,” he recalled, “and shaped like a bunch of grapes, with a stem for a handle. But for a kid, grapes looked enough like blueberries to add to the occasion. It was a great little pitcher.”

  “Majolica,” she said quietly.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I know which pitcher you’re talking about. It’s Majolica, a type of very colorful ceramic with a special glaze.”

  “Is it as overpriced as the Meissen stuff?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Good.” He turned to look out the window once more before adding, “Because one Saturday morning I dropped it and the handle broke.”

  They passed meandering stone walls and wild roses and a field of grazing cows.

  “I ran,” he said. “As soon as I saw that broken handle, I took off and ran all the way down to the water, to a little opening between two rocks where I knew no one else could fit. I didn’t wait around to hear her scream at me for being such a klutz.”

  “It’s hard to imagine Devora screaming,” she observed, stopping the truck to toss a token into the toll basket at the head of the Newport Bridge.

  “She didn’t. She simply followed me and stood at the edge of the rocks, her apron whipping in the breeze, and said, ‘Come along, Hollis. All this exercise has made me hungry, and I abhor cold, soggy pancakes.’”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went along, of course. This was my aunt Devora, remember.”

  Rose laughed and nodded.

  “When we got back to the house, the broken pitcher was on the counter. I took one look at it and started bawling, so hard I couldn’t even tell her I was sorry.” His mouth curved into a small smile. “Devora just wiped my face with her apron. ‘Oh, that,’ she said, waving it off as if it wasn’t the special Saturday morning pitcher I had broken. ‘I have some glue that will take care of that. Perhaps you can fix it for me after breakfast.’”

  “Did you?”

  He nodded. “But not very well, I’m afraid. It didn’t matter. The next week it was back on the table, and she never said another word about it. It was not the reaction I’d expected.”

  They were driving through a neighborhood of large, older homes. Rose stopped at a crossroads to glance at the map she had prepared, then turned left.

  “What did you expect?”

  “For all hell to break loose. My mother was…” He hesitated. “I guess Devora put it most delicately. She used to say my mother was high-strung. That’s why I started coming to Wickford in the first place. To give Mom a break. And because Devora said Manhattan was no place for a rambunctious young boy to spend the summer.”

  “Your family lived in the city?”

  “Central Park West.”

  She whistled softly. “Very Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, Griffin.”

  “Lifestyles of the Ruthless and Neurotic is more like it,” he retorted. “And with no fishing, no sand crabs, no blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings. I liked Devora’s place a lot better.”

  “I know she adored having you. Did you get to come often?”

  “I was away at school most of the year,” he explained, detecting her surprise. “At first I stayed with Devora for a month, then the whole summer, and eventually I ended up here for just about every school break, as well. I even spent a couple of Christmases with Devora when my mother and stepfather were skiing in the Alps.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  He shook his head. “My mother wasn’t the type to make the same mistake twice.”

  “That must have made it even harder for you. Being away from your mother for Christmas, I mean.”

  “Hard?” Griff laughed. “It was great.”

  “I take it you’re not much of a skier.”

  “I ski fine. It was more a case of knowing where I was welcome and where I wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

  “Don’t be. I made peace with all that, and with my mother, years ago. She is a brilliant, fascinating and charming woman, whose instincts were more Machiavellian than maternal.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I guess you had to be there,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, I was better off than some other kids I knew at boarding school. At least I had someplace to go where I knew I was wanted. I had Devora.”

  She pulled to the curb and parked in front of a house with yellow shutters and a driveway full of junk.

  “I owe you an apology,” she told him.

  “I accept,” Griff countered, nodding magnanimously. “Just don’t try it at the crack of dawn again next Saturday.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “You actually think I would apologize for dragging your lazy butt out of bed?”

  “What else?”

  “For misjudging you. For doubting, even for an instant, your sincerity in wanting to complete the Aureolis collection on Devora’s behalf.”

  “Oh. That.” He shifted uncomfortably, the truck suddenly feeling a lot smaller and warmer than it had previously. “It’s no big deal, really. Just something I feel I have to do.”

  It was the truth, he assured himself. Just the same, he avoided direct eye contact with her as he said it, feigning great interest in the driveway, where several people had already gathered.

  Something half hidden behind a sorry-looking vacuum cleaner caught his eye. “Hey, look,” he exclaimed. “A bird. Let’s check it out before someone grabs it.”

  She peered in the direction he indicated. “Your enthusiasm is commendable, Griff, but I’m afraid that bird is a little too big to be an Aureolis. Like, say, two feet too big. Besides which, it’s a flamingo.” She leaned forward to get a better look. “Albeit an interesting one. Besides the Piping Plover, which you already researched, we’re looking for a Zebra Finch and a Purple Martin.”

  “It’s an omen,” he insisted, reaching for his cane and shoving the door open. “Birds of a feather and all that. Haven’t you heard that other old yard sale saying… ‘Where there’s a Flamingo, a Piping Plover is never far away’?”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” she said, chuckling and shaking her head as she climbed from the truck. “But I’m definitely monitoring your caffeine intake from now on.”

  Rose worked her way up one side of the drive and down the other. Griff, trailing behind, observed her technique. Thorough but efficient, he decided, watching her pass by rusted tools and racks of clothes. From three boxes stuffed with dishes, she extracted a single teacup. She ran her fingertip around the rim, turned it over and squinted at the bottom, held it up to the sun and peered at it with pursed lips, before returning it to the box and moving on.

  He did some rummaging on his own, pretending interest, happy when she reappeared by his side.

  “All set?” she asked.

  “Looks like you are,” he observed, indicating the large brown paper bag she was holding. “Tell me you’ve got a Piping Plover in there.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry…but that reminds me…”

  Thrusting the bag at him, she dashed across the drive to gently scoop up the flamingo. “I nearly forgot her.”

  “I thought you said we didn’t need a flamingo.”

  “I said you didn’t need a flamingo. I, however, am quite captivated by old Gladys here.”

  “Gladys? You’ve already named her?”

  “She sort of spoke to me while I was checkin
g her out.”

  “What did she say? ‘Hi, my name is Gladys’?”

  “Well, not quite that directly, but yes. It was more of a cosmic thing. A psychic connection.”

  “I see,” he lied. “How do you know it isn’t a male flamingo? Maybe it was saying its name was Glen. Or Gary.”

  “Because,” she said, shifting the pink bird so he could get a better look. “See this spot on her neck where someone glued her back together?”

  “Yeah…looks to me like she has grounds to sue.”

  “I’m going to try to sand it and touch it up, but if it doesn’t work, I’m going to make her a pearl choker to cover it. There’s a gold seashell clasp I’ve had hanging around for ages, just begging for an interesting assignment.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? That explains everything.”

  “It explains how I know for sure she’s a Gladys and not a Glen or a Gary. I don’t think I could live with a psychic, cross-dressing flamingo, could you?”

  For a split second, Griff actually found himself thinking about it. That could not be a good sign.

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” he muttered, taking his place on the seat beside Gladys and slamming the door behind him.

  It was several stops later—Griff had lost count—when he got around to asking about the truck’s custom paint job. “At first, I thought it was a real quilt hanging out the back.”

  “That’s the point. You’re supposed to think it’s real,” she told him. “It’s trompe l’oeil.”

  “Trompe l’oeil,” he repeated, his tone sardonic. “The guys at the body shop must have fought for that job.”

  “Actually, I painted it myself.”

  “Why?”

  She laughed. “I suppose for the same reason I do most things…creative impulse. I thought the truck lacked character, so I added some. It’s also something that grabs attention and sticks in folks’ minds.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “That’s an edge in my business. When it comes time to clean out the attic or sell Aunt Fanny’s silver, people remember the truck, and I get a call. Of course, the name Second Hand Rose doesn’t hurt, either,” she added. “Since it’s already a part of the vernacular, the visual image of the truck helps cement it in people’s minds.”