“Guy Falls?” Aspen answered.
“Oh, sure, I remember Guy! So he passed on, did he?”
“He did. About two years ago.”
“Bless his little heart,” the woman said. Aspen’s smile broadened. For a moment, she was certain the little elderly woman was Mrs. Claus. “Now…are you just bringing it in for a regular cleaning or is something amiss?”
“It sticks at one o’clock,” Aspen answered. “I was careful not to overwind it, so I don’t think that’s the problem. But it makes a big thunk sound and then sticks before it’s able to strike the hour.”
“I think you’re right. Probably just needs a cleaning,” Mrs. Claus said. “But we’ll call you if it’s anything else…before we do anything too costly.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Aspen said.
“Well, let’s get a ticket filled out for you.” Aspen watched as the women moistened the tip of an ancient-looking pencil with her tongue and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Aspen Falls.”
“Aspen Falls,” the woman repeated as she wrote on a yellow claim check pad. “Phone number?”
“Eight nine one, one six nine eight.”
“…one six…nine…eight,” the woman repeated. “And we think we just need a good cleaning?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Aspen said, trying not to giggle. She didn’t know why she felt like giggling. It was just that some odd delight was skipping around in her chest.
“Now,” Mrs. Claus began, tearing the claim ticket along the perforated line, “here’s your ticket.” She handed the small yellow claim ticket to Aspen and added, “We’ll call you when it’s ready…unless there’s something else wrong, of course.”
“Thank you,” Aspen said.
“Oh, and you keep the key, honey,” Mrs. Claus said. Aspen watched as the little lady carefully opened the door to the pendulum housing and removed the winding key. “Put that key some place safe and sound,” she said, handing the key to Aspen.
“I will,” Aspen giggled. She couldn’t understand why she felt so giddy. It was the atmosphere, she was sure—and Mrs. Claus.
“Now, we’re open six days a week,” Mrs. Claus said, taping the other half of the claim ticket to the glass covering the clock face. “But the master watchmaker is only here Monday through Friday to work on clocks. But you can pick it up on a Saturday if you need to.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Aspen said. The little lady peered over the top of her half-frames, smiled at Aspen, and then looked up when a tiny bell sounded at the front door.
“Well, speak of the devil,” she said. “Here he is now. Did you have a good run, honey?” she said, looking past Aspen to whoever had entered the building.
“Yep,” came a deep, masculine response from behind.
Mrs. Claus smiled, her eyes dancing with delight as she looked over her half-rims to Aspen. “That’s my grandson. Gave up bull riding for watchmaking…thank the Lord. Though my husband would’ve been happy either way.”
Aspen smiled, delighted with the woman’s countenance.
“He goes out running every day during the lunch hour. Needs to move about a bit after working on clocks all morning, I suppose.”
Aspen’s smile faded a bit. She could hear the approach of Mrs. Claus’s grandson behind her. For some reason, the hair on the back of her neck prickled a little—a good prickle.
“Hey, Gramma,” a man’s voice greeted. The man stepped up to the counter and stood beside Aspen. She felt strange—overly warm.
“You remember Guy Falls, don’t you, Rake?” Mrs. Claus asked.
Aspen gasped and quickly looked to the man who had stepped up to the counter beside her.
“Yeah,” Rake Locker answered his grandmother.
“Well, this is his niece…Aspen. She’s brought his old French Westminster box in for a cleaning.”
Aspen closed her gaping mouth as the gorgeous Rake Locker leaned one elbow on the counter and proceeded to study her.
An amused grin spread across his delicious-looking mouth as he said, “Hey there, arachnophobia girl.”
“Hi,” Aspen managed to respond. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer was locked up in her chest. He was so close—so tall—so fabulous!
“You two know each other?” Mrs. Claus asked.
“Kind of…I guess,” Aspen stammered when Rake Locker didn’t answer—only continued to stare at her with an amused grin still complementing his handsome face.
“We’ve met twice before, Gramma,” Rake explained. “Once in the park and then the other night at the rodeo.”
“Well, I don’t know where the arachnophobia comes in,” Mrs. Claus began, “but this is my grandson, Rake Locker. Rake, this is Aspen Falls. She’s Guy Falls’s niece.”
“It’s nice to officially meet you, Miss Falls,” Rake said, offering Aspen his hand.
Aspen mustered every ounce of self-control she could to keep her hand from trembling as she placed it in his. His hand was strong, callused, and warm. His touch sent a thrill racing down her spine.
“And you too, Mr. Locker,” Aspen said.
Rake released her hand, and she watched as he studied the clock on the counter. “I remember this clock,” he said. “My grampa used to work on it. A French Westminster box clock…walnut finish…approximately 1880 or 1881. It’s got a deep, very mellow hour strike, if I remember correctly.”
Aspen felt her lips part, her mouth gaping open just a bit with astonishment. This guy was a watchmaker? She couldn’t believe it! Most drop-dead gorgeous guys she’d ever met—and she’d never met one as drop-dead gorgeous as this one—owned some sort of corporate career. That or a sports career of some kind. Furthermore, how could a clock guy know anything about wild cow milking? Her mind was spinning with puzzlement.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
Aspen closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “It sticks,” she managed. “At one.”
Rake Locker’s handsome brow puckered into a slight frown. “Probably just needs to be cleaned,” he said.
A stronger whiff of thyme scented the air suddenly, relaxing Aspen just a bit. So he was a watchmaker. He was still gorgeous—which meant, of course, that he was shallow and vain to some degree. All unusually handsome men were. Still, he didn’t seem to be conceited. Then again, she’d heard him speak—what—three times?
“Did your uncle have you bring this in for him?” he asked. She watched as he carefully pivoted the clock on the counter and studied it further.
“No,” Aspen answered. “He gave it to me…about a year before he passed away.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rake said, a frown puckering his brow again. “Still, I’m glad to see the clock is in good hands. Most people don’t appreciate clocks anymore.” He looked at her and smiled, sending her heart into palpitations. “The fact you still have it and care enough to bring it in here says a lot for your character, in my opinion.”
“Well, th-thank you,” Aspen stammered. She gritted her teeth for a moment, mortified by the blush she felt rising to her cheeks. “But…it just needed to be fixed.”
“Sadly, most people don’t understand clocks these days,” Rake’s grandmother sighed. “They either let them fade away to nothing or value the money the timepiece or clock will bring…more than the clock itself.”
“This one would probably go for as much as three grand,” Rake said.
“You’re kidding me,” Aspen exclaimed. An odd sort of anxiety welled in her for a moment.
Rake chuckled, and she looked from the clock back to him.
“See there? Now I’ve scared you,” he said. “Before you came in here, you loved this clock because it was a really nice clock…a clock a favorite uncle gave to you. Now you know what it’s worth. Don’t like knowing, do you?”
Aspen smiled at him. It seemed he’d read her very thoughts. “No…I don’t,” she admitted.
“Don’t worry,” he said, taking hold of his T-shirt sleeve and stretching
it to wipe the residual perspiration from his temples. “In a moment or two, it’ll sink in.”
“What’ll sink in?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“The fact that this clock is over a hundred and twenty years old…that’s it’s struck the hour through more historic events than you and I could ever imagine…and that your uncle loved you enough, and trusted you enough, to entrust you with its care. He must’ve known you were sensitive enough to care for something that has traveled through time for over a century…and what it’s worth to some antique dealer just doesn’t matter to you.”
Again Aspen felt her lips part, her mouth slightly agape with astonishment. How charming! She wondered if he really felt as sentimental about clocks the way he’d just so perfectly described her own feelings—or if his business sense simply told him to say what customers wanted to hear.
“Rake’s grampa says there are two kinds of customers who come in here,” Mrs. Claus—or rather, Rake’s grandmother—said.
“That’s right,” Rake agreed.
“The first kind of customer sees the monetary value of an old clock,” she began, “usually an antique dealer or someone who collects old clocks to resell.” Rake nodded as his grandmother continued. “We prefer the second variety of customer—the customer who truly cherishes the treasure that is an old chiming clock. The person who recognizes chiming clocks are a thing of the past, something vanishing that needs to be protected and appreciated…respected.”
Aspen smiled at the elderly lady. “I like to think I’m the second kind of customer.”
“Oh, you are,” Rake said, smiling at her. His dark brown eyes burned with approval. The fact made Aspen’s heart swell. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought the clock in here to be fixed.”
“You would’ve just let it hang on the wall, silent and sad, until the day you decided to have a garage sale and some sneaky antique dealer stole it from you for twenty bucks,” his grandmother added.
Aspen giggled with delight. “I can’t think when I’ve had such kind and thorough—not to mention flattering—customer service.”
Rake chuckled, and his grandmother laughed.
“Well,” Rake began, glancing about the shop, “we ain’t Wal-Mart.” He looked back to Aspen and smiled. “It gives us more time to get to know our customers.” He smiled—a rather mischievous smile—and added, “More intimately.”
“You quit flirting and get back to work,” Mrs. Claus scolded. She chuckled, however, and winked at Aspen.
Aspen was delighted! Oh, certainly she was irritated with herself for letting such a handsome man rattle her so. Handsome men weren’t good for anything other than looking at and daydreaming about—pretending they really could be nice guys.
“Tell you what, Aspen,” Rake began. Aspen tried to ignore the way her heart leapt at his speaking her name. “I’ll fix your clock for you, no charge…if you’ll go out with me this Friday night.”
“M-me?” Aspen stammered. Surely he wasn’t asking her out! Surely he was only teasing.
“I don’t see any other girls named Aspen standing in this room, do you, Gramma?” Rake said to Mrs. Claus.
His grandmother chuckled, “Not a one!”
“You don’t have to do that,” Aspen said. She felt overly warm—blushing—downright giddy.
“You mean you’ll pay me for fixing the clock and go out with me?” he asked. “Bonus!”
“I-I-I…couldn’t possibly—” Aspen began.
But Rake interrupted. “I’ve been jogging past you, trying to get the nerve up to stop and introduce myself. And then the very day I do find the guts…a spider got to you first.”
Was he kidding? Had he really noticed her? All the days she’d been sitting on the bench waiting for him to jog by—had he really noticed her sitting there?
“I’ll vouch for him,” Mrs. Claus interceded. “He’s a good boy…fine manners, polite. My grandson knows how to keep his hands to himself.”
“Gramma!” Rake scolded, chuckling and scowling at the same time.
“He’s as fine a boy as was ever born…or my name ain’t Charlotte Locker,” Mrs. Claus—rather Charlotte Locker—added. “Run on back and rinse that sweat off you, Rake. Maybe then she’ll consider on it more.”
“Gramma!” Rake scolded once more. Shaking his head and grinning, he looked back to Aspen and asked, “What do you say? Friday night? I bet you’ve never been out with a wild cow milker before.”
“Or a master watchmaker either,” Charlotte added.
“Gramma…please,” Rake chuckled. “You know women would rather go out with a wild cow milker than a master watchmaker. You’re slitting my throat here.”
Aspen giggled, amused by their banter—delighted by Rake Locker’s mere presence.
“If you’ll let me pay for the clock,” Aspen began.
“Then?” Rake prodded.
“Then…I-I guess it wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Aspen stammered.
“Why ever would it be a bad thing, honey?” Charlotte asked.
Charlotte couldn’t possibly know that Aspen never dated drop-dead gorgeous men—not since Mike Archuleta her senior year in high school.
“I promise,” Rake began, “it won’t be a bad thing.”
Aspen looked at him—gazed into the dark brown of his mesmerizing eyes. How could one date with such an overall wildly attractive guy be a bad thing?
“Okay,” she said. She bit her lip as he smiled at her.
“Great!” he said, taking a business card from the small business card box on the counter. He took the pencil from his grandmother’s hand and offered it to Aspen. “Just put your phone number on the back of this, and I’ll call you.” He took another business card from the box and offered it to her. “And here’s an extra one…so you won’t forget who’s fixing your clock.”
Aspen giggled and took the pencil from him. She wrote her cell number on the back of the card and handed the pencil back to Charlotte.
“Okay then,” Rake said, picking up the card and studying the number on the back. “But why don’t you just tell me your address now and I’ll pick you up at…what’s good for you?”
“I’m off work at five on Friday,” Aspen said.
“Where do you work?” he asked.
“The Book Nook…on Alameda and Coors.”
“I adore that place!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I’ve been going there for over thirty years, since right after it opened.”
“Yeah, I like working there,” Aspen said.
“Here,” Rake said, taking the pencil from his grandmother again and handing Aspen the business card already bearing her phone number. “Just write down your address, and I’ll pick you up at your place at six on Friday. How’s that?”
“Okay,” Aspen giggled. She wrote her address down, wondering for a moment whether it was a wise thing to do. What if Rake Locker wasn’t what he appeared to be? What if he was secretly some deranged serial killer or something? Still, his smile warmed her—thrilled her—and she forced her anxieties and overactive imagination to the far corners of her mind. “There you go,” she said, handing the business card back to him.
“Thanks,” he said, reading the back of the card.
Aspen blushed when she looked at Charlotte to see her smiling with delighted understanding. No doubt the elderly woman knew just how attractive her grandson was.
“Well, I-I need to be getting back,” Aspen stammered. “Thank you, Mrs. Locker.”
“Charlotte, honey,” Charlotte said. “Just call me Charlotte.”
“Okay,” Aspen agreed.
“And you can call me anything you want,” Rake flirted.
Aspen smiled with delight at his teasing manner.
“Friday at six. Okay?” Rake asked.
Aspen nodded. “Okay.”
“You have a good day, honey!” Charlotte called as Aspen turned and followed the trail of red carpet through the grandfather clock centurions toward the exit.
“You too,” A
spen called over her shoulder.
Pushing the door open, she stepped out of the enchanting atmosphere of the clock shop and into the bright New Mexico sunshine. It was only then she realized she was trembling a little. He’d completely undone her—and it was wonderful! Furthermore, he’d noticed her—noticed her sitting on the park bench as he jogged past every weekday for the past two weeks!
Giddy as a goofball, she hurried across the parking lot to her car. She had to call Gina! She looked at the clock on her control panel as she started the car. It would have to wait; Gina’s lunch hour was over, and she’d be with a patient by now. Aspen drew the business card out of her purse.
“Rake Locker, Master Watchmaker,” she read aloud. In her wildest dreams, she’d never imagined the handsome real-man stranger jogging through the park would be a master watchmaker. She reached into her purse and dug around until she found the old business card for the Clock Shop, the one her Uncle Guy had taped to the back of the clock. “Ray Locker, Master Watchmaker,” she read. “So your grandfather’s name is Ray, huh?” she mumbled to herself. She frowned then, puzzled as something Mrs. Claus had said echoed through her mind.
My grandson…gave up bull riding for watchmaking…thank the Lord, she’d said.
“Bull riding?” Aspen asked aloud. Still, it would explain Rake Locker’s knowing how to milk a wild cow—his presence at the rodeo.
Aspen smiled as she put both business cards back in her purse and checked to make sure the winding key was safe as well. She sighed and mumbled, “Rake Locker…the bull-riding master watchmaker. How wild is that?”
The Time of Aspen Falls Page 5