Fixed Infatuation

by Stacy Borel

  “Erm, well, no, I didn’t exactly speak to him.” Great, now I got to explain to her I was a thief and committed a federal offense by stealing someone’s mail. “Now before you go judging me, let me preface this by saying I picked it up off the ground, which means it was garbage. I was only doing my civic duty and keeping the streets clean.”

  “You’re worrying me.”

  “The name was on his mail.”

  She gasped. “Holy shit, Molly. Now we’re getting somewhere. You took the man’s mail?”

  “Didn’t I just get done saying he tossed it on the ground?” I sighed. “I got curious, okay? It was there, and I just… I don’t know. I was leaving and I ran over and grabbed it off the ground.”

  She gave a deep, throaty laugh. “You may have more balls than I thought, kid.”

  “I guess so,” I grumbled.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go. My boss is up my ass to get in touch with this new writer and getting him signed. He’s questioning staying independent.” Which I still wrote sometimes. “He’s refusing to sign, and I’ve got to work something out.”

  I was holding back a yawn. The day was catching up to me. “That’s fine. I need to eat and get some work done anyway.”

  “Yes, you do. I’m going to need something soon. A synopsis, a chapter, a novel, just something soon.”

  I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me. “I’ll get it taken care of.”

  We said our goodbyes and hung up. It was so much stress being signed with a publishing house. Some of my creative controls were taken away, and deadlines that weren’t self-imposed made it almost impossible to work. I’d have to suck it up. The money was proving to be good, and seeing a novel of mine on a Barnes and Noble bookshelf was something I desperately wanted to check off my bucket list. Tomorrow, I’d finally have some time to put toward writing and mapping out the story. A good coffee shop in town would be perfect for work. For tonight, I was too exhausted and wanted nothing but a hot shower and a chef salad from Fat Smitty’s.

  Running out, I quickly grabbed my food and came back to my room. I ate but sucked down my chocolate shake too fast. Brain freeze. I hadn’t eaten much today, and a solid meal made me feel a little more functional. I was ready to take a warm shower when my phone rang. It was Melonie.

  “Okay, I have everything all set. We’re going to try and lowball them a bit after I’ve worked the numbers. The house has been on the market for almost six months. Which, I’m going to be honest, kind of worries me what will come back with the inspection. But my professional opinion is you may be able to go even lower than the offer we discussed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Considering the state the house is in and how it shows, I can see why it’s been on the market for so long. Not that I’m trying to scare you, but I don’t see any reason why a lower offer shouldn’t be accepted.”

  I grinned. The very idea of finally owning my own home I didn’t have to share with anyone gave me the warm and fuzzies. “That’s great news. Do you need me to come out tonight to sign anything?”

  “Nah, we’ll just have you come in tomorrow whenever you’re free and get it sorted out. We should know by then what the verdict is. There’s no way these aren’t motivated sellers.”

  “As far as the time on the market, have you seen worse?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said in a peppy tone. I got the feeling she was ready to be free of me. “Some have been listed for longer than a year. The only reason I’m wondering about this one is because it’s in the middle of Port Townsend. Even the rundown historic homes tend to go quickly.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, slightly confused.

  “No need to worry about it right now. Let’s just get the ball rolling, and we’ll take the punches, if any, as they come. Okay?”

  Oh yeah, she was definitely ready to get me into something. I must’ve been driving her nuts. “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.”

  One more thing to add to my list of stress. But like she said, if an issue came along, I’d deal with it. If they were ready to sell and they hadn’t had people lining up to put in offers, they might be willing to work with me a little on contingencies. Which brought my mind full-circle.

  “Mr. Blake Whitmore. Let’s see what I can find out about you.”

  My laptop was already on and I typed his name into the search engine. As soon as I hit enter, I didn’t think I was going to come up with much of anything. Maybe a Facebook page or an old high school article about achievements. I couldn’t have been further from the truth if I’d imagined it. It was like my screen lit up like Christmas. Hits all over the place for Blake Whitmore.

  I sat up a bit straighter on my bed and folded my legs. Holy shit, who is this guy? The first link I could click on was to a site that connected me with Whitmore & Sons Construction. I tapped on it. My screen changed to a professional page with contact info, a gallery of work, references, and a tab about ‘sons.’ My eyes were huge as I scanned as much as I could. I clicked on the page to find out about the owners.

  There he was. A large, close-up photo of the man who’d given me a broody glare. My mystery neighbor.

  His almond-shaped eyes were dark brown, like a deep dark chocolate hue. His cheekbones and jaw were all sharp angles and perfectly structured. It reminded me of the type you’d see in a Calvin Klein catalog. His lips were full, yet one side was slightly higher than the other. He didn’t seem real, like someone drew him. Men were never this flawless. Not unless they were a cartoon or had visited Hollywood’s best plastic surgeons. His bio said he’d taken over the family business at the age of nineteen but that was all. No schools were listed, or if he had gotten a degree. Whitmore & Son Construction had been in business for over thirty years. Blake was the middle child of three kids. Seems he had an older brother and a younger sister. There wasn’t much information on either of them, though. Seems the ‘sons’ part of the company name should have been just ‘son.’

  Interesting. I didn’t know what to think of this new light of information. My soon-to-be neighbor was a construction worker of sorts, who co-owned his own business. He didn’t appear to be married or have kids. He looked to be just over thirty years old, with his tan skin. Men who worked outside on a regular basis took on a leathery quality as their skin soaked in the sun. While it made most men look older and less attractive, it made Blake look regal and handsome.

  I glanced at a few other sites, being way nosier than any stranger should be about someone, then closed my laptop. I had a passing thought that maybe I could hire him or his company to do some of the renovations inside my home. But I was determined to teach myself the trade of doing my own fixer-upper. At least it was a relief to know that if there were any emergencies, I could possibly knock on his door and get some guidance. Hell, maybe he’d even cut me a deal. Despite grumpy faces and my own assumptions about him, I’m sure he wasn’t all as bad as he appeared to be.

  I sighed, still having to shower, but I was too exhausted. The day had brought a lot of excitement and even revelations, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep it off and start my day off tomorrow with fresh eyes and readiness to work. As my body relaxed and I cozied up inside the warmth of a comforter I’d brought from my mom’s home, I dozed off to her scent and the craziest feeling that being neighbors with Mr. Whitmore was going to be more than I bargained for.

  Just like my potential new home.

  Molly

  TIME WAS FLYING, even though every time I looked at the clock, the hours were dragging. In the last three weeks, I’d written enough of my book to make the publishers happy and to buy myself some more time. The lawyer who’d been dealing with my mom’s estate contacted me and sent me some paperwork to sign. She didn’t have a lot of monetary things to pass down to me after her debts had been paid, and I lost money on the sale of her home. But I still had some of her jewelry and what little she had of her pension after working at JCPenny’s for twenty-f
ive years. Anything that was left in storage, I’d asked the lawyer to set up an auction and mail a check for anything that was made. I had no reason to travel back to the East Coast. I’d brought everything I wanted of hers with me. Things were falling in line.

  Dealing with the death of my mother had been a hard blow. It had been just the two of us since I was a teenager, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I’d never forget that day for the rest of my life. The doctor had sat us both down after they’d done a string of tests. Never had I thought my mother’s forgetfulness and thoughtlessness would be summed up into a nice neat little word such as Alzheimer’s. I honestly thought she was too young for something like that. I’d expected to be told to up her Vitamin B and try to take away some of her stresses, like her mounting bills. My world came crashing down when that one word was uttered.

  I asked all the questions I could think of, which weren’t that many because I was in shock. He’d sent us home with a packet of information and what we would need to do as the disease progressed. I asked him how much time I had left with her. He said he couldn’t say. He guessed a year or two at best before she would need to be placed in a home or a nurse would have to come in and help me with her daily needs. I had no clue just how quickly she was going to deteriorate. The mother I once knew in a matter of nine months went from minor blips of forgetting to not even remembering how to brush her teeth or how to feed herself.

  I wish I could say it was the disease that had turned her into a shell of a woman, but I think the sadness of my father leaving us did it to her. Alzheimer’s just facilitated her desire to forget and never remember again. While it made me upset that she didn’t seem to be angry with her diagnosis like I was, I found myself wondering what it would be like to forget the pain he put us through. I was the adult between the two of us. She leaned on me more than any parent should, but I never resented her for it. She did the best she could.

  At least I think so.

  It wasn’t all bad, though. I had some very fond memories with my mom, most of which were as a child before he left. I loved how she always moved the gummy worms container to the bottom cabinet so I could reach it and help myself as a reward for taking a good nap. Or how I’d sit on the bottom part of the shopping cart at Safeway and she’d stop at the bakery so I could take one of those samples they gave out. But the best was when she’d wake me up in the morning with her sweet sing-song voice and carry me into the kitchen. She’d set me on the counter and ask me what I wanted for breakfast, even though it was always the same options. I cherished those moments because they were ours. They were the times I knew she was my mom. She wasn’t lost or broken or forgetful. It’s what I choose to remember of her.

  I wished I’d grown up with two parents I could call on to help walk me through the process of buying a home. I wanted a dad who’d fly out and stay with me as we fixed it all up together. And a mother who’d give me design tips and tell me ‘Molly, not everything has to match in a home. If you like it, buy it, and it will find a place to make your home warmer.’ But here I sat, in the same coffee shop on the water, looking out at the small crests and hoping like hell I was still just as confident about this house as I was a few weeks ago. It was going to be a hell of a lot of work.

  And I was on my own.

  There had been some bad news with the inspection, which I’d kind of prepared for, but what it boiled down to was the house needed a new roof and hot water heater. All of the other issues I agreed to take on as long as the seller would take care of the pricier things. Non-cosmetic things. I was already going to have my fair share of expenses as it was.

  A few days ago, Melonie had let me know that everything was set and I’d be signing papers next week. Cue my desire to vomit. I had no idea why I decided that renting was no longer the way to go, but this was it. I was becoming an adult. Homeownership, parentless, and a handful of friends. Why I thought of Blake Whitmore, I didn’t know. But his face popped into my head. Having him as a neighbor was going to be interesting. Maybe I could set up my office space facing his house. He could be my new muse without him knowing. Hell, even catching him outside washing his car could be a treat this coming summer.

  That’s what I’m about, finding the positives in everything.

  Moving day.

  My extra small storage unit was loaded up, and I closed my account with the front desk. I had very little in the way of actual things. My bed, two boxes with kitchen items, a box of winter clothes, and some knick-knacks. I had to get a little truck to haul it to the house because it wouldn’t all fit in my car, but this was going to be a breeze. Any other things I had were in my trunk of my little Toyota that I had at the hotel with me.

  Excitement was in the air, along with a cool breeze. The sun was rising in the sky, but it wasn’t at its peak warmth. I had a hoodie and a worn pair of jeans on with some tennis shoes I owned since high school. My wavy long blond hair was pulled up into a messy bun that loose tendrils had fallen out of. Looking in the mirror, my blue eyes were bright and full of unease. Ready or not, I was doing grown-up things and being a big girl.

  Pulling up to the house, I’d noticed some balloons were attached to a ‘sold’ sign in the front yard, and the lock box was no longer on the door. All of it was like a huge ‘welcome home’ announcement. I smiled to myself.

  As I backed into the driveway, I looked across the street at the perfectly cut green grass, and the windows that were drawn. Blake wasn’t home because his car wasn’t there. I shouldn’t look, but curiosity got the best of me. I wondered when or if I would get the chance to meet him. Maybe the sour look on his face from a month ago was simply the cause of a bad day. I didn’t want to write off the probability that he very well may be a nice man based off a small assumption. One thing I do remember my dad always saying was ‘you know what they say about people who assume things.’ To which I didn’t actually know what he meant because he never elaborated further. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood that saying.

  Anyway, this is it. I’m home. Home for as long as I’m going to make it that way.

  The house itself on the outside was far more appealing than what I knew was inside. The new roof was going to be put on in a couple days and it was going to make it shine. Currently the shingles were a faded black, almost a dark gray color. But the house was wood siding that had been painted a pretty, medium shade of blue. The edging that had been done to the bushes, and navy shutters on the windows made it all pop. Small shrubbery lined the whole front of the house, and white rocks were in the bedding. The style and color of my new ranch home may not fit in anywhere else, it was quite typical for homes here.

  It didn’t take long for me to unload the truck. I got everything out and in the house in less than an hour. I should probably feel a little sad that I had so few things, but I was optimistic about finding bargains and filling my space with furniture that fit my space. I’d hit up a few resale shops in the area tomorrow. For now, I wanted to pay for my room at the motel and unpack what little I had. I was pleasantly surprised to see there was a basket of fruit, meats, and crackers on the counter, along with a bottle of chardonnay. Melonie and her office left a small gift, congratulating me on taking such a big step and welcoming me into homeownership. It was a kind gesture. I put the wine in the fridge and left everything else where it was. I smiled at the fact that I didn’t exactly have a glass to pour it in to, but straight from the bottle would be perfect. Just what I’d need to unwind.

  The space was exactly as I’d remembered it, only now that it was mine, the work that was ahead of me had me scratching my head. A list was going to need to be made in order of priority. For example, the carpets and flooring could come up later. But this kitchen would have to be dealt with. The bathroom shower needed a new shower head, and eventually I wanted to put in subway tile, and the toilet needed to come out and a new one in its place. Porcelain was awfully heavy and I knew I’d have to hire someone to do that for me. I’d planned on tackling small thin
gs as well, such as removing wallpaper and painting new colors. Those small projects would make a huge impact on the look of the home. It would make it feel comfortable and homey.

  I was excited. It was going to be perfect. I rubbed my hands together, thrilled with hope and elation that I was moving forward. Healing could begin, and resentment, hostility, and sadness would hopefully be torn away with each task.

  Week one, I’m not sure I’d consider a success. Other than scoring a deal on a couch I needed to reupholster, I also had to go out and buy a BB gun. Melonie never warned me about the critters that sometimes came around.

  Late last night I was in bed reading when I heard some small scratching sounds near the window. My bedroom was at the back of the house and entirely too far away to make a mad dash to my car at the opposite end. At first I assumed someone was breaking into my house. It was truly one of those moments in life where you go completely stupid. My phone was in hand and I’d grabbed a razor from my bathroom. My heart was pounding so hard, I’d felt it in my throat. I didn’t know what I planned on doing with a freaking razor against an attacker. I suppose either slice them up with mini paper-like cuts or give them the smoothest legs in Port Townsend. It certainly wasn’t my most shining moment, but I saw it and went with it.

  There were two sliding glass doors in the house. One in the living room and one in my bedroom. I had yet to use the one in my room as a means to get into the backyard, but that night I did. I slowly crept out just as there was more clattering. My razor was by my side, and my cell was in the pocket of my robe. When I heard the bang of the trashcan lid hit the pavement, I startled and stepped back. Around came a four-legged little creature.

  A fucking raccoon.

  I knew they were smart, and they were creative when it came to getting food, but I had no clue they knew how to remove the lid of my trashcan. I’d nearly peed myself stumbling around. You’ve got to be kidding me? I was going to have to figure out something to deter them from coming back. My poor heart couldn’t handle the excitement.