“Vivian,” he said once more, and she began to turn toward him. She had to see him, had to see his face—this lover she had ached for for far too long.
Lightning flashed and thunder rolled as the elements echoed her excitement at finally knowing his touch. She turned, she turned more, and—
Crash!
I woke up on the floor, covered in sweat and tangled in sheets, blankets, and a very thick quilt. My heart was racing, and no wonder. I’d had one of the most erotic dreams ever; my mind was still full of the images conjured by my subconscious.
Subconscious Viv was extremely horny. Something Conscious Viv could appreciate as well.
I struggled to get out of the cocoon, finally pushing everything down and shimmying out the top. Crawling back on top of the bed, I leaned over and pushed back the curtains, the dawn just beginning to creep into the sky. I looked at the clock. Not quite 5 a.m. Ugh.
I looked forward to the day when I was on California time. I looked forward to the day that I could sleep through the night. I especially looked forward to the day when my sex dreams were replaced by actual sex.
I leaned back in bed against the pillows. Occasionally I had dreams where I cast myself in my own romance novel, brought about no doubt by reading a few chapters of The Wolf of Lust Street the night before.
But unlike the romance novels where I could always see the hero so clearly in my head, when I dreamed, it was always a dark lover I could never quite see. A suggestion of full lips, strong jaw, giant cock of course—but I could never see his face.
Pulling the quilt from the floor, I curled into myself like a roly-poly, pushing thoughts of dark faceless lovers from my head. In the light of day, a faceless lover was actually creepy, not sexy.
Except for the giant cock. Who needed the face when they had that?
Unless that face was buried between my lusty thighs . . .
Get a grip, Viv!
Yeah, a grip of that hair as I hold him in place while he . . .
Without a face, there’d be no mouth. Without a mouth, there’d be no tongue.
I’ll concede the point.
Did all heroines have entire conversations with themselves inside their head? This is why I could never be a romance novel heroine. Insanity precludes it.
I went downstairs to make myself some breakfast. I was determined to start cooking for myself, but the Magic Chef stove that Caroline was so enamored of was clunky, old-fashioned, and a pain in the ass. You couldn’t just turn it on and cook. Nope. You had to light it, jiggle the handle, then coax the flame out—and if you didn’t pass out from the gas fumes before it actually lit, then an hour later, you had boiling water. Which made no sense at all, gas stoves were usually incredibly efficient. Something must be clogged somewhere, something was dirty or just plain old and busted. Which seemed to be the theme here.
I also was determined to make my own coffee. The percolator had met with an unfortunate accident when it was thrown across the backyard, almost beheading a chicken. It now lived in the garage. I’d found an old French press in a jumble of junk in the basement, washed it out several times, and it worked great. So as soon as I had boiling water, I could make coffee. While I waited, I wandered out onto the back porch with a banana, perching in one of the old rockers with my nightgown pulled down over my knees.
I’d never been a morning person, but lately I was finding it one of my favorite parts of the day, even though they were still starting earlier than I liked. Maybe it was still the time change, maybe it was all the fresh air, but I slept hard and fast and woke up ready to start the day.
The sea was quiet today, calm and peaceful. Gulls flew here and there, pelicans flapped lazily then dove like missiles for fish they’d spotted.
I’d thought I’d feel something more . . . final about selling my company to my father. I’d buried myself in my work for so long it had become my world. So why wasn’t I more broken up over it?
Instead of feeling sad or discouraged or questioning whether I’d done the wrong thing, I felt the complete opposite. I had no idea what I was doing out here, why I wanted to stay, or what I was going to do with this new life. I just knew that I was . . . content. I was pleased with this turn my life was taking, and excited by the fact that I didn’t know where it was going. It had been a long time since I’d been on an adventure.
Speaking of adventure, my teakettle was whistling. I padded into the kitchen, poured hot water into the pot with my dry oatmeal and into the French press, and started cutting up some fruit. Raspberries, blueberries, and a chunked-up peach went into a bowl with a squeeze of lemon and a sprinkling of sugar. I found I ate more fruit if I made it into a salad.
After finishing up with the fruit, I checked on the oatmeal. Soft. I checked on the coffee. Brewed. Perfect.
Ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal into a bowl, I added some of the fruit, a drizzle of honey, a splash of cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I pressed the plunger down on the coffee, watching as the grounds were pressed down and the dark brown coffee was expressed to the top. Pouring some into a cup, I settled into a chair at the old kitchen table. And as I ate, I looked around at the room.
I wasn’t a designer by any means, but I knew what I liked. And I’d always been drawn to a more industrial look and feel, something modern and clean. Maybe it was growing up in a house full of boys who were constantly making a mess of everything. Our house was big, sure, but always filled to almost bursting with sports equipment and action figures. Hockey pucks, G.I. Joe towns, and Legos underfoot (which hurt like you wouldn’t believe when stepped on barefoot). My mom’s charity fund-raising banners and posters, country French decorations, collection of stone turkeys, shadow boxes full of miniatures. Footballs, gym bags, my dad’s model cars, homework, paperwork . . . A family of eight makes for a lot of stuff. So when I got my own place, I went to the total opposite.
Chrome. Glass. Black leather couch and chairs. Clean lines. Right angles. Hard corners. My home office consisted of four computer monitors and a Lucite table covered with notebooks full of equations. My bed? Platform. Suspended night tables. Inlaid reading lamps. Everything in its place and in order.
They say a home reflects its owner’s personality, and Oprah says your home should “rise up to meet you.” I just wanted to able to come in, find what I’m looking for, and go about my day.
This house? Seaside Cottage? It rose up to meet you, and said “Hey, whatever you’re looking for, I think we’ve got it. Somewhere. Let me just look in one of these boxes; I bet we can find it.”
The clutter, the crap, the chaos—it was too much. However. There was something kind of cozy about it.
Take this kitchen, for instance. Huge, especially considering the age of the home. Usually kitchens in older homes were small and efficient. This one was filled to the brim with “things,” but it was cozy. Through the large, sunny window on the back wall you could see the barn and the garage, the flowers out back, and the ocean. The bottom half of the walls were covered in what Caroline said was wainscoting, battered and chipped a bit in places, but it was in pretty good shape. The old butcher-block countertops were covered in cuts and nicks, but I could imagine a hundred-plus years of women gathered here, dicing and chopping and laughing and chatting as they prepared another Thanksgiving dinner. There were three, count them three, blenders on those same counters, none of which worked. But at one point, did they whip up milkshakes for a generation of kiddos running here and there? Was I one of those kiddos?
The floor was scraped and dented linoleum, but I’ve no doubt that at one point someone had tended and waxed that floor to a polished gleam. The walls were a faded yellow, but covered with cheery vintage posters hawking Gold Medal flour, 20 Mule Team Borax, and Gorton’s Frozen Fish Dinners.
It was a home. And juxtaposed against my very neat and orderly place in Philadelphia, my apartment was never a home, I realized. It was just a place I slept.
Pretty heavy thoughts over oatmeal. It was really good o
atmeal, though. I dipped up another spoonful.
Aunt Maude may have been on to something. The Legless Knight was clearly pushing it, but perhaps not everything had to be tucked out of sight. Hmm. We’ll see.
Enough introspection. I finished my breakfast and got dressed for the day. I was hoping Caroline would have some crazy design idea today where I could smash through a wall or something.
Lingering frustration over that dream?
I said enough introspection.
“So what exactly do you want me to do here today? You keep referring to me as backup; why is that?” Caroline asked as we walked through the house again. Simon and Ryan had dropped the girls off and then headed off to go windsurfing. It killed me that I wasn’t out there with them; it was something I’d always wanted to try. Instead I was inside the house on a glorious day like this, talking about floral prints and a settee. But I appreciated the help.
“You’re my backup insofar as you’re the one who can tell Clark when he’s being too much of a pencil pusher. When he needs to just shut up and let me make the changes I want,” I explained, tapping my foot.
“And what exactly are those changes?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. Then frowned. Then took another deep breath. Still with the frowning.
Caroline looked amused; I looked like a fish stuck on land and no clue how to breathe.
“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “But it just made me so damn mad that he could come in and tell me I couldn’t do something!” I thought back to the first day he came over here, arguing with me about the baluwhatzit. “The truth is, I love this house. I love everything about this house. But it hasn’t been updated in years, and if I’m going to live here, it’s got to be brought into the modern age. Even the basics are falling apart—the roof is like Swiss cheese. I’ve been lucky it hasn’t rained since that first night, but the next time it does, it’s going to pour in here again. And the front porch is rotten— I put my foot through it the night I arrived, and you can feel it when you walk on it.”
She nodded. “Yes, I felt it give when I came in today. Well that should be easy enough. He can’t expect you to go through the porch floor every time you come home.”
“Humpf. We’ll see. Hey, where’s your friend Mimi?”
“Hmm, she’s been awfully quiet since she went upstairs,” Caroline mused, walking over to the bottom of the stairs. “Mimi?” she called up.
“Nothing,” was the answer.
“Mimi, what are you up to?”
“Nothing,” came down again, followed by a thump. “I’m okay!”
“Oh boy, I better go see what she’s gotten herself into. I left her alone once in my bathroom, and my lipsticks were alphabetized and color coded within minutes.”
As Caroline headed upstairs, I shook my head. Although part of me thought that seemed like a good idea, the two lipsticks I owned were already color coded. Barely There Pink and Knockout Red. Pink for first dates. Red for, well, you know.
Grabbing a broom, I decided to spend a few minutes sweeping up the dust that seemed to come out and do a dance party every night after I went to bed. These floors were so old they literally made their own dust! Sighing, I was bending over sweeping up yet another pile when I heard a sound behind me.
Turning, I saw Clark. Nose bandage, briefcase, hand raised as though he’d been about to knock. And directly behind me, so he had a wonderful view of my posterior.
I stood slowly, wondering which Clark I’d get today. Nighttime Clark or Daytime Clark?
“I’m going to tie a bell around your neck, so you quit sneaking up on me like that,” I said, crossing toward the screen door.
“I’ve got scones. Do you like scones?” he said, lifting the bag so I could see he did indeed have scones.
I laughed in spite of myself, and the grin that spread over his face literally took my breath away. For a moment, he reminded me of someone. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and it’s a good thing too, because at that very moment I wanted to put my fingers, and hands for that matter, all over—
“Vivian, I do hope you’re not planning on removing that mantel-piece. I see that chunk of marble just thrown haphazardly on the floor. Need I remind you that the fireplaces in this home are all original, even down to the tile in the—”
“Oh, Clark, just stuff a scone in it and get in here.” I sighed, holding the door open. He set his scones and briefcase down, then inspected the offending piece of marble.
“Oh good, this’ll be a simple repair. You really must be more careful when you—”
“Oh, please, it came off in my hand! I literally just leaned up against it when I was on the phone the other day, and—”
“I’d say you don’t know your own strength, but based on this”—he pointed at his nose—“I know that’s not entirely true.”
He wore his glasses today, in spite of the fact that they must hurt.
Get a grip, Viv.
“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked, interrupting some speech about turn-of-the-century architecture. Which always confused me, frankly, because the century had turned twice since people started saying that phrase . . . so which century? A question that would not be posed at this moment, however.
His mouth hung open in midrant. I leaned in, pushed his chin up and closed his mouth, then turned for the kitchen. “Follow me, Clark. I hope you like it strong.”
He murmured something, but followed me. And for the record? What he murmured?
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
So Caroline was here to back me up, to agree with me, to be on my side and to make sure that Clark didn’t cause too much trouble—right?
Not so much what happened.
What did happen is the two of them bonded over a bottle cap, a ballroom, and a baluhwhozit.
Things started pretty well. We all agreed that the roof was a no-brainer, especially when I began my prepared speech about how rain coming inside would be doing continued damage to the already damaged living room. Clark didn’t disagree, only noting that as long as the original sight lines of the roof were retained, and the copper gutters were replaced, that a new roof was most certainly called for.
We made great strides toward a continued state of détente when we progressed to the front porch, almost re-creating my fall through the floorboards when Caroline pressed a little too hard in her heels. Once again, Clark surprised and impressed me with his ability to compromise. He did put his foot down—and almost through, which couldn’t have happened at a better moment, when I suggested that the railing and the cornice thingies were a little too fussy for my taste. Though I loved this house I wanted to put my own stamp on it, even if just in the tiniest of ways. When Clark began to make a stink, Caroline wisely interjected with a suggestion that was period-specific but slightly less Victorian. And in the end, he agreed the changes would look nice on the new front porch.
Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.
The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.
“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.
“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”
“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked again.
“Did you ever have the Honey Lemonade?”
“Oh, it’s a lemonade company? Like Country Time?” I asked.
“No! I could never find it!” Caroline replied.
The hallway was getting very closed in, and I walked over to stand next to the Legless Knigh
t’s legs.
“You can order it online,” Clark continued.
“Must be a California thing, huh?” I asked, but nobody answered.
Eventually I was able to pry them away from their bottle cap and the dumbwaiter, which I immediately divested of dolls. Because who the hell needed that image in her head, of a bunch of dolls hiding inside the walls of an old house? Which is now ingrained in the membrane, so Merry Christmas, everyone.
But that was just weird. Things really unraveled when we headed downstairs.
Clark began telling us that in the original plans for the home there had indeed been space allocated for an actual ballroom. But whether due to resources, a lack of interest, or simply because the frontier at that time didn’t host too many balls (Clark’s personal theory), the ballroom was scratched. At that time, however, if a family was a member of society, then balls were a part of the social calendar. And ballrooms were constructed. This revelation led us to a grand discussion, mostly between Clark and Caroline, about the golden age of San Francisco and the parties and balls held in the mansions before the Great Earthquake of 1906 and subsequent fire that burned most of the city to the ground. I listened in with some interest, but mainly picked at the chipped paint on the doorjamb I was leaning on. Clark stopped me every time he saw me doing it, and at a certain point it became a game: How many pieces could I chip off before he stopped me? Childish, yes, but more interesting than listening to that crap.
Which brings me to what really chipped my paint.
If you know anything at all about old homes, then you know they’re very compartmentalized. Homeowners in 1890 would never have entertained the idea of “open concept.” Kitchens would be and should be separate from the dining room, and not just in case there were actually servants serving. Even small houses were constructed that way. Women cooked, men read the newspaper, children rode around on things that didn’t require seat belts or helmets, all in separate places within the home. And then they gathered in the dining room, quite removed from the stink and smoke from old-timey cooking. A swinging door between the two rooms created ease of movement, but allowed the mess to be hidden from view.
Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) Page 11