Curiouser (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 3)

by Coryell, Christina

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Instead of giving me instructions to follow him, he jerks his head in the direction of the living room. Rising from the padded folding chair, I cross the room until I’m standing next to Jake, where he places his hand on the small of my back and gently presses as he walks beside me. The feel of his hand against me immediately heightens my senses, and I try not to let the evidence show on my face. Of course my body wants to betray me by reacting to Jake, as though somehow it remembers things about him that I don’t.

  Ugh, I don’t want to think about it.

  The little bedroom to the right of the living room holds a twin size bed with a worn and faded brown patchwork quilt next to one solitary table stacked neatly with boxes and papers. Jake kneels next to the bed and reaches underneath to pull out an old-fashioned red metal tool box.

  “This is the coolest gift I ever got,” he breathes almost reverently as he opens the clasp to lift the lid. I lean in closer, taking a peek at the contents of the box. A few screwdrivers with black handles, five or six wrenches of different sizes, a small hammer with a crack in the green plastic on the grip, and a yellow measuring tape.

  “That,” I whisper, having a hard time wrapping my mind around his words. “That’s your favorite gift?”

  “Yep,” he says with no regard for my awkwardness, taking out the smallest screwdriver and giving it a once-over. “First thing Granny asked me to fix was the smoke detector. It kept malfunctioning and scaring her to death.”

  “I can relate. That happened to me not too long ago.” Burning your napkins. Best keep that to myself.

  “I’d never tried to fix anything until she gave me the tools, and then I was fixing everything I could think of. She got real excited when I fixed the hinges on the front door.” The smile on his lips causes the skin around his eyes to crinkle slightly as he stares at a blank spot on the wall. “Every Sunday, it would be this big joke about what I would fix. She’d head out to church wearing one of her dresses with the flower prints and a headscarf, telling me to keep out of trouble before she closed the door.”

  “She didn’t take you to church with her?” Without thinking, I sit down on the bed, which causes his tools to clank into one another as the box slips in my direction. The bed is definitely not in the best shape.

  “No, church doesn’t really like me.”

  I recognize my own words from last night coming back to me, so I keep quiet as I glance around the sparse room.

  “Anyway, I tightened the legs on the kitchen table, fixed the loose cabinet handles. I even cleaned up some of the wires on the breaker box. Granny was fit to be tied over that one. ‘You could’ve killed your fool self,’ she told me.” He sits on the other side of the tool box, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees as he rolls the screwdriver between his palms. “I know that probably seems stupid to you, but for a kid who was always restless, being able to fix things calmed my jitters.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid.” My fingers twine together in my lap as I stare at the little pile of tools next to me. “It helps explain why you do construction, doesn’t it? Building and fixing things.”

  “Never thought about it like that.” He grins as he turns to look at my face. “I really did mess up that alternator. Taking it apart wasn’t so bad, but it was a booger to put back together. I had to use my money we made chopping wood to buy him a new one. He’s never quite forgiven me for not being the engine man he is.”

  “Thus the crack about the oil changes.” I can’t help but return his smile as he shakes his head.

  “You ought to do that more often, you know.”

  “Get my oil changed? I usually go around five-thousand miles between, but I seriously don’t think that had any bearing on the problem with my starter.”

  “Your car is old as the hills. I doubt the timing of your oil changes makes much difference. I was talking about smiling.”

  “Oh,” I mutter, pushing my hair behind my ear. The bed creaks beneath me, which makes me think about the last time Jake and I sat on a bed together. I’m fairly certain I’m not blushing, but I can’t promise the color hasn’t drained from my face.

  “This isn’t me flirting, so don’t go all weird on me.”

  I force myself to meet his eyes just in time to see his gaze sweep over every inch of my face before he locks in again, those blue eyes unwavering. Just a slightly darker blue than the hydrangeas that bloom in front of Mom and Dad’s every year.

  “More smiling, no flirting. Understood.”

  “You’re making a joke, but I’m totally serious. Hasn’t anybody ever told you what a great smile you have?”

  “All the time,” I say with a shrug before I let the corner of my mouth tip up. “Not really.”

  “It could stop a man in his tracks. And you can believe I wouldn’t just be telling you that, because we’re definitely not friends.”

  Guilt over my words last night immediately floods my senses, along with the knowledge that I need to apologize. Should I allow myself to be friends with Jake, though? If I’m going to see him until Bailey’s eighteen, things are bound to get a little uncomfortable.

  My gaze darts to him just in time to watch him lift the tape measure from the tool box. He pulls the tape out a few inches and holds it toward me, twisting it slightly so he can measure the length of my arm. I narrow my eyes slightly, but he just nods as he double-checks the number under his thumb.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says with a hint of mischief. “Definitely can’t be friends.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jake

  Back home, if we ever worked on Saturday mornings, Parker made sure to call me at least thirty minutes before our scheduled start time. I didn’t have a problem waking up with my alarm, but he was always worried about me barely getting a couple hours of sleep.

  Staying up late on Friday nights had been something I’d done for as long as I could remember. When I was a teenager, Dad would spend Friday nights at the bar, and I would sit at home trying to sleep. Emphasis on the word trying, because I never could convince my brain to relax before I knew he was safely in his bed. Sometimes he’d stumble in and land face down on his pillow with his shoes still on. Other times he’d walk in the front door and sit in the recliner, where he’d immediately pass out and start snoring. A couple times, random strangers had dropped him off at the trailer.

  Those occurrences were the worst, because while Dad was sleeping it off in the morning, I had to get myself over to the bar so I could drive his truck back home. Since Dad was never a stickler for rules, I’d been driving from the time I was big enough for my feet to reach the pedals. It was the publicity of the thing that I didn’t like.

  There goes Jake walking down the road. His old man must have been on a bender.

  It was four miles to the bar, and no one ever stopped to pick me up. Just shook their heads while they cut a wide swath around me as I tightrope-walked the white line. The ones who weren’t intent on making me miserable, anyway. Every once in a while a car driven by one of the neighborhood jerks would swerve a little too close and I’d have to hop into the ditch.

  Once I was on my own, it felt normal to be out every Friday night until the party died down. Parker was always afraid I was hung over the next morning, and I didn’t tell him differently. It was important that I controlled my own situation, and I couldn’t do that if I was buzzing or wasted.

  He’d probably laugh if he knew my new habit involved waking up at the crack of dawn without any reason. Might not believe me if I told him I usually fell asleep watching Almost Midnight with Jamie Price, either. If I manage to escape before mid-morning, though, I avoid the uncomfortable sounds of Roxanne sweet-talking Bud. Just judging from the parking lot and what vehicles are in front of my neighbor’s room on a weekend-to-weekend basis, I’m pretty sure there have been three “Buds” since I’ve been here.

  I know I should get a place, but the finality of it is a little daunting.
As though if I sign my name on a lease, I’m committing to a lifetime in Louisville.

  This particular morning, I happen to step out to my truck at the same time Bud’s sneaking out of Roxanne’s room, pulling his navy blue uniform coat over his shoulders. He nods in my direction as I open the truck door, and I do the same in return as he climbs into a relatively new extended cab pickup. It’s worth noting that the patch on his coat bears the name Marty.

  I wonder what it would feel like to be in a prolonged relationship with a woman who couldn’t even be bothered to remember my name.

  Or like my dad, to be married to a woman who couldn’t be bothered to come home at night.

  The little house with the black shutters draws my attention as I near the end of Wonder Lane. Alexis keeps the blinds closed most of the time now, ever since I spotted her having a dance party in the living room. It’s just as well, because I’m not crazy about random people knowing she and Bailey live there alone.

  I told her last week she should get to know the other people on the street, and she laughed at me. “Yeah, I’m sure the hot-shot reporter wants to hang out with her math teacher neighbor.”

  My gaze drifts away from the large picture window and instead focuses on the two-story in the cul-de-sac. Pulling up next to the BMW in the driveway, I grab a couple sketches I made last night and roll them up, tucking them under my arm while I begin to walk up the sidewalk. The house is a stunner from the outside, but the inside needs a lot of work.

  A lot of work.

  I’ve been coming over on the weekends and sometimes after work to do a few touch-ups here and a few repairs there, because Harley and her roommate Annie can’t afford to spend a lot on upgrades at the moment. The stairs came first, and then a couple busted-out spots in the upstairs walls.

  Last time we met, they asked if I could make some repairs to the kitchen cabinets. Repairs would be easy enough, but I think we can revamp the look of the cabinets for just a little more and make them even better, which is why I made the sketches.

  Rapping my knuckles on the door, I bring my fist up to blow some warm air into it while I wait. It’s an abnormally frigid day even for January, so working outside is definitely not an option.

  The door swings open, and my expectations of being greeted by one of the two lovely ladies are dashed. Instead, I’m met by Harley’s six-foot tall wall of a boyfriend. I don’t know if it’s his black hoodie or the messy mohawk haircut, but something about him always puts me on edge.

  Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve noticed his girlfriend is beautiful, and I’m fairly certain he’s aware that I’ve noticed. But he can’t fault me for having eyes in my head, and I haven’t made a hint of a move on her. Quite honestly, I’ve been trying to temper myself since Alexis accused me of hitting on everything that moves.

  Not that I should care what she thinks.

  “Hey, Ryan.” The purposeful glance at my tool belt swinging from my waist should mentally get the point across that I’m here to work. And only work. If there’s a jealous boyfriend in the picture, I’ll be cutting myself out of the frame.

  “Hey. You just missed Harley and Annie. They went to go pick up some groceries.”

  “Oh,” I say, shifting the sketches under my arm. “Should I come back later?”

  “Naw, man, come on in.”

  He moves aside and I step into the foyer, shrugging out of my coat. Harley and her boyfriend are a perfect example of an odd couple. I’ll be fixing a hole in the wall, and she’ll show up after the end of her workday in one of her stick-thin skirts and sky-high heels. The girl always looks camera-ready. Ryan will ride up on his motorcycle a little later, wearing a leather jacket and dirty boots. He always leaves his helmet by the door.

  Right now, he has motor oil smeared across his jeans.

  He crosses the foyer and moves into the kitchen, so I follow, placing my rolled up drawings on the counter. When he opens the cabinet below the sink and kneels down, I can’t help but crane my neck to see what he’s doing.

  “Annie dropped her ring down the drain.” He pauses in his kneeling position to glance back at me. “I asked her if it was some weird mood ring or something she got out of a Cracker Jack box. Of course it has to be some fancy gemstone that her dad gave her for her college graduation. Tanzanite, I think she said?”

  “So they up and left you to find it?”

  “I’m the guinea pig.” He turns a channel lock against the pipe in an effort to remove the trap at the bottom of the sink. “How’s your daughter doing? Bailey, right?”

  “Yeah, Bailey. I’m surprised you remembered. I’m hanging out with her in a couple of hours, actually.”

  “Don’t be too impressed with my memory.” He repositions himself and moves his shoulders farther under the sink. “You seem to be a frequent topic of conversation here.”

  It’s hard not to cringe as I glance back toward the foyer. As hard as I’ve tried in the past not to put myself into awkward situations, I’ve taken a few in the jaw over the course of time. Doing so today is not in my plans.

  “Annie, I mean.” One quick move of his wrist and the trap pops loose, sending water pouring onto the towel he’s holding. “Annie’s constantly talking about you.”

  “Oh.” Relief washes over me as I lean against the counter and fold my arms across my chest.

  “What do you think of Annie?”

  “Annie?” Hmm… Interesting hair choice with one side of her dark curls shorter than the other. Stunning almond skin tone. Nice, airy laugh. “She seems cool, I guess.”

  Ryan chuckles as he attempts to move without spilling water everywhere. “Man of few words, and yet you said a mouthful. What’s Bailey’s mom’s name again?”

  “Alex,” I answer quickly. “Alexis.”

  “Alexis. See? I really don’t have a great memory.” He opens one of the cabinets and pulls down a plastic container, placing the trap inside where the dirty water pours out. “Were you together very long?”

  “No, not really.” It’s the only thing I can think to say that doesn’t make us both look like idiots. Telling the truth would likely bring on the same questions I’ve received every single time someone’s asked me about Alexis. You know what causes pregnancy, right? Did you think you were untouchable? I’m surprised you weren’t more careful. And the thought of telling people I was too drunk to know what I was doing? Sure, Jake can’t handle his liquor. The same Jake that’s at the bar every Friday night drinking with the rest of us.

  “Man, this hood is strangling me,” Ryan states as he jerks the sweatshirt above his head, tossing it into the corner. As he returns to the trap and makes sure it’s empty, I can’t help but notice the large tattoo visible just under his T-shirt sleeve. Rounded and beveled edges mark the bottom of the design, with some scrolling letters underneath. When he reaches across the sink for his towel, the word becomes clear.

  “Saved,” I say aloud. Ryan wipes his hands as he gives me a quizzical look. “Sorry, just noticed the tattoo on your arm. My friend Parker back home has one like it. Well, not like it exactly, but a God tattoo.”

  “So he’s a freak, huh?” He smiles before tossing the towel on the floor and pushing it with his boot to wipe up a puddle of water. “You from Kentucky? Indiana?”

  “Southwest Tennessee. Small town.”

  A rank odor fills the room, and Ryan makes a disgusted face, plucking the ring from the container only to have it slip from his fingers. It rattles onto the hardwood where it spins to a halt next to my feet. Stooping, I pick it up and wipe a small smudge from the side with my thumb. Ryan bends to pick up the towel and drapes it over the side of the sink before he steps over and I hand him the ring. He inspects it for a second and then drops it into his pocket, shoving his hand in after it like he’s afraid it might escape.

  “That’s a gross smell,” he says with a quick laugh.

  “I’ve done enough plumbing, I guess I’m used to it.”

  “I’ve smelled way worse being an EMT, j
ust wasn’t prepared for that. So, what brings you to The Bluegrass State?”

  He cuts a wide path around me and pulls one of my drawings from the counter, unrolling it for inspection.

  “A girl,” I admit. “Not the kind I’d usually chase. This one’s about three feet tall and can’t say my name right. But it turns out we have a connection.”

  “Yeah, Harley said she’s a cute kid. I guess maybe she saw a picture or something?”

  Instant deadbeat dad moment as I realize I don’t have a picture of Bailey. Why haven’t I ever thought of that before?

  “No, I think Bailey was outside the day Harley stopped by the house. Alex’s house, I mean.”

  “She probably told me that. Another example of the not so stellar memory.” He glances over at me and taps his index finger on the paper in front of him. “You sure you could do all this work for the figure you wrote here? It looks pretty extensive.”

  “The cabinets really aren’t in bad shape. There’s the one side piece on the far end that would need to be replaced, but the rest just need to be stripped and sanded. Once they’re refinished and have new hardware, they’ll look new.”

  “And all the tile here?” He points to the area behind the stove on the drawing.

  “Just a backsplash. Really easy to install and I could do it for next to nothing.”

  “Very cool.” He rolls the paper up once more and slides it to the back of the counter. “Thanks for what you’re doing for Harley. I know you could be charging a lot more for the work.”

  “It’s kind of nice to have something to do, honestly. It’s been a while since I’ve been the new guy in town. That’s taking some getting used to.”

  Ryan grabs the trap and heads out of the room, presumably to clean it before he replaces it, so I take the opportunity to glance under the sink at the rest of the plumbing. As old as the house is, it appears to be in pretty good working order.

  The house itself is a perfect candidate for a bed and breakfast. Old and stately, like a page right out of a history book. Too bad suburbia built up around it. Like one of those old tobacco plantation houses, except this one is overrun by little ranch-styles from a more recent time. Wonder Lane could easily serve as the backdrop for a Norman Rockwell series. Leave It to Beaver, maybe.