Mrs. Gardner laughed as she refilled my glass from the pitcher. “Eat as many as you want. I made them for you. My Stella isn’t much for sweets. I don’t think she even knows how to bake. One of those career girls, you know. She’s a therapist. And she runs marathons. I’ve seen you running down the road, too. Do you run marathons?”
I shook my head and took a second cookie off the plate. At least if I kept eating, I wouldn’t have to actually say anything.
“She’s such a dear girl, so thoughtful and kind. Would you like to see her picture?”
I didn’t, not really, but she didn’t wait for my answer before disappearing through a swinging door into the dining room. A moment later, she returned with a framed photo in her hand.
“Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, setting the frame up next to the cookie plate. “This was taken last Christmas.”
I was prepared to nod politely even if her granddaughter was a dog, but when I looked at the woman in the photo, I had to admit she was pretty. Long blond hair worn straight to her shoulders. Light eyes. A shy smile. Full lips. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest in the photo, but not in a defensive way. More like she was cold.
Before I could help myself, I focused on her breasts. The tops of them were sort of pushing up above the neckline of the dress she wore. From there, my dick hijacked my brain and I immediately pictured her naked, which caused a rush of heat to my crotch.
Fuck.
I did not want to get hard sitting in this old lady’s kitchen.
As quickly and easily as I’d shut off the memory of my childhood, I looked away from the photograph and severed the connection between my body and my brain, staring out the window at the backyard until I felt nothing. It was a matter of seconds.
“Anyway, I’m so looking forward to seeing her. She arrives tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Gardner’s voice had lost a little of its pep, and I felt guilty.
Say something nice about the photo, dickhead.
But before I could think of anything, she took the frame off the table and left the kitchen. I felt like shit.
By the time she came back, I’d stood up, wondering how rude it would be to make a fast exit.
“Leaving already?” She sounded disappointed.
“Yeah, I have to get going.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’ve got places to go, a young man like you. You don’t want to spend all your time with a silly old grandmother like me. But I was just wondering, could you maybe take a look at the front porch? There’s a board that feels a little unsteady, and I’m wondering if I should have it replaced.”
“Uh, sure. I can take a look.”
She smiled and clasped her hands together. “Wonderful. And while you’re doing that, I’ll wrap the rest of the cookies so you can take them home. Come right through here.”
I followed her through the dining room and living room to the front of the house. The big wooden door was open, and the screen door squeaked as she pushed it. I made a mental note to oil the hinges for her.
Out on the porch, she pointed toward a board near the door. “Step right there. Do you feel that?”
I walked on the board she indicated, and sure enough, it gave a little beneath my feet. So did the one next to it. “Yeah. These two need to be replaced before they start to rot.”
She gasped. “Rot! Oh no, that doesn’t sound safe at all. And you know, I’ve had both hips replaced already. I don’t want to risk a fall. Do you know how to do it?”
I crouched down and looked a little closer. Beneath the flaking white paint, the boards were one-by-four fir decking, which would be easy enough to get, but they ran front to back, which meant one end was under the toe kick and the other beneath the railing. It wouldn’t be a quick fix.
Frowning, I stood up. “I can probably do it after work this week, but it might take me a couple days.”
Her face lit up. “I don’t mind. You can be here as much as you’d like.”
I nodded. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
“That’s just perfect, Mr. Woods.”
“Ryan.”
“Ryan. What a nice name, so sturdy and strong. Is it a family name?”
“Uh, not that I know of.”
“I believe it’s Irish. Are you Irish?”
“A little.”
“Same here! I was born a McMahon. And where did you grow up, dear?”
“Ohio.”
“A Midwesterner. I just love Midwesterners. So friendly and traditional. Such nice manners. And did I hear somewhere you were in the military?”
My jaw clenched reflexively. I hated the idea that there was talk going around about me, but I suppose it was inevitable in a small town. “The Marine Corps.”
She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “A Marine! Well, no wonder you’re so big and strong. And such a gentleman, too. Why, my own daughters moved out of state, leaving me here alone to fend for myself. If it weren’t for you and my grandchildren and my bridge group and my book club, I’d have no visitors at all. Did I tell you my granddaughter Stella is coming to visit me?”
“Yes,” I answered, thinking again of the pretty blond in the photo.
Mrs. Gardner thumped herself on the head. “Of course I did. I’m going completely dotty, Mr. Woods. One of these days, I’m going to forget my own name. My Frank was in the Navy,” she went on in the same breath. “Signed up after Pearl Harbor, when he was just seventeen. I was devastated when he shipped out. I cried for days. But he came back in one piece, thank heavens. And so did you.”
Sometimes I wondered if that was true. “I should get going.”
“Of course, dear. I’ll just go in and get those cookies for you.”
I wanted to tell her not to bother, but then I thought about how soft and sweet those cookies had been. What else did I have to look forward to tonight? “Thank you.”
While she was inside, I pulled my phone from my back pocket and texted Mack.
Any big projects this week? My neighbor asked for my help replacing some boards on her porch.
He replied right away with a smart ass comment.
What a hero.
Fuck off.
Nothing big this week that I know of. I’ll check with DeSantis.
Henry DeSantis was the winemaker and vineyard manager at Cloverleigh, and I spent about a third of my time working for him, and the rest for Mack, who was the general business manager and oversaw all construction and landscaping projects. Mack was also a Marine buddy and the closest thing I had to a brother. He’d gotten me the job at Cloverleigh.
“Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Gardner came out the squeaky screen door and handed me the plate of cookies, now covered with tin foil. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect. Bye now.” She gave a little wave and I took off down the steps and across the front yard toward my house.
It was similar to hers, but in much worse condition. Same Victorian farmhouse style, same wide front porch, although hers had a swing at one end and lots of hanging flower baskets. Same interior layout with a living room at the front, dining room in the middle, master bedroom off the dining room, and kitchen in the back. I’d never been upstairs in Mrs. Gardner’s house, but I assumed it had three bedrooms and one full bath off a central hall. It was definitely more space than I needed, but Mack knew the realtor was looking to get someone in there who might be able to help get it in shape for selling in the spring. It probably needed way more money put into it—the kitchen was ugly and ancient—but I was making progress with the rest of the house, at least cosmetically.
So far I’d painted the entire exterior, landscaped the front and back yard, and replaced or repaired woodwork and tile grout on the interior. The roof and electrical were beyond my skill set, but the realtor said he’d hire someone for those things. I planned to spend the winter repainting the interior rooms and refinishing floors.
I let myself in the front door and headed through the living room, which held exactly two things—a couch, which I’d bought along with a mattress at some furniture liquidation place, and a flat screen TV, the only thing I took from the house Brie and I’d shared.
I shook my head and took a second cookie off the plate. At least if I kept eating, I wouldn’t have to actually say anything.
“She’s such a dear girl, so thoughtful and kind. Would you like to see her picture?”
I didn’t, not really, but she didn’t wait for my answer before disappearing through a swinging door into the dining room. A moment later, she returned with a framed photo in her hand.
“Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, setting the frame up next to the cookie plate. “This was taken last Christmas.”
I was prepared to nod politely even if her granddaughter was a dog, but when I looked at the woman in the photo, I had to admit she was pretty. Long blond hair worn straight to her shoulders. Light eyes. A shy smile. Full lips. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest in the photo, but not in a defensive way. More like she was cold.
Before I could help myself, I focused on her breasts. The tops of them were sort of pushing up above the neckline of the dress she wore. From there, my dick hijacked my brain and I immediately pictured her naked, which caused a rush of heat to my crotch.
Fuck.
I did not want to get hard sitting in this old lady’s kitchen.
As quickly and easily as I’d shut off the memory of my childhood, I looked away from the photograph and severed the connection between my body and my brain, staring out the window at the backyard until I felt nothing. It was a matter of seconds.
“Anyway, I’m so looking forward to seeing her. She arrives tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Gardner’s voice had lost a little of its pep, and I felt guilty.
Say something nice about the photo, dickhead.
But before I could think of anything, she took the frame off the table and left the kitchen. I felt like shit.
By the time she came back, I’d stood up, wondering how rude it would be to make a fast exit.
“Leaving already?” She sounded disappointed.
“Yeah, I have to get going.”
“Of course. I’m sure you’ve got places to go, a young man like you. You don’t want to spend all your time with a silly old grandmother like me. But I was just wondering, could you maybe take a look at the front porch? There’s a board that feels a little unsteady, and I’m wondering if I should have it replaced.”
“Uh, sure. I can take a look.”
She smiled and clasped her hands together. “Wonderful. And while you’re doing that, I’ll wrap the rest of the cookies so you can take them home. Come right through here.”
I followed her through the dining room and living room to the front of the house. The big wooden door was open, and the screen door squeaked as she pushed it. I made a mental note to oil the hinges for her.
Out on the porch, she pointed toward a board near the door. “Step right there. Do you feel that?”
I walked on the board she indicated, and sure enough, it gave a little beneath my feet. So did the one next to it. “Yeah. These two need to be replaced before they start to rot.”
She gasped. “Rot! Oh no, that doesn’t sound safe at all. And you know, I’ve had both hips replaced already. I don’t want to risk a fall. Do you know how to do it?”
I crouched down and looked a little closer. Beneath the flaking white paint, the boards were one-by-four fir decking, which would be easy enough to get, but they ran front to back, which meant one end was under the toe kick and the other beneath the railing. It wouldn’t be a quick fix.
Frowning, I stood up. “I can probably do it after work this week, but it might take me a couple days.”
Her face lit up. “I don’t mind. You can be here as much as you’d like.”
I nodded. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
“That’s just perfect, Mr. Woods.”
“Ryan.”
“Ryan. What a nice name, so sturdy and strong. Is it a family name?”
“Uh, not that I know of.”
“I believe it’s Irish. Are you Irish?”
“A little.”
“Same here! I was born a McMahon. And where did you grow up, dear?”
“Ohio.”
“A Midwesterner. I just love Midwesterners. So friendly and traditional. Such nice manners. And did I hear somewhere you were in the military?”
My jaw clenched reflexively. I hated the idea that there was talk going around about me, but I suppose it was inevitable in a small town. “The Marine Corps.”
She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “A Marine! Well, no wonder you’re so big and strong. And such a gentleman, too. Why, my own daughters moved out of state, leaving me here alone to fend for myself. If it weren’t for you and my grandchildren and my bridge group and my book club, I’d have no visitors at all. Did I tell you my granddaughter Stella is coming to visit me?”
“Yes,” I answered, thinking again of the pretty blond in the photo.
Mrs. Gardner thumped herself on the head. “Of course I did. I’m going completely dotty, Mr. Woods. One of these days, I’m going to forget my own name. My Frank was in the Navy,” she went on in the same breath. “Signed up after Pearl Harbor, when he was just seventeen. I was devastated when he shipped out. I cried for days. But he came back in one piece, thank heavens. And so did you.”
Sometimes I wondered if that was true. “I should get going.”
“Of course, dear. I’ll just go in and get those cookies for you.”
I wanted to tell her not to bother, but then I thought about how soft and sweet those cookies had been. What else did I have to look forward to tonight? “Thank you.”
While she was inside, I pulled my phone from my back pocket and texted Mack.
Any big projects this week? My neighbor asked for my help replacing some boards on her porch.
He replied right away with a smart ass comment.
What a hero.
Fuck off.
Nothing big this week that I know of. I’ll check with DeSantis.
Henry DeSantis was the winemaker and vineyard manager at Cloverleigh, and I spent about a third of my time working for him, and the rest for Mack, who was the general business manager and oversaw all construction and landscaping projects. Mack was also a Marine buddy and the closest thing I had to a brother. He’d gotten me the job at Cloverleigh.
“Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Gardner came out the squeaky screen door and handed me the plate of cookies, now covered with tin foil. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“That’s perfect. Bye now.” She gave a little wave and I took off down the steps and across the front yard toward my house.
It was similar to hers, but in much worse condition. Same Victorian farmhouse style, same wide front porch, although hers had a swing at one end and lots of hanging flower baskets. Same interior layout with a living room at the front, dining room in the middle, master bedroom off the dining room, and kitchen in the back. I’d never been upstairs in Mrs. Gardner’s house, but I assumed it had three bedrooms and one full bath off a central hall. It was definitely more space than I needed, but Mack knew the realtor was looking to get someone in there who might be able to help get it in shape for selling in the spring. It probably needed way more money put into it—the kitchen was ugly and ancient—but I was making progress with the rest of the house, at least cosmetically.
So far I’d painted the entire exterior, landscaped the front and back yard, and replaced or repaired woodwork and tile grout on the interior. The roof and electrical were beyond my skill set, but the realtor said he’d hire someone for those things. I planned to spend the winter repainting the interior rooms and refinishing floors.
I let myself in the front door and headed through the living room, which held exactly two things—a couch, which I’d bought along with a mattress at some furniture liquidation place, and a flat screen TV, the only thing I took from the house Brie and I’d shared.
