Screwdrivered
Page 15

“I know I called you nosy, but this is bordering on Single White Female,” I joked as I opened the door.
“You’ve met the pizza man, you know I ain’t single,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I told you I’ve been dying to see the inside of this house.” She started to walk back down the steps in an exaggerated way. “Or I could just take this box away; I’m sure you’ve already got lunch plans.”
“Get in here. But I’ll warn you in advance, it’s a freaking mess,” I said, holding the door open so the pizza and my new, insistent friend could come inside.
“If I’m going to make the Butcher Block special a constant in my life, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that, I’m going to have to start running again.” I groaned, patting my stomach. Jessica and I were seated around the grand dining room table, the dolls now uncovered and arranged so we had an audience. She didn’t find them as creepy as I did.
“There’s some great trails around here. You know where the state park is?” she asked, also patting her own stomach.
“I think so. I passed it on the way into town. The Headlands?”
“Yep, there are some fantastic trails in there. Also around Big River. I’ll draw you a map,” she said, gesturing for the stack of napkins and a pen.
“Awesome, thanks,” I said, getting up and stretching. I avoided looking directly at the dolls.
“So what’s your story?”
“My story?” I asked, looking back at her. Though I might have been looking out the back window for a certain someone. Who was supposed to be coming back to ride Paula. Lucky horse.
“Yeah, your story. Everybody has a story.” She broke off a piece of crust and pointed it at me. “C’mon, you’re stalling.”
“I literally just got here two days ago. There’s plenty of time for my alleged story,” I protested. What I got in return was a very exaggerated display of her getting comfortable.
“Okay, okay, my story. Well, let’s see . . . I was born a poor—”
“I’m going to go position these dolls all around your bed.”
“I’m from Philadelphia, Maude Perkins was my great-aunt who I hadn’t seen since I was twelve years old, I’m a computer software designer, and I like pizza. And beer. Especially together.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Gay?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Leave anyone behind?”
“Like in a fallen soldier kind of way?”
“Like in a dating someone kind of way.”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Fabulous, I know this great guy that—”
“No, no, and no. I don’t even know if I’m staying here and—”
“Oh, you’re totally staying here.”
“Why is everyone so sure about that?” I asked, my head swimming from the rapid fire.
“Call it a hunch.” She laughed, then pointed out the window. “Besides, who could ever leave a view like that?”
“Indeed.” Pretty sure she meant the ocean, but all I could see was Hank heading into the barn.
“So, where should we put the jeans?”
“In a puddle on the floor of the barn sounds good to me,” I breathed, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the window. He’d mounted Paula.
“Viv?” I heard behind me.
“Huh? What?” I turned to see her with an armful of jeans, just one of the many stacks of oddities that lived in the dining room. “Oh hey, you don’t have to do that. Seriously, that’s very sweet of you but—”
“Eh, it’ll give me a chance to snoop around.”
Who was I to say no to free help? Especially when I genuinely liked the helper. Nosy? Shit yes, but I was used to being around a large family, always nosy people around. And when there was a project this big? There would have always been people there to help out. So I accepted her offer, loaded her up with jeans and a large garbage bag, and let her snoop.
Within an hour, we’d uncovered a whole load of interesting. In a closet upstairs we found a cedar chest full of hatboxes, hats included, some with the tags still on. As we tackled the second bedroom upstairs, we found an entire set of Haviland china underneath ten more bags of tube socks. And in a shoebox at the back of the linen closet we found . . . well. Some rather interesting reading material of the scantily clad variety, circa 1940s. I was looking at exactly this when I heard the faint telltale sounds of clip-clopping coming from out back.
I hurried down the backstairs in the most nonchalant way possible, past where Jessica was perched on the bed sorting through another cache of dolls. She’d asked about my story, but I wanted to know his. What made Hank tick? I wanted to peel that onion, and in a very specific way.
Checking my reflection in the mirror, I imagined the way a great heroine might go out to greet her returning lover on a mighty steed. Grabbing two beers from the fridge, I moseyed out back toward where he was brushing down the horse after the long ride.
He didn’t look up.
“I brought you a beer; thought you might be . . . hot.”
He still didn’t look up, his movements soothing and methodical as he ran the brush thingie all along her pretty white coat. At one point he stood and walked around to the other side, making eye contact only once. I raised the beer but he shook his head, returning to the horse. “So, Hank. Can I call you Hank?”
“What else would you call me?” came his muffled reply from the other side of Paula. Who turned her head toward me and showed me her teeth.
“Right, what else indeed. So, Hank, do you live nearby?”
“Yep.”
“In town?”
“Not far.”
“I see. Have you worked here long?”
“Miss Perkins hired me a few years back, let me come and go as I please,” he said, now straightening to his full height. Even with the horse between us, I could feel the heat of his eyes, now assessing me and my totally obvious interest. “I liked that. I like it best when I can just come. And go.”
Oh. Oh my. Thrilled to have finally gotten a reaction out of him, I tried to contain my excitement. I tipped the beer bottle back to take a sip, sneezed suddenly, and poured it on the side of my face instead. Aw yeah.
For the record, this kind of thing never happens to me; I’m usually very good at the flirting. But this man made me come unglued. And speaking of glue, I’m pretty sure that f**king horse was laughing at me.