Screwdrivered
Page 46

“In college?” I asked, trying to imagine a younger Clark on campus. I wondered if he rocked the elbow patches then, or if that was a postgraduate addition.
“Did I date in college?”
“Mm-hmm,” I responded, curling my legs underneath me. I chewed on my thumbnail while I waited for his response.
“Some.”
“And after college?”
“Some.”
“And after after college?”
“After after college?”
“Yeah, you know. Recent. Current. Whatever,” I asked, chewing harder on my nail. He let loose one of those low chuckles. I bit the nail clean off. Without thinking, I spat it out.
 “Did you just spit something?” he asked, sounding curious and amused.
Mortified, burying my face in the pillow, I answered a muffled yes.
 “Never would have pegged you as a spitter, Vivian.”
Eyes suddenly wide, I sat straight up, almost levitating from the bed, then rallied. “Only when it’s something not worth swallowing.”
Hello line, I believe I just crossed over you. I distinctly heard Clark choke on a sip of what I assumed was his Scotch.
I looked at the clock and saw how late it was. “I better go; I have to get up very early. See you tomorrow?”
“That’s a promise, Vivian,” he said, that deep, warm-honey voice running all over me. “And for the record? I’m not spoken for.”
I let out a shuddery sigh. We said our good-nights, I hung up the phone, and tried to go to sleep.
The next morning I kissed my parents good-bye and boarded a plane to California, with no idea of which Clark might be waiting for me when I got home.
It wasn’t until somewhere over Utah that I realized I hadn’t thought about the cowboy once the entire time I was gone. Huh.
Chapter twelve
Thankful for the large SUV, as I had more luggage than a few weeks ago, I drove from San Francisco to Mendocino on pins and needles. Last time my excitement came from nervous anticipation, because I had no idea what I was walking into. This time I knew what I was coming home to. The question was, what was the most exciting part? My new life? The house itself? The libr—
Whoa. I can’t even think it.
As I navigated up Highway 1, taking the longer route for the more scenic view, I felt my skin begin to sink back into the deep blues and vibrant greens of the coast, the craggy cliffs and rich brown earth. Wild and rough, this part of the country was certainly among the most beautiful in the world.
Making that last turn and seeing Mendocino on the horizon made my heart beat a little bit faster. The quaintness overwhelmed me once more, the cottages flush with shrub roses and hollyhocks, trellises covered with flowering vines and saturated with fat bumblebees zinging this way and that. It was warm today, the chill of early autumn chased away by a sultry inland breeze and the enormous sun. I smiled to see the drugstore, the grocery store, John’s restaurant, and Cliffside Coffee, bustling with locals and tourists. Was I a local yet? I wondered how long that might take . . .
As I turned down Maple, Whispering Canyon came into view. Turrets, wide but dangerous porch, bright clean windows, and . . . oh, snap. There she is!
Parked in the driveway was the Blue Bomber. Two point motherfucking 0. “Yes!” I yelled out, almost forgetting to put my rental car into park. I slid out from behind the seat belt and danced to the Bel Air, which looked like it was ready to fly. Top down, chrome sparkling, it was a killer car. And dangling from the rearview mirror? Fuzzy dice. Yes!
I ran my hands down the smooth lines and the gleaming paint. It was decently waxed and buffed to a picture-perfect shine, and I bent down to admire the fat, puffy whitewall tires.
“Fucking awesome,” I breathed, then heard the crunch of footsteps behind me.
 I peered around, not yet straightening, to see brown loafers. Brown chinos. Blue-and-green plaid shirt, green knit tie. Tweed jacket. Hands in pockets. Straight, even teeth behind a smile. Dusty eyeglasses, one fingertip pushing them up a perfectly healed nose. Warm brown eyes. Neatly parted wavy brown hair.
“Hiya, Clark,” I said, slowly straightening and turning to lean against my car. I smiled as I saw his gaze drop down to my legs, as it often did, and slowly rise up my body. I don’t know if all librarians ogled the way this one did, but he had it down to an art form. He took his time, leaving no curve unseen. Did I arch my back when his gaze finally made it to my chest? Of course I did. And was rewarded with a nostril flare, the equivalent of a facial boner.
When his eyes finally made it to mine? His grin deepened. “Vivian,” he breathed, in that warm-honey way. But then his grin faltered with shyness. “I trust you had a good flight?”
It was okay; I wasn’t really ready to be face-to-face with Nighttime Clark. Daytime Clark was a piece of work in his own right.
“Seriously? You want to talk about my flight right now?” I asked, pushing my shoulders back more, internally giggling when he immediately pushed his eyeglasses up his nose again.
“Um, well, what did you want to talk about?” He gulped, and I decided to take it easy on him.
I grinned and patted the car. “Let’s take this baby out for a spin.”
His face flashed something close to gratitude, which was quickly masked. “I trust you have insurance for this car?”
I laughed out loud, which earned me an “impossible woman,” but said with a touch more fondness than usual.
I slid in behind the wheel, he took shotgun, and we drove that beauty straight up the coast.
We drove for an hour, passing Fort Bragg and beyond. The coastline was even more wild and curvy up here, just dangerous enough to add an extra thrill to the day. The ribbon of blacktop cut a winding trail along the cliffs, the Pacific crashing on our left, the mountains soaring majestically on our right.
And between me and the mountains? Clark, who regaled me with stories of the pioneers who first settled this coast, the gold miners who brought their families out seeking riches, the towns that rose around a lucky vein and then expired just as quickly when the gold ran out. The pirates that navigated these waters, pillaging and plundering. Oh yes, the plundering.
And in between the stories, we tuned in the local oldies station and gave the Bel Air what it deserved: doo-wop. Rama lama. Shoop shoops. And a few dingdongs for good measure.
It was good, it was easy, it was fun. The car was slick, speedy when the road was straight, and a smooth, easy boat on the curves. A total bubble of awesome. And we rode around in that bubble all afternoon, me and my Bel Air, my librarian, and my shoop shoop.