Chapter 3

I crawled back into the house, mad as a wet hen. Which I’m pretty sure was cackling at me as I’d made my way through the yard and tried to get the old pump working. It didn’t. Naturally.

Cowboy Hank. I couldn’t believe it. Not exactly the introduction I’d hoped for. But still, he was dreamy as all get-out. I’d tangled with bad boys before. I could do it again. All great romance novels had a conflict to overcome, right? Granted, they rarely started with horseshit, but I’d adapt. But for now, I had business to attend to.

Humming the Bad Boys theme song, I peeled my disgusting boots off,

rolled my jeans up past the muck and the cut in my shin, and headed toward the kitchen. Using the cleanest rag I could find I ran the water until it was scalding hot, then cleaned out the cut. I’d sat through multiple piercings and tattoos; hot water was nothing. Climbing back upstairs, I ransacked the bathroom medicine cabinets, looking for anything I could use to disinfect my leg. The last thing I needed was to get an infection.

Bad boys bad boys, whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when your horse poops poo . . . I sang to myself and the legless knight as I poked around in Aunt Maude’s bathroom.

Finding nothing but a bottle of iodine—did they even sell iodine anymore?—I saturated a cotton ball with the brown liquid and dotted it on and around. Gross. But effective for now. First-aid needs temporarily met, I evaluated and assessed.

Drugstore for real disinfectant. Grocery store for food.

Liquor store for the love of all that is holy.

I changed into a clean pair of jeans and boots, grabbed my bag, and headed back out to the car. On my way, I realized I hadn’t looked in the garage. Mr. Montgomery had said there was a car, a real looker. Did I even want to go there?

My leg was stinging. I passed on the garage, I’d take my chances later on. Soon I was heading back into town, looking right and left. I knew I’d passed a—aha! A drugstore. Right next to the grocery store and everything else I needed. Parking my car, I noticed the girl from the coffee shop heading toward me. Jamie? Jennifer?

“Jessica. It’s Jessica,” she called out in greeting.

“Did I say that out loud?” I asked, mortified. Lack of sleep and jet lag must be starting to hit.

“No, but you had that look. How’s the house?” she asked, falling into step as I walked along the sidewalk toward the drugstore.

“The house? Hmm, well.”

“I gotta tell you, I’m dying to see the inside of it. Maude’s kept to herself so much the last few years, ordering her groceries in, not really coming into town anymore. The whole town’s been buzzing about someone new moving in,” she said, nodding to an older couple passing by. “Evening, Owen, Polly.”

“Lovely evening, isn’t it, Jessica?” the older gentleman responded,

smiling at me.

“Certainly is,” Jessica replied. Mayberry. Literally Mayberry.

“So where you headed?” she asked. Nosy. But nice.

“Had a run-in with a splintered porch step, so I’m grabbing some disinfectant. Then some beer.”

“Good call. Well, if you need a recommendation for a quick bite, the

pizza across the street is the best in town. The fact that my boyfriend owns the restaurant is only part of the reason it’s the best.” She laughed, her eyes

twinkling. I looked where she was pointing and saw a bustling, comfortable-looking place. As I’d been cleaning up, the sun had sunk low across the ocean. The lights of the town were turning on. Streetlamps dotted the sidewalks, shops were closing up but still spilled a soft light out onto the pavement. And that fiery ball lit up the western sky like a painting.

Weird day, yes. But oddly great.

“Pizza’s good, huh?” I asked, my stomach now rumbling. When was the last time I’d eaten?

“Pizza is freaking great; tell John I sent you. Get him to make you the Butcher Block special, it’s unreal.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m starving. I could eat an actual butcher.”

“Nah, we have a great butcher. Stan. And the town would tar and feather you if you took him out of service. Fantastic ribs.”

The town had a butcher. An honest-to-god butcher. I fucking loved this place.

“Okay, Butcher Block pizza it is. Thanks for the advice.”

“Sure thing. I put the coffee out at six a.m.; stop by anytime,” she replied, pulling off her ball cap and shaking out her hair. With a wave, she headed off down the sidewalk.

I did indeed take her advice and headed across the street. I found John behind the bar, a great big ex–football player type, and told him I heard he was the man to see about a Butcher Block special.

“My girl sent you, didn’t she?” He grimaced, but in a good-natured way. “She sure did. And I have to tell you, I’m from the East Coast, so I’m a

little funny about pizza,” I replied with a raised eyebrow. He laughed out loud, smacking his hands together.

“A challenge has been thrown down. Butcher Block special it is, coming right up. You eating here or taking it home?”

“Home, I think, but I need to run a few errands in the meantime. Thirty

minutes good?”

“It’ll be ready in twenty-five.”

I told him that was perfect, and set off to grab what I needed to make it through the night in Clutter Central.

I hurried into the drugstore, grabbed some Bactine and Band-Aids, and hit the grocery store next door. I nabbed some cereal and a small container of milk; I’d wait and do my real shopping once I purged the house of all things Beanee Weenee. I also picked up a few flashlights, because the way this day was going I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared. Checking my watch, I had just enough time to head into the liquor store, grab a six-pack, then back into John’s to pick up the most heavenly smelling pizza ever created.

“You stop by tomorrow and tell me that wasn’t the best pizza you’ve ever had.” He winked, handing me the box and a big stack of napkins.

“Wow. Lots of napkins. Always a good sign.” I laughed, and paid.

“How’s the house, by the way?”

“Is there a sign on my forehead?” I asked, shaking my head. “How in the world do you know about that?”

“Jessica told me, but the East Coast thing gave it away.” He grinned.

“Enjoy.”

I smiled, grabbed my change, and headed back to my car.

Back at the house, sitting at the dining room table surrounded by dolls, I ate the best pizza I’d ever had. Halfway through the second slice, though, I covered them up with a tarp.

Dolls are scary fuckers.

I liked my environment clean. Neat. Orderly. Hospital corners? Yes, please. Can labels showing to the front? Thank you kindly. How else could you see what’s in the can?

This house was the polar opposite of what I preferred, and yet . . . As I bedded down for the night, the bed consisting of cedar-smelling camp blankets I’d dug out of an old chest in a guest room and arranged on the

large sofa in the living room, I felt strangely content. Belly full of pizza and beer, pleasantly warm and a bit tipsy, I’d turned out the lights and walked through the lower level once more, checking locks. I paused in front of the picture window, the moon full and bright on the Pacific below. I’d seen some clouds beginning to gather before full dark, but now things looked clear and peaceful.

I had a to-do list started for the next day, but tonight I was beat. Letting the long day finally overtake me, I sank into a deep sleep in my new home. And on the inside of my eyelids? A playback of Hank on that horse. The body, the bulk, the buckle. Bad boy? I could manage that . . .

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip.

I rubbed my face, wiping it dry. Back to sleep.

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip drip.

No. No no no!

I sat up straight, staring at the ceiling, only to be splashed once more. The room was bathed in a flash of light, illuminated like a photograph for an instant, then returned to darkness. I heard a rumble of thunder, accompanied by another flash of lightning. And another round of drips.

Then I remembered the tin buckets I’d moved to make room for my bed. I’d thought they were just placed here and there as part of the random collections. Nope. Rain catchers. Of course there was a leaky roof.

Sighing, I pulled my blankets off to the side, replaced the buckets where I could find the drips, and curled back into a ball. I mentally added another task to my to-do list. I fell back into a troubled sleep while listening to:

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip.

The next morning I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to make the Eisenhower-era coffeepot work, before I remembered that Jessica had said she opened her shop at 6 a.m. Since I’d been up since 4 a.m. (time difference was going to take some adjusting to), I was in my car and into town almost as soon as I could throw on some clothes. The storm the night before had scrubbed clean the already fresh air, and by the time I’d hit the front door of Cliffside Coffee, the cobwebs were mostly swept from my brain.

A bell tinkled overheard as I opened the door, and I saw that lots of people started their day here. It was a cross between old-fashioned dive diner and cozy coffee shop, and heads turned to check out my arrival. But all in a pleasant Hi how are you? kind of way. I spied Jessica behind the counter, and she waved me down to the end.

“I wondered if I’d see you this morning. Coffee?”

“Bless you.”

“Black, right?”

“As midnight, please.” I sighed, sitting down on the stool and gratefully accepting a mug.

She set down a menu with a grin, then topped off several other customers’ cups.

“By the way, you were right. That pizza was like a gift from the gods.”

“I told you! No one knows meat like my boyfriend. Eyes on your own breakfast there, Mr. Martin. I know exactly what I just said,” she warned, thumping the counter in front of who I guessed must be Mr. Martin. “Dirty old man.” She laughed. He grinned at her but did indeed go back to his own breakfast. “How was your first night?”

“Shitty, actually. Leaky roof.”

“Ugh. The worst.” She nodded sympathetically, then looked down at the menu. “You know what you want?”

I was famished. That sea air was definitely working on my appetite.

“Let’s do the Hungry Man breakfast.”

“Nice,” she said. “I’ll go put the order in.” She moved away, taking care of her other customers as I watched the comings and goings. There was an interesting mix of people here, old and young. There seemed to be an artistic bent to this community from what I’d seen so far, equal parts California granola/free spirit vibe along with a side of coastal chic. I saw a few guys dressed in coveralls, and it made me think of something. When Jessica brought my breakfast over, I asked her, “So if I needed to get some work done on the house, roof, porch, et cetera, any recommendations on who to hire?”

“Sure, plenty. Want me to put the word out?”

“Yeah, I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’ll need yet, but there’s definitely some work to be done.”

“Sounds like you’re planning on staying awhile,” she observed, looking

at me with a knowing smile.

“You’re kind of nosy, you know that?” I remarked, digging into my hash browns.

“Hell yes,” she affirmed, setting a bottle of hot sauce in front of me and

waving a hello to a new group that had just come in the front door.

I finished up, got a coffee to go, and thanked Jessica in advance for putting the word out to get some help. I headed back to the house . . . where there was a cowboy waiting for me.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, looking at the hunk who was on the porch. I noticed he’d avoided the broken floorboard. He stared at me, his eyes hard and unflinching. Recognition flared in them; did he remember me from the beach? Did he think I was still trespassing?

Unfolding my legs from the car, I put on my best strut as I closed the distance between us. My first words to him had to be something memorable, something intoxicating, something to make him think the dirty thoughts. His eyes strayed to my legs as I strode purposefully toward him,

clad in short denim cutoffs and recently cleaned boots. And a bandage. Aw yeah.

Now standing at the bottom of the steps, I licked my lips as I appraised him. The seduction of Hank begins with the words . . .

“I see by your buckle your name’s Hunk. I mean, Hunk. I mean, fuck, Hank. Crap.”

He looked confused. Not amused.

Birds chirped. Wind blew. Hank stared. I? Sweat. Aw yeah.

Deciding to pretend I’d not spoken at all, I stared back at him, determined not to say anything.

“So, you’re Hank, right?” Way to go, Viv.

He nodded.

Mmm. Nodding was the best. I wasn’t going to say anything else. The pressure of his silence built.

“I’m Viv Franklin.” Sigh.

He just continued to stare, and I wondered if I had Hungry Man breakfast on my face. So much for the seduction of Hank.

“So anyway, I’m Maude’s great-niece. Did you even know I was coming out here?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He speaks! I mean, he hums!

“Great. Okay, so . . .” I trailed off. Nothing. “Yesterday, when we were on the beach? And you said, you know, get the hell off the beach?”

“That was you?”

Okay, I’m a pretty girl. A tough kind of pretty, with the tats and the piercings, but I have a great face and not smallish boobs. Not to mention I was dragging a shit piñata behind me through the sand when we met. So overall, pretty memorable.

But not to Cowboy Hank. This was going to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. Good thing I liked a challenge.

“Yep, that was me. This is my place now. I mean, I don’t know if I’m keeping it for sure, lots of work to be done, and I haven’t really seriously considered the implications of actually moving here from Philadelphia, but I’m thinking about it. What is it you do here, exactly? I heard you oversee things, but what does that entail? Does it mean—”

“You sure talk a lot,” he mused, hooking his strong hands through his . . .

gulp . . . belt buckle. Mmm, I did love a man who wasn’t afraid of a buckle. “I don’t normally.” I moved to the side to get out of the sun, and now he

was in silhouette. Christ, his outline made me want to lick things. “Anyway, you want to come in?”

“Nope. Just here to feed the horses. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said with a frown, turning toward the barn.

As he passed me I caught a whiff of his cologne. Spicy and manly. I

suddenly sneezed.

“And stay out of the barn, you’re making the animals nervous.”

I stood there, evaluating and assessing. This guy was turning me into an idiot! Like, a simpering girly girl who couldn’t handle herself around a mountain of man flesh, not at all how I normally was around men. But ooooohhhhh. Maybe this was supposed to be how it was? Like, in a good romance novel the heroine was always affected by the hero. Okay, so, reassess. Reevaluate. The cowboy wasn’t going to fall in line. That’s what happened, though, right? It couldn’t be too easy, or romance novels would just be little pamphlets. There’d be some conflict in this story. Challenges. But no more word vomit hopefully.

I slunk back into the house, avoiding the broken floorboard.

I also avoided the backyard, although I watched from the windows in one of the guest rooms upstairs. I watched Hank move across the yard, feeding the horses and watering the chickens, which squawked gratefully. As I worried the cameo around my neck, I observed the cowboy in his natural element. He liked to work with no shirt on, which seemed so

perfectly right and not at all beefcake. I mean, it was warm this morning, almost seventy degrees . . .

Once he left in his truck, a great manly beast of a thing, clouds rolling in great waves of lusty dust in his wake, I went to work. I wasn’t quite sure how to tackle all the junk. It was a bit sad, actually.

Maude had grown up in this house, where she’d lived her entire life. The house had been in the family for more than a hundred years. When the first generation of my family to branch off the Philadelphia trunk had traveled here so many years ago, what would become the town of Mendocino was still a small settlement. It was composed mostly of families from New England, so the style of homes reflected what these pioneers brought with them: Cape Cod, Victorian, picket fences, and cottage rosebushes everywhere.

She’d lived here when her mother died, and had never left to create her own household. Families had visited over the years; aunts and uncles and cousins and their children had filled this house with laughter and tears, suppers and tea parties. But in her last years, Aunt Maude had withdrawn.

As I began to sort through the clutter in one of the spare bedrooms, I discovered a trove of Maude’s paintings. Mendocino had once been an artist colony, and she’d signed and dated every one, starting back in the fifties. I knew I’d get lost if I started looking through them with any kind of order at this point, so I tucked them back into the closet until I could spend more time examining them.

Maude had been an artist. Interesting. My fingers held a phantom brush, noticing the natural light pouring into the room and knowing instantly that this would be a great room to paint in. An inspection of the floor revealed an occasional paint splatter here and there, something I hadn’t noticed anywhere else in the house. So she’d also found the light in here irresistible. Feeling a sudden kinship with her, I smiled.

I spent the morning cleaning out the bedroom with the best view of the ocean. Wiping a thick layer of sea salt and grime from the windowpanes, I

continued to hum the theme to Bad Boys as I worked. Once the blue of the Pacific sparkled through once more, I searched for more clean rags in the linen closet in the hallway and was thrilled to find a fairly new set of sheets. Buoyed by the thought of sleeping in an actual bed tonight, I headed for the basement to see if the washing machine still worked.

Opening the basement door for the first time, I realized two things. One,

the lightbulb was burned out. Two, the motherfucking lightbulb was burned out. Sighing loudly, I threw back my shoulders and bravely tromped down the steps. Into the dark basement of a hundred-plus-year-old house, with nothing but old sheets to protect me.

So there’s stupid, and then there’s stupid. I’ve had picnics in cemeteries. I went on a tour of the underground catacombs when I lived in Paris. I was always the last one standing when we played Bloody Mary at slumber parties. But by the time I made it to the bottom of those basement stairs, I was shaking like a horrified leaf. Basement danger, the worst kind.

The sun shone dimly through one dirty window. If I remembered correctly, the washer was on the other side, by the furnace. Turning away from the light, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the washer . . . next to a pile of heads.

Sheets dropped, mouth opened in a silent scream, my entire body went on lockdown as my brain tried to catch up to what I was seeing. By the time I processed the Halloween label on the box and realized they were just masks, it was too late. Forever in my head, they’d be heads.

You have never seen someone start a load of laundry as quickly as I did. Whistling a happy tune to distract myself, I covered the heads with a big trash bag. Between the dolls and the Halloween props, I was beginning to understand why people can go a little funny when left on their own too long.

I thought about all this afterward up in the kitchen, the basement door

firmly latched behind me, and I shivered when I realized I’d have to go back down there to put the sheets into the dryer.

Then I heard a knock at the front door. Would it be Hank? Returning for another round of witty banter?

Wiping my face on the inside of my T-shirt, I realized that I was disgusting and badly needed a shower. Oh well. Resigning myself to it, I headed out into the foyer. Peering through the lace at the window I saw a man, but the profile was leaner than Hunky Hank’s. Soccer player vs. football player. Breathing a sigh of relief that I’d have more time to prepare myself for our next meeting, I opened the door.

Brown hair. Brown eyes behind dusty-looking eyeglasses. White button- down. Tweed jacket with . . . elbow patches? He was tall, carried a briefcase, and looked exactly like Tom, Dick, and Harry. I could handle this. Hell, I’d just defeated an entire legion of heads.

“Hiya,” I announced, surprising him. Pushing his glasses up onto his nose, he glanced down at me. I was dressed for cleaning in a tank top that I’d sweated through, denim cutoffs that showed most of my legs, and a headband, and he took me in with an appreciative glance. Amused, I let him look, and when he finally met my eyes again, I let him know with my look that I’d caught him peeking.

A blush colored his cheeks, and he pushed his glasses up once more. “Vivian Franklin?” he asked, his voice deeper than I thought it’d be. “It’s Viv. Who’s asking?”

“Vivian, my name is Clark Barrow. I heard you were looking to make some changes to Seaside Cottage?”

“Hell yes, probably starting with this porch. It’s a death trap, Clark,” I

affirmed, thumping on the column, which wobbled. “You should see the cut I got on my leg yesterday when I went through the plank.” I propped my leg up on the railing just to the right of him, running my hand down to highlight the bandage.

His eyes followed my hand. “That looks like a doozy of a cut,” he agreed, his gaze on my skin.

I cleared my throat.

He still stared.

“So, Clark, you’re here to put in a bid?” “A bid?” he asked, looking up.

“Yeah, you said you heard I was looking to get some work done, right? I

don’t know for sure if I’m staying, but if I’m even going to consider it I’ll need to have an idea of what kind of money I’d be shelling out to make this house livable, know what I’m saying? I’m thinking we’ll start with the front porch; all these rotten boards are going to need to be torn off. The roof’s leaking, so that’s obviously the first thing we’ll need to start on, and when I was trying to get to sleep last night, before the rain started that is, I could have sworn I heard something scuffling around behind the walls. I’d hate to have to rip out that plaster, but I’m not going to have anything furry surprise me some night so—”

“Rip out the—wait, no. No, no, you can’t do that.”

“What the hell kind of a contractor are you, Clark?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.

“I’m not a contractor, I’m a librarian. I’m also the town archivist, and

that’s really why I’m here,” he said, pushing up his glasses.

“I’m confused. If you’re a librarian, why are you here about ripping off my front porch?”

“No one is ripping off anything, Vivian, least of all this front porch.” “What the hell kind of librarian is in charge of front porches?”

“Not just front porches, the entire house. Seaside Cottage is on the historical register, as is much of the town of Mendocino. So any repairs, small or large, have to be approved by the town—specifically, the director of the historical society,” he replied, straightening his lapel.

“And that would be?” I asked, dryly. “Me,” he answered, puffing up a bit.

“I see.” I turned away, walking back and forth along the porch, ever

mindful of the splintered floorboard. I fingered my cameo while I contemplated this wrinkle.

“So I can’t make any changes without consulting you first?” “Correct.”

“Including the front porch.” “Correct.”

“Or the wobbly bannister?”

“Good God, no! It was handcrafted by Jeremiah Wo—”

“Easy, Clark, easy,” I soothed. “So where does that leave us?”

He looked past me into the house, easily seeing the stacks of boxes. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that your aunt was a bit of a packrat, but many of the things she owned could easily be donated to the historical society. You know, to make more room for you?” he asked hopefully.

I thought of the paintings in the closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to just let things go quite yet.

Channeling Aunt Maude? Yikes.

“Look, Clark, so here’s what I’m thinking. I just got here, haven’t even cleared off a bed yet. I slept on the floor last night, can you imagine?” I said, taking his arm just above the elbow patch and guiding him back down the steps.

“I can imagine. I mean, not about the bed of course but—” he stammered, blushing a deep red. I may have let my boobs brush his arm. Sweeten the pot when you can, right?

“So how about you let me get settled, carve out a bit of living space, as it were, and then we can talk some more?” I asked, walking him right back to his car. A Taurus, of course. Safe. Dependable.

“Well, that’s just fine, Vivian,” he answered.

“It’s Viv,” I said with a sweet smile. “And if I decide to rip off my front porch, I’ll make sure to call you first, huh?”

“I’m not too comfortable with that phrase. Restoration work has to be slow and methodical. Patient.”

I leaned one hand on the car behind him, bringing me a bit closer. It was fun making this guy blush.

“I don’t know. Sometimes fast and hard and furious has its place—know what I mean, Clark?”

Cue blush. Also cue eye sparkle. Although to be fair, they were more than sparkling. They were burning. Hmmm.

He thrust a pamphlet into my hand, got into his car, and drove away. It was a pamphlet from the Mendocino Historical Society. On the back, his name was listed.

Clark Barrow. Historian. Archivist. Librarian. He forgot to list Elbow Patch Rocker.

I turned back to the house with a chuckle. And almost stepped on the bad

plank again. Slapping the porch railing, which wiggled generously, I muttered, “Can’t make any repairs? We’ll just see about that.”

I worked my ass off all day, stopping only for leftover pizza and beer while standing in the kitchen, picking at contact paper on the pantry shelves. Was this historical contact paper? Was I allowed to pick this off? Or does the future of this town rest on the 1970s snail-and-grasshopper motif on this very contact paper?

After my standing lunch I ventured back to the basement, armed this

time with three flashlights and a box of lightbulbs I’d found under the sink. Now fully lit, it wasn’t nearly as scary as before. I investigated the cold room, pleased to see that Aunt Maude’s jars of vegetables and preserves were still stacked neatly along the shelves, all dated from last season. Yum, blackberry jam. Heading back into the laundry room, I stalwartly ignored the box of heads as I put the sheets into the dryer. I brought the camp blankets upstairs and pinned them on the line out back, letting the winds blowing in from the west catch them on the breeze, snapping the ends. Then I trooped back upstairs, determined to restore order to the bedroom I’d be claiming for now. I scrubbed the floor, carrying bucket after bucket of dingy water out back to dump. I pulled down the old curtains, thick with dust, and

contemplated throwing them out. But now that I was thinking about the frickin’ historical significance of every last item in the house . . .

Grumbling a little, I folded them neatly and set them aside. At some point, things were going to have to get thrown away. But apparently an archivist librarian had to be here for that.

I tackled the hall bathroom upstairs next, and with elbow grease and the grace of God, I got it spick-and-span. I’d found an old box of baking soda in the linen closet and with a bucket of warm water and a brush, I scrubbed the little octagonal floor tiles until they gleamed. The iron tub was still stained a bit despite all the bleach I’d used, but the old chrome faucets shone so I could practically see my face in them.

By the time dusk was setting in, I was tired and stinky, but I had a sparkling clean bedroom and bath. Too tired to even think about food, I stood under the shower and washed quickly, shampooing my hair as fast as I could in case the hot water ran out. Once the particulars were taken care of, I luxuriated under the warmth. Running my hands down my skin, I could feel every muscle that ached from the hard work.

I could also imagine feeling a very particular muscle, one that belonged to a cowboy named Hank. But as quickly as I was beginning to heat up, the water cooled down, shoving my daydreams out of the shower. I toweled off, listening to the house settling in for the night. I finger combed my curly hair as I dried it most of the way, literally too tired to even hold the hair dryer for too long. Clutching my copy of Loins of Endearment, I crawled into the most sinfully plush bed ever created, loving the scent of clean linens and line-dried sunny blankets.

I was asleep before even one loin was endeared.