Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (11 page)

“Vivian, I do hope you’re not planning on removing that mantel-piece. I see that chunk of marble just thrown haphazardly on the floor. Need I remind you that the fireplaces in this home are all original, even down to the tile in the—”

“Oh, Clark, just stuff a scone in it and get in here.” I sighed, holding the door open. He set his scones and briefcase down, then inspected the offending piece of marble.

“Oh good, this’ll be a simple repair. You really must be more careful when you—”

“Oh, please, it came off in my hand! I literally just leaned up against it when I was on the phone the other day, and—”

“I’d say you don’t know your own strength, but based on this”—he pointed at his nose—“I know that’s not entirely true.”

He wore his glasses today, in spite of the fact that they must hurt.

Get a grip, Viv.

“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked, interrupting some speech about turn-of-the-century architecture. Which always confused me, frankly, because the century had turned twice since people started saying that phrase . . . so which century? A question that would not be posed at this moment, however.

His mouth hung open in midrant. I leaned in, pushed his chin up and closed his mouth, then turned for the kitchen. “Follow me, Clark. I hope you like it strong.”

He murmured something, but followed me. And for the record? What he murmured?

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

S
o Caroline was here to back me up, to agree with me, to be on my side and to make sure that Clark didn’t cause too much trouble—right?

Not so much what happened.

What
did
happen is the two of them bonded over a bottle cap, a ballroom, and a baluhwhozit.

Things started pretty well. We all agreed that the roof was a no-brainer, especially when I began my prepared speech about how rain coming inside would be doing continued damage to the already damaged living room. Clark didn’t disagree, only noting that as long as the original sight lines of the roof were retained, and the copper gutters were replaced, that a new roof was most certainly called for.

We made great strides toward a continued state of détente when we progressed to the front porch, almost re-creating my fall through the floorboards when Caroline pressed a little too hard in her heels. Once again, Clark surprised and impressed me with his ability to compromise. He did put his foot down—and almost
through,
which couldn’t have happened at a better moment, when I suggested that the railing and the cornice thingies were a little too fussy for my taste. Though I loved this house I wanted to put my own stamp on it, even if just in the tiniest of ways. When Clark began to make a stink, Caroline wisely interjected with a suggestion that was period-specific but slightly less Victorian. And in the end, he agreed the changes would look nice on the new front porch.

Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.

The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.

“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.

“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”

“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked again.

“Did you ever have the Honey Lemonade?”

“Oh, it’s a lemonade company? Like Country Time?” I asked.

“No! I could never find it!” Caroline replied.

The hallway was getting very closed in, and I walked over to stand next to the Legless Knight’s legs.

“You can order it online,” Clark continued.

“Must be a California thing, huh?” I asked, but nobody answered.

Eventually I was able to pry them away from their bottle cap and the dumbwaiter, which I immediately divested of dolls. Because who the hell needed that image in her head, of a bunch of dolls hiding inside the walls of an old house? Which is now ingrained in the membrane, so Merry Christmas, everyone.

But that was just weird. Things really unraveled when we headed downstairs.

Clark began telling us that in the original plans for the home there had indeed been space allocated for an actual ballroom. But whether due to resources, a lack of interest, or simply because the frontier at that time didn’t host too many balls (Clark’s personal theory), the ballroom was scratched. At that time, however, if a family was a member of society, then balls were a part of the social calendar. And ballrooms were constructed. This revelation led us to a grand discussion, mostly between Clark and Caroline, about the golden age of San Francisco and the parties and balls held in the mansions before the Great Earthquake of 1906 and subsequent fire that burned most of the city to the ground. I listened in with some interest, but mainly picked at the chipped paint on the doorjamb I was leaning on. Clark stopped me every time he saw me doing it, and at a certain point it became a game: How many pieces could I chip off before he stopped me? Childish, yes, but more interesting than listening to that crap.

Which brings me to what
really
chipped my paint.

If you know anything at all about old homes, then you know they’re very compartmentalized. Homeowners in 1890 would never have entertained the idea of “open concept.” Kitchens would be and should be separate from the dining room, and not just in case there were actually servants serving. Even small houses were constructed that way. Women cooked, men read the newspaper, children rode around on things that didn’t require seat belts or helmets, all in separate places within the home. And then they gathered in the dining room, quite removed from the stink and smoke from old-timey cooking. A swinging door between the two rooms created ease of movement, but allowed the mess to be hidden from view.

I suggested that perhaps not only could the swinging door be removed, but the entire wall between the two rooms could be removed, letting in more light and creating a more versatile space.

I watch HGTV; I knew what I was talking about.

What I had never watched was
Survivor
,
and therefore I knew nothing of an alliance. But I saw one hatched right in front of my eyes. Clark and Caroline bonded, united in their determination to save the swinging door and to never, I repeat
never,
allow the idea of knocking a wall down at Seaside Cottage to be spoken of again.

That last part? With the never allow, and all that? Go ahead and reread that, channeling Charlton Heston and the best Moses he could muster.

I was outmanned, outgunned, and out-Moses’d.

My backup was firmly in the librarian’s camp, who was now leading Caroline up the staircase to the site of the Battle of the Balustrade.

“Oh, no you don’t, you’re not talking her into saving this rickety old bannister,” I started, dashing up in front of them and standing firmly in front of Clark.

He ignored me, turning to Caroline. “This was handcrafted by Jeremiah Woodstove, and it’s one of the only remaining few in this style,” he told Caroline, who ooohed and aaahed.

I smacked the damned bannister with my hand and the whole thing wobbled. “It’s falling apart. It’s rickety, it’s unsafe, and it gave me a splinter the other day! See?” I shoved my hand under Clark’s nose, and his eyes grew big. Perhaps because last time I was so close to his face, I’d drawn blood.

“I hardly think that a splinter is a reason to tear down the entire balustrade.” He looked at my hand. “But I am sorry about your splinter.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I mumbled. “And I didn’t say I wanted to tear the whole thing down. Just the wobbly parts.”

I stared up at him, noticing for the first time how very tall he was. Sure, part of it was because he was on the step above me, but he was also just a tall man. A tall man with a busted nose. “And I’m sorry about your nose, in case I forgot to tell you,” I whispered.

“You did,” he whispered back, with a tiny smile. “Forget to tell me.”

“Well, I’m telling you,” I said, noticing that Mimi was perched at the top of the stairs peering over the railing like a mouse. And Caroline had backed away and was at the bottom of the stairs looking up.

Smiling.

Ugh.

“Mimi, I’m going to take a few minutes to get my notes together. Why don’t you come on down and help me,” Caroline said, and Mimi danced down the stairs.

As she passed me, she said, “I redid your linen closet and the hall closet, and your aunt’s clothes you’d piled up are now in boxes by color and season. You’re welcome.”

They disappeared around the corner, and I looked back up at Clark. “Did you know my aunt very well?”

“Somewhat. I helped her get a grant a few years ago, which she used to fix some things around here. But she kind of withdrew in recent years.” He gestured to some of the clutter I still hadn’t dealt with. “I didn’t know about all this. It wasn’t this bad the last time I was here.”

“Sounds like no one knew it was this bad. I hadn’t been here since I was a kid, and it definitely didn’t look like this back then.”

“Were you close?” he asked.

“Me and Aunt Maude? No, I hadn’t spoken to her in years,” I answered, starting down the steps.

He followed me. “Strange, isn’t it?”

“Strange?”

“That she left the house to someone she barely knew. I mean no offense, of course.”

“No, it
is
strange. My family and I have been trying to understand it ever since I got the call from Mr. Montgomery. The best I can figure is she knew I loved this house and was probably the least likely to sell it out of everyone in my family.”

“And no jealous brothers or sisters that wanted a house like this?” he asked.

This was the first real conversation we’d ever had.

“No sisters. Five older brothers, though. And none of them wanted it. Well, a couple of them were a little peeved that they didn’t get the chance to sell it off and pocket the cash, let’s say that. I think that—hey, where’d you go?” I looked behind me.

Clark was still at the bottom of the staircase. “You’ve got five older brothers?”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re all back in Philadelphia?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” he said, hurrying to my side and pushing the swinging door open. “After you.”

I ducked under his arm, and looked up at his face. “You okay, Clark? You seem a little pale.”

“Must be the nose,” he said, and followed me into the kitchen.

“S
o those are my recommendations for now, Viv, based on the limited amount of time I’ve been here. I think most of what you want to do to make it more comfortable to live here can be accomplished without making any significant changes to the house itself.” Caroline sat at the kitchen table that afternoon with her notepad open, referring to it here and there as she laid out an initial plan for a renovation.

Clark and I had listened intently, only interrupting a few times.

“As for you, Clark, I know how you feel about this house, and for the most part I agree with you in terms of the aesthetic of leaving these old homes intact. However, my girl Viv needs to actually live here, not be a caretaker in a museum, so you’re going to have to be flexible, okay?” she said, pointing a finger at him.

I shot him a self-satisfied look, until she turned that finger on me. “Now, the house is on the historical register, and he’s in charge of that. So if you want your house to remain on the register—and you do, believe me—then you’re going to have to work with him. Okay?”

Now Clark was the one with the self-satisfied look. Humpf.

“I’m leaving a list of three contractors I’ve worked with in the area, and they’re all solid. Once I get back to my office I’ll prepare a list of some of the things you want to do right away, like the roof and the porch. Get a bid from each of them, then we’ll go from there. Sound good?” she asked, closing her notebook.

“I think so. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a dime; I’ve been dying to get away for a weekend. Just promise me that next time I come up, you’ll have a room ready for me to stay in.” She smiled at me, and I gave her a hug. She was a pretty cool chick. “And, Clark, you said you have copies of the grant her aunt received, yes? Can you send me a copy of that?”

“Of course. I know right where it is,” he said, closing up his briefcase.

“Dewey decimal system, right?” I joked.

He gave me a baleful stare. “Don’t mock the system, Vivian.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I answered, standing up and heading for the fridge. “Now who wants a beer?”

“Gimme.” A deep voice sounded from the other side of the screen door, and we all turned. Simon and Ryan had returned from windsurfing, clad in wet suits and grins.

“Brrr, aren’t you cold?” Mimi asked, hurrying outside with a few towels I’d recently folded.

“Nah, it’s just brisk!” Ryan answered, his teeth chattering.

“Looks more than brisk. You sure you don’t want some coffee? I can have some made in”—I looked at the Magic Chef stove—“an hour?”

“Nah, we’ll be fine. Beer’s good,” Simon said, pulling down his wet suit in front and toweling off. Caroline dropped her notepad. Oh boy. And Mimi? She was getting frisky with the brisk. I grabbed two beers and held them out the porch door with my eyes closed.

“Here. Someone take these. Hurry,” I instructed, laughing when I heard Mimi squealing. “Clark, you want one?” I asked, hearing his deep laughter behind me when Caroline got a face full of wet suit. Aw yeah.

“No, no I should get going. Not sure where this is heading,” he said, still laughing.

“I’ll walk you out.” We bobbed and weaved through the couples on the porch, laughing as they said good-bye to Clark. As we headed for his car down the driveway, I caught him peeking at the garage.

“Do you know about her car?” I asked.