Cookie Cutter (4 page)

I wouldn’t say he’s angry. He doesn’t exactly laugh, either. And his eyes gleam as he stares at me. I hate his eyes almost as much as I hate his teeth. Maybe more. Dammit, I’m staring, again.

“They’re for Ally’s class,” I tell him. “Fundraiser, I mean bake sale.” I fumble my words. He’s so frustrating.

“Ally? Oh, your daughter.” A light bulb goes off over his head

“Who else?” I’m not sure why I snap at him like that.

He studies me for a brief moment, then the cookies. His mouth turns upward on one side like he’s debating whether he should devour them anyway.

Or me.

The thought of Carter Blackwood devouring me sneaks into my thoughts and I literally choke at where my thoughts went. Then I nearly drop the cookies – again.

“Shit, are you okay?” he asks.

Carter grabs the tray from me with one hand and holds me up with the other while I try to breathe in between sputters. Gail, the six foot something, two hundred pound or so vice principal of Ally’s school, rushes out from behind the front desk when she hears the commotion and pushes my neighbor out of the way.  I reach for the cookies but Carter steps away and Gail now has her long, strong arms wrapped tightly around my midsection from behind and is punching me in the diaphragm as hard as she can.

I’m panicked. Not only because I’m not actually choking on anything that needs to come up out of my body but I’m worried Carter is going to disappear with my cookies during the chaos. Regardless, as Gail works her talents on my midsection, I groan and cough and try my best not to puke up my breakfast.

“I don’t think she--” Ah. Carter hasn’t made a get-a-way. I’m slightly relieved, in between heaves, that is.

“I’m a trained professional young man, stand back.” Gail instructs Carter as she lifts me into the air and pumps my stomach again.

My neighbor looks on in horror as my daughter’s vice principal gives me the Heimlich and I cannot get a word out to tell her, I’m not choking, I’m just . . . choking.

“G--” I manage to cough out but it’s not enough.

Carter makes another attempt to explain.

“I really think she was just--”

“I’ve . . . got . . . this.” Gail grunts as she tries to free the non-existent lodged food from my system.

Only by a stroke of sheer luck am I afforded enough air to speak and I yell as loud as my voice will let me. “Gail!”

She lets go and I fall to my knees. I’m weak from struggling against her.

“Did you see it?” she asks the onlookers. “Did you see the food come out? She could still be choking.”

She comes at me, again, determined. I hold my hand up from the ground to stop her from assaulting me again and I gasp for more air. “I’m not . . . choking, Gail.”

A hand lowers, offering to help me up and I take it.

“Technically, you were choking.” Carter whispers as I come into a full standing position. If I could shoot lasers with my eyes right now. He’d be dead.

“Okay people, you heard the woman,” Gail hollers to the crowd, waving them along. “Nobody’s choking here. Go on about your business.”

I’m still holding Carter’s hand as Gail leans in to me. I pull it away. I’d hate for her to get the wrong idea. There’s nothing going on between us, after all.

She’s quieter now. “You sure you’re okay Iris? I can have Tilly take a look at you if you want.”

Tilly is the school nurse.  I don’t need a nurse, I need a drink. I shake my head and swallow properly this time.

“I’m fine, Gail.” I’m still trying to get my breathing to regulate.

With a nod of her head, she turns and leaves to go make sure order is restored in her school and I’m left with gawking front desk assistants and a Carter Blackwood, who’s still holding my cookie trays. I take them from him and set them on the counter.

“Bake sale, Allison Alden. Fifth period.”

One of the ladies behind the desk nods and takes a piece of paper, writes down what I’ve said and takes the cookies away, giggling with another assistant as they huddle together in the corner of the office. About me, no doubt. I smooth my hair and turn to go. Carter is trying very hard not to laugh.

“What?” I snap.

“That was priceless.” The delight in his voice is comparable to how I’ve reacted when the town’s Christmas tree lights up December twentieth every year. “She’s an animal. How did you even survive that?”

I rub below the underwire of my bra and moan softly, trying not to pay too close attention to the contagious excitement behind Carter’s words.

“I think she cracked a rib.”

And now Carter has lost all control of himself. I’m about to tell him how rude it is to laugh at someone else’s pain when I notice the wall clock behind him.

“Crap, I am so late.” I push past my perfect toothed, crinkled eyed, hard bodied neighbor and rush out of the office without another word to him.

“Hey! Cinderella!” he calls out when I’m about two-thirds of the way to the car. I stop and turn around to see him holding up my purse.

“You might need this later.”

Not only is he smug about it but he makes no attempt to even meet me halfway. I stalk back to him and snatch my bag out of his hand. Then make my second attempt to get back to the car so I can finally get out of here.

“You’re welcome.” The blatant cockiness I remember from the night before is back again.

I don’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t deserve a thank you; this was all his fault anyway. Had he not given me that look that made my blood race and my knees buckle, I wouldn’t have choked on my own saliva. Gail wouldn’t have thought I was dying, consequently, nearly killing me via the Heimlich maneuver. I wouldn’t feel like I’d just done a million sit ups, and I most certainly wouldn’t be late for work the one day this week that my boss expects me to help him with the presentation he’s due to present in about two hours.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Chapter 4. Carter

I shouldn’t be smiling right now. What I should
be is perturbed, annoyed, angry even, considering the side job I took on over at Spangler High School exactly didn’t pan out like I’d expected. What was supposed to be a simple repair job of the drama department’s stage turned into an all-afternoon affair. I ended up needing more supplies than I thought I would, so of course I had all the wrong tools and ended up losing money on the damn thing because I didn’t have the heart to tell a public school administrator that I needed more money to cover my costs. Despite my setback, though, I smile.

Why?

Two words. Iris Alden. She’s a pistol, that one. If the look on her face when I opened the school’s front door for her this morning wasn’t enough, the one she shot me when she left was. I felt kind of bad about her choking episode and all, but come on, that was priceless. So I smile while I pack my shit up. I smile as I leave the school for the night. I smile as I drive home.

My bliss is disrupted as I pull up to the house.

“Oh boy.”

I catch the tail end, literally, of Paul the nudist as he rushes inside his home. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to his love of being naked but I’m kind of rooting for the guy. Power to the people and all that. I have to remember not to mention I saw him in all his glory to Iris later on. If I see her that is. I probably won’t see her. Why would I see her?

“Hell.” The garage door sticks when I go to pull it open. I need to get on the stick with installing an automatic door opener for this thing. Not too pricey for an upgrade but it does require a specialty tool which means more money I’ll be dumping into this place that I hadn’t anticipated.

“Ah, well.” I toss my tool bag down and go back to the truck to unload the scraps of wood from today.

My ten year plan includes learning experiences for at least the first three flips or so. I didn’t expect the learning experiences to eat away at my living expenses so quickly, though.

Or Spencer’s.

My phone rings, distracting me from taking a nose dive into self-reflection, and for once, I’m happy to answer it.

“Hey, Frank.”

The hustle and bustle of daytime San Francisco goes on in the background before my uncle responds. It always sounds so sunny there.
He
always sounds so sunny.

“How’s the flip going, Carter?” His voice blares with enthusiasm that I can tell is accompanied by a wide grin. A distinct contradiction to my father, his brother.

“It’s . . . going,” I abandon the wood for now. “Thanks again for the tip by the way.”

“Glad to help. Anything you need?”

About five thousand dollars?
“Nah, I’m good, just ran into a few snags.”

His laugh is deep with experience from the other end of the phone. “Comes with the territory, son.”

He’s right. Even if I’d known before I started, how much this profession would cost me, I still would have done it. I love building things. Always have. In fact, it was Frank who first got me interested in construction, technically. He introduced me to what a hammer and nails were capable of one summer and it’s stuck with me ever since. He taught me to make a birdhouse, the epic first creation of an anxious eight year old.  I was so excited when I got home, that I ran straight to dad to show him.  Of course, he was too busy prepping for a case he had the next day to even look at what I was holding up for him see. That was the first time I recall wishing Uncle Frank was my dad. So when he calls me son, I really don’t mind.

“Carter?”

“Sorry, Frank, what was that?”

“I said, maybe we’ll find you a flip out here next. It’d be great to work with you.  See how much you’ve learned without me hovering over your shoulder.”

I stroll through the front room of the house and pull the drapes closed but stop when I see movement outside. A slow smile grows. It’s Iris Alden, carrying what looks to be a card table. And a ton of other somethings she can’t quite manage with finesse.

“That’d be great Frank. Hey I gotta run, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yeah, no problem Carter, keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

I blindly end the call as Iris struggles to carry everything in her arms. Has this woman ever heard of taking two trips anywhere?

I should get started on some smaller projects I wanted to get done before the weekend is over but instead, I head outside. In part, I’ll admit, because I’m curious as to what she’s got going on now but mostly because I’m in desperate need to talk with someone other than family. After spending the entire day alone in that drama room, she’s the only person I really know here.

Maybe I’m bored. Or maybe I enjoy giving Iris Alden a hard time.
Either way . . .

“Whatcha got there Iris?”

I catch up to her as the sky begins to darken a little more. Her shoulders slump as she pauses her trek. It bothers me because I don’t know if her shoulders are slumping because of her day in general or specifically because I’m here now.

“Going to play some cards?”

She smiles as though she’s humoring me.
That
I like.

“I guess you answered your own question, huh?” She starts to go again, quickening her steps.

“Want me to walk you?” I follow along.

She gives me a side look so I try to play it off, jokingly. “Ya never know who you’re gonna run into this time of night.”

She stops cold this time. “It’s Friday night, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Really,” I say. “Carter’s fine.”

“Do you know what Friday night means?” she says, like I haven’t said a word.

“It’s the weekend?”

She huffs, then starts off again. I follow.  Now it’s as though she’s talking to herself more than me as she mumbles, “Bordering on stalking for crying out loud.”

“Stalking? I was just--”

“First Gail, then Mark . . .”

I recognize Gail’s name as the principal from the school, but . . .
Who’s Mark?
I wonder. “That the boyfriend?”

She answers with a short, loud bark of a laugh just as we arrive at her destination. She sets the table down. It’s only now that I’m kicking myself for not taking it from her so she could manage the rest of what she’s carrying.

That’s rude.

“Can I…?” I fumble an offer even though it’s too late.

She answers with a defensive “No.”

She rings the doorbell with her elbow and things are very suddenly quiet between us, but I refuse to let this get awkward.

“So, how is
the uh . . .?” I wave at her rib cage and Iris lets the card table rest against her hip, freeing up her hand to rub the area, gingerly.

“Better.”

I nod, and find myself staring at her fingers then the “V” that her shirt comes to. Then her neck. Her skin is smooth. Like silky smooth. Or at least it looks that way. My hand twitches. It wants to confirm this theory. Iris let’s a noise out, one meant to grab my attention. Then I snap my mouth shut and clear my throat as the door opens.

“Well, well, well.” The older woman whips her boa around her shoulders. With her carefully applied make up and wavy, red hair, she reminds me of an older Greta Garbo, only spunkier. “Look what Iris brought me.”

“Oh for the love of God, Cynthia, he’s not for you.”

Iris makes to pick up the card table again, probably thinking, we’re done here, and that she’s going to be rid of me in a moment’s time. So naturally, I snatch it up quicker than she can, determined to prove I’m not rude nor a stalker, even though, now I kind of am acting like a stalker.

You’re not a stalker, Carter
.
You’re simply . . . curious.

Cynthia closes the door behind me like she’s making sure I won’t leave. I instinctively move a little further into the house like a caged animal.

“Who’s this strapping young man?” Another woman bellows from the living room.

She’s not quite as up there in age as Cynthia, or as elegant, but she’s has her own thing going on with the colorful array of clothes she’s wearing. None of which match, by the way. Iris doesn’t bother introducing me. Instead, she makes her way to the kitchen, where she begins unpacking something from one of her bags.

“Carter Blackwood,” I extend my free hand toward the Greta look-a-like. “I just moved in to the house across from Iris.”

“Ohhhhh.” The rainbow wearing woman squeals. “The house flipper!”

I nod. “Tell me where you’d like this and I’ll set her up for ya.” The doorbell rings again as she shakes my hand. Then blushes.

“I’m Beatrice, that’s Cynthia.” She points to the woman I kind of sort of met at the door, who’s now answering it again so I assume is the owner of the house.  

I nod again and let the information overload sink in.

“You can put that right over here,” Beatrice says.

She shuffles her way to an empty corner of another room and I follow. It seems this is the permanent, designated card table space.  I base this observation on the fact that the foot of each leg to Iris’s card table fit perfectly into the grooves in Cynthia’s carpeting here. Cynthia walks into the room with another, much older woman, who’s struggling with the chairs.

“Carter, this is Patricia. Patricia, this is Carter.”

“The house flipper,” Beatrice says.

I gain a raised eyebrow from Patricia as I take the chairs from her before she hurts herself.

“Nice to meet you, Patricia. You from Spangler, too?” I smile and set the chairs up around the table as she answers me.

I’ve missed whatever it is that she’s said because Iris has joined the gang again, with a tray of those cookies she had at the school earlier. I inhale and hum the air out.

“Any chance I’m gonna get one this time, Iris?”

It’s just us standing there suddenly, without three elderly women who seem like they’re itching to break into wolf whistles at any moment. There’s something behind Iris’s eyes as we’re staring at each other and I await my answer. The same something that was there earlier today. Like she’s lost or lost in thought about something. The air thickens for a minute. Beatrice suddenly giggles beside me.

“I think Carter needs to stay and play cards tonight, don’t you, Cynthia?”

“Oh, I think I agree, Beatrice, how about you Patricia?”

“I definitely think Carter should make himself at home, Cynthia.”

The three of them resemble precocious children, with their bright eyes and huge smiles. I’m putting a theory about them together in my mind when Iris blurts out a resounding, “I don’t think so.”

There’s finality in her actions as she turns her back to me and fiddles with the tray. Her tone is cold and quite frankly, I’m not the only one taken aback by it.

The four of us gape at her, waiting for an explanation.

Iris’s lids flutter a few million times, attempting Morse code with them while trying to come up with a good enough reason for me not to stay.

“I mean—” She laughs it off, shuffling the plate of cookies from place to place on the card table.

I take one. Iris watches me as I bite into it and I try not to let on that it is perhaps the best fucking sugar cookie I’ve had in my entire life. Damn she knows how to bake.

“I’m sure Mr. Blackwood has--”

“Carter.”

“--things he needs to go do.”

I shove the remaining cookie into my mouth while I ponder what she said, the way she said it and how her eyes immediately divert themselves from me when she’s done with her proclamation. I chew slow as I tick off the many things I need to get done over at the house. Painting some trim, sanding the dried spackle on the walls, screwing those damn closet doors into place. None of which sound nearly as enticing as watching Iris Alden try to act like she’s fine with me being here for the rest of the night. After I swallow, I slap my hands together to get the crumbs off. Then I shrug. “I don’t have anything going on right now.”

“Well, we can’t play Euchre with five people.” She fidgets, inspecting a fingernail and I’m already loaded with a retaliation.

“You can play
poker
with five people.”

In a flash her eyes are on me and I’m triumphant. I know it.

“Oh, poker,” Beatrice says and claps. “I remember poker.”

“We don’t play poker, Beatrice.” Iris purses her lips together like she’s the designated schoolmarm.

“Why not?” Cynthia waits for her answer, impatiently.

“Because,” Iris says.

Good come back, Iris.

“Because why?” I beat Cynthia to the punch and cross my arms. This is fun.

“Be—” She’s working hard to come up with something, anything but, just as I suspected, she’s got nothin’.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, let him stay, Iris.”

“It’s my house and I say he stays.” Cynthia tilts her chin and curls her brow. When she turns to me, her expression is softer, younger even. “You’ll stay, won’t you Carter?  I mean despite Iris’s rude behavior, we’re actually quite fun.”