Rusty Nailed (36 page)

Static.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Ms. Vivian Franklin?” a man’s voice asked.

“This is Viv, yeah, who is this?” I barked, noticing the time. Who the hell called at 1:28 a.m.? “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I am terribly sorry for the time difference. It’s considerably earlier here in California.”

“Well, bully for all the granola eaters. Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Ms. Franklin, I did try calling earlier in the evening. Did you not get my messages?”

“Five seconds, California, or I’m hanging up,” I growled.

“Forgive me for saying so, but you do remind me of your aunt.” He laughed a cultured laugh, and I frowned.

“My aunt?” I didn’t resemble either Aunt Gloria or Aunt Kimberly, and neither of them lived in California. Wait a minute— “Are you breathing heavy?” Ick, he was! “Dude, you picked the wrong chick for an obscene call—”

“Oh, no, Ms. Franklin. I just climbed up a rather long staircase, and I’m afraid the old ticker isn’t quite what it used to be.” After taking a deep breath, he laughed. “Obscene—the idea. Your Aunt Maude would have loved that.”

Aunt Maude. Aunt Maude? Ohhhh, Aunt Maude.

“As in my Great Aunt Maude? Maude Perkins?”

“Yes, the very one. I’m sure you’ve heard this time and again in the last few days, but let me please extend to you my condolences.”

“Condolences?”

“Yes, of course, on your aunt’s passing. My firm represented her for decades, and I’d gotten to be quite fond of her in the last few years. What a remarkable woman.”

Great Aunt Maude was . . . well . . . in need of condolences?

“Okay, California, start from the beginning, including your name and why in the world you’d be calling me in the middle of the night about a woman I barely know and haven’t seen in fifteen years. And who by the way, I didn’t even know had . . . well . . . passed.”

“Oh my! You didn’t know? Well, this is all a bit strange then, isn’t it? I’m so very sorry, Ms. Franklin. Let me introduce myself. My name is Gerald Montgomery, your aunt’s attorney and executor of her will.”

I switched the light on, climbed out of bed to grab a pad of paper, then got back in bed.

“Okay, Mr. Montgomery, you’ve got my attention. Now tell me everything, including how in the world she died without even one person in my family knowing about it.”

“Well, Ms. Franklin, she was, as you are aware, quite eccentric,” he began with a chuckle.

Thirty minutes later I set the phone down, utterly numb and confused. I looked back down over the notes I’d scribbled on the pages.

• passed away with no one but me named in her will

• house and ranch and all worldly goods . . . to me?

• Mendocino. As in California!

I looked at the clock, my mind whirling. It was too late to call my parents. I’d have to call them in the morning. I could barely process all of this. Crazy Aunt Maude. I hadn’t seen her since I was twelve, spending the summer out west with her in her old house.

The old house on a cliff above the beach. Oh my God—the
beach house
.

I flew out of my bedroom, down the stairs, and toward the bookcase in the living room. I grabbed an old family photo album, filled with Polaroids from family vacations and holidays from when I was kid. Flipping through the pages quickly, I found the ones I was looking for.

I spent one summer in Mendocino, one magical summer with my family and Aunt Maude. It was so long ago I’d almost forgotten it. I closed my eyes, remembering the feel of sun on my skin, salt in the air, and sand between my toes. I opened my eyes and stared down at the picture of the Victorian home overlooking the raging Pacific. Named “Seaside Cottage,” it was anything but. Turrets. Widow’s walk. Porch for days. Wide plank floors rubbed smooth from years of bare feet running across it. Kitchen garden. Attic, filled to bursting with trunks and old dress mannequins. It was like little girl wonderland.

And I’d inherited it?

And the ranch! Christ, how could I have forgotten the ranch that was adjacent to the picture-perfect house? Acres and acres of fertile California land, dotted with sheep, chickens, and the occasional milk cow. And horses. How could I have forgotten the horses? And the quaint old barn where . . . wait a minute . . . horses need tending to. Usually by a . . . cowboy.

A mysterious phone call in the middle of the night, beckoning me from my sleep. A call that awakened my mind with endless possibilities. An adventure? A new beginning? A journey across the land where a new life awaits? One with a . . . gulp . . . a cowboy? Shit. I could gulp a cowboy. Especially if I was about to be starring in my very own romance novel. But could I actually move across the country? I didn’t know a soul in California.

Wait, strike that.

I picked up the phone to call the only person I knew on the West Coast. One who shared the same sense of adventure that I
once
did.

It was only eleven o’clock in California. Of course, who the hell knew where he might be, knowing his job? I scrolled through my phone, looking at his name, weighing the decision about waiting to call in the morning.

Fuck it.

I called my old friend from high school, Simon Parker.

Viv Franklin wants romance. Candles. Flowers. Sweet nothings whispered in her ear. But should she choose the wickedly attractive cowboy or the sexy alluring librarian?

Coming Fall 2014 from Gallery Books!

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ALICE CLAYTON
worked in the cosmetics industry for over a decade before picking up a pen (read laptop). She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and is in the process of convincing her boyfriend to make her an honest woman.

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