Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3) (3 page)

I
’m pretty sure that in my romance novels, the heroine always arrives at her new destination fresh and unwrinkled, smelling of gardenias and excitement.

I arrived at San Francisco International Airport with swollen ankles and a T-shirt covered in marinara sauce from an in-flight argument with a chicken parm. I smelled like recycled airplane air. I was exhausted and cranky from staying up late with last-minute packing, and annoyingly horny due to my marathon read of
Loins of Endearment
.

I struggled to load my luggage into a cart, then struggled to get it onto the rental car bus, and then struggled to load it into the freaking golf-cart-size car they gave me. I don’t know where the midsized SUV I’d reserved had disappeared to, but at this point I would have driven a scooter to Mendocino. I just wanted to get there.

Firing up the putt-putt-mobile, I consulted my GPS, turned on some tunes, and hit the freeway. And then got stuck in traffic. Then hit the open road! Then more traffic.

Determined to keep my adventurous spirit intact, I rolled down the windows to breathe in that California air. Certain that it would be laced with flowers and sun, I was surprised when it smelled the same as Pennsylvania. But no matter. I was here! Aaaand back in traffic again.

Two hours later, I finally saw signs of the shoreline. The state highway began to wiggle back and forth along the coast; I started noticing tiny slivers of peekaboo blue. Rocks rose majestically out of the water, cliffs sprang up and out toward the deep blue water. The Pacific looked angry, crashing against the shore as though it was taking it personally. I found it invigorating; it could thrash itself as much as it wanted to. I loved the sea spray it created; the hidden caves bubbling the water back out as quickly as it was pushed in.

As I neared the seaside town at a grandmotherly pace of forty-seven miles per hour (thank you, weenie car), I decided that it was a blessing to have to go slow. To take in the beautiful surroundings, to not have anywhere in particular to go—and I’d get there when I got there. It was liberating, it was freeing. I had a devil-may-care feeling: I could go anywhere, be anything I wanted—

Honk!

What?

Honk honk!

There was a line of cars on the highway behind me that didn’t care for my joie de vivre.
Loins of Endearment
had been set in wartime Paris, so I had French on the brain. And by French I mean a great war hero, member of the resistance, and the owner of his own very ample baguette. He had
taken his lover up against the counter in a bakery, and when he pushed into
her, taking her virginity for God and country, the moment was frozen in time. Never mind the bombs falling, never mind the countryside wracked with woe, this was here. And now. And the only thing that could stop the invasion into her heart was the—

Honk honk!

“I’m going, I’m going!” I yelled out the window, pushing the damned car to fifty-five, causing the entire frame to shake and shimmy. Baguette, indeed.

I spied the town of Mendocino in the distance, and pushed it to fifty-seven. Now we were talking!

My GPS took me straight to the coffee shop on the main drag where I was meeting Mr. Montgomery, the attorney who had contacted me. I gazed in wonder at the beautiful town, noting the Victorian homes and neat-as-a-pin front lawns. Cottages large and small dotted the twisting streets, built to take advantage of the natural landscape and picture-perfect ocean views. Set high on a cliff, the town looked down onto the sea below.

With a wide grin, I pulled into the parking lot near the coffee shop. Stretching out after my long drive after an even longer plane ride, I then headed toward a row of rocking chairs on a long porch where a gentleman sat.

He smiled at my approach, standing. “Ms. Franklin, I presume?”

Who says that anymore?

“Just Viv, please. Nice to meet you, Mr. Montgomery.” I smiled, shaking his hand. He was tall and stately, his black suit and tie seeming at odds with the casual atmosphere of this little artsy village. But his smile was genuine, and his blue eyes danced. I looked down at my ripped jeans, combat boots, and sauce stained T-shirt, and zipped up my leather jacket. “Turbulence. Not great for eating pasta at thirty thousand feet,” I explained.

“Not to worry. I’m sure once you get settled in at the house, you’ll be able to relax and clean up a bit. Shall we take care of this business so you can be on your way? I’m sure you’re anxious to see everything.” He gestured toward a table and chairs where he had some paperwork set up, and I nodded. As we sat down, a pretty woman with dark blond hair crammed unsuccessfully into a ball cap approached.

“Any coffee for you?” she asked, and as I looked down I saw that Mr. Montgomery did indeed have a coffee there. I looked around her to the restaurant we were seated outside. Cliffside Coffee was the sign on the door, and now that I noticed, on her ball cap too.

“Oh, um, yeah that’d be great. Black. Thanks.”

“Sure. You the Franklin girl who’s taking over Maude Perkins’ place?”

Surprised, I looked at her with narrowed eyes. “How’d you know about that?”

“Small town. Coffee shop. I know everything.” She grinned. She had an easy way about her, pretty face, good energy, unfazed by my piercings—you never know how some people will react. “Been out to the house yet?”

“Literally just got into town, but you already knew that?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“I totally did—just making conversation. I’ll be right back with your coffee,” she said, heading back inside. “Name’s Jessica, by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the swinging door.

I looked back at Mr. Montgomery, who merely smiled and readied the papers for me to sign.

Frickin’ Mayberry.

I liked Mayberry.

“Any idea what you’re going to do with the property, now that you’re the sole owner?” he asked a few moments later, after I’d signed my name with a flourish.

“Not sure yet. Right now the only thing I can think about is a shower and a nap. In exactly that order.” I groaned, feeling the grit of the day literally beginning to settle into my skin. But I would be taking a little tour of my new homestead, grit be damned.

I imagined the way this bit of coastline must have looked back in the 1850s when the town was first settled. Men and women, drawn west by the promise of gold, had arrived with only what could be carried in the back of a covered wagon. Moved by a sense of purpose and adventure that I now shared, did the women stare at the ocean with excitement? With wonder? Covered in actual trail grit, would they be too tired when their husbands, weary but journey strong,
cast their eyes toward them with longing? And when the last waning sunbeam from across the ancient Pacific cast its luscious golden light upon her cascading bosom, did he push her back against the wagon wheel with a lusty groan, spilling kisses across her salty skin? And when he had tethered his oxen team to feast upon the fragrant sea grass, did he return to the wagon to unleash his own pair of—

“Ms. Franklin?”

I shook my head to clear it, punchy from my travels and more than a little worked up now.
Sick, sick, sick in the head.
I smiled innocently at Mr. Montgomery.

“Sorry, daydreaming.”

“You’ve had quite a busy day. I think you’ve waited long enough. Shall we head over there now?” he asked.

“No need, just point me in the right direction and I can take it from there.” I was used to handling things by myself, and while I appreciated the offer, I didn’t really want anyone else there when I saw the house for the first time in years. In my head, it was all very dramatic.

“Very well, Ms. Franklin, is there anything else I can do for you today?” he asked, sliding an old-fashioned key across the table. As I picked it up, I felt a thrill roll through me. My key. It was my key now. Antsy, I stood.

“Nope I think I’m good! So which way is it?”

“Just down the main road a bit here and then curve down Maple Street. You can’t miss it,” he replied, standing and gathering all the paperwork for me. “You let me know if you need anything, promise?”

“I promise. Thanks for everything,” I answered, shaking his hand and then practically prancing down the walkway.

T
urning down the street, potentially my new street, brought a ton of memories flooding back. An entire summer I’d spent here, the sun on my face and the sand underneath my feet. This town had been my universe, tiny
and
enormous existing within the same space. I’d often wondered if I’d had the chance to come back again, would it be the same? Would it be as magical, as picturesque, as quaint? As comfortable? They say you can never go home again, but this was never my home. It was my fairy tale.

And as I turned into the long and winding driveway that led up to Seaside Cottage, I was struck by how much
more
it was. It was even better than I had remembered it. Set apart from the town by maybe not even a quarter of a mile, the house stood sentry over the ocean as it had for more than a hundred years.

I pulled the car into the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the tires. I gazed up at the two-story Victorian, the tall pitched roof concealing the enormous attic. It was cozy and homey, grand and stately all at the same time. From the car, the sightline was all house and ocean. Once I started for the front porch, the cliff behind was revealed, with the winding wooden staircase I remembered just peeping over the edge, leading down to the beach below.

Looking around to make sure I was alone, and I was, I let out a nervous giggle as I practically danced up the front steps. Whitewashed and bleached out from the sun and salt, the wooden bannister felt warm beneath my hands, solid and perfect. And as I ascended the last charming creaky stair, I stepped onto the wide expansive porch, dotted with ferns and flower boxes filled with a riot of color. Purples, pinks, sunny yellows, and—whoa!

My left foot went through the floorboard, pitching me to my knees and tossing the contents of my bag across the planks.

I took a moment to mentally assess. Foot? Still attached. Shin? Felt scratched up a bit but not too bad. I cautiously pulled my leg from the hole in the porch, testing my weight on the surrounding planks. I’d shredded my already ripped jeans, and it looked like I had a nasty scrape, but I was otherwise unharmed.

“Nice work, Viv, you broke the house,” I chided myself. My voice was carried away on the wind blowing in from the ocean. Mmm, salty. Briny. Oceany. I dusted myself off and put my bag back together. Undaunted but with a slight limp, I approached the grand front door, the window just above the doorknob covered in a lacy curtain.

Would it look the same? I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my memory run wild. I recalled the front entryway, deep burnished oak halfway up the walls with a built-in bench just inside for shoes and boots, the space above studded with old-fashioned hooks for jackets and coats. A long mirror, creating the illusion of a space larger than it really was. Wide, shining planked floors leading the eye to a grand staircase of more honeyed wood. The scent of wood soap and lemony oil rubbed into the wood to make it gleam. I could almost see it.

And I would, as soon as I managed to get the old key to work. Twisting it this way and that, I finally got it to turn. I held my breath as I let myself into the house. Preparing myself for the beautiful woodwork, the gentle sun shining through a picture window on the west side, I stepped inside.

I breathed deeply, waiting for the lemon and the pine and the wood soap. But what I got was . . . mildew? It was dark inside, and I let my eyes adjust as I let out a mild cough. Throwing open the yellowed curtain on the door to let some light inside, I turned in a complete circle, taking it all in.

Dull, scratched woodwork. Stacks of old magazines. Clothes in piles along the stairs. Dust bunnies the size of their namesakes. The long mirror, foggy and shadowed. And every single hat that had ever been manufactured on the West Coast gathered on a hat tree that was leaned toward me in an imagined jaunty greeting.

I went further into the house, the formerly elegant but cozy living room now almost buried under piles of old calendars, boxes full of what looked like teacups, and again, stacks and stacks of magazines. And old tin buckets; everywhere with the buckets. The dining room? The old table was still there, covered with dolls of all shapes and sizes and about an inch of dust. Into the kitchen I went, and promptly turned right around and came back out. Covering the counter were industrial-size cans of Beanee Weenees, stacked three high like someone was getting ready to cook for a summer camp.

Beanee Weenees. What the actual fuck?

Terrified of what I would find, but determined to push through, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, wincing at how loose the bannister was and how powdery and almost, well, gnawed looking the spindles leading up the stairs looked. The entire staircase used to be grand and gleaming; now it was held together with a prayer. To say nothing of how creaky the steps were as I made my way up, winding around crates of glasses stamped with cartoon characters and bags of what looked like tube socks.

The upstairs hallway wasn’t any better. An Oriental rug runner that had seen better days led me through canyons of commemorative cheerleading banners, and an actual suit of armor. Well, half a suit. I’d no idea where the torso might be, but the knight’s metal legs were in residence in the hallway. I peeked into one, two, three guest bedrooms and found more of the same: tidy but serious stacks of things. And stuff. It was just more and more things and stuff.

Sighing as I came to the end of the hallway, I opened the door onto what I remembered was the master bedroom. And here was the knight’s torso, holding court on a stand in front of the wide picture window, overlooking the sea. Planning a watery invasion? Not likely, his legs being in the hallway, you see.

The ornate four-poster bed, still majestic and beautiful, was sagging in the middle. Well, bowling balls will do that. Yep, seven to be exact. Pink. Lined up down the center.