Screwdrivered Read online

  “You’ll bite?” he asked.

  I clutched at the pillow a little more. “Clark . . .” I warned.

  I got another chuckle. “I was thinking that perhaps we were a little too quick to get rid of him. After all, he’d been the man around the house for quite some time. Perhaps he should stay around a little longer?”

  “You were the one that said that not everything was worth keeping. Which was impressive by the way, and correct. There was entirely too much house packed into that house.” But I had to admit I’d been a little sad to see the knight go. “Besides, who knows where he even is now, since John took him to the antiques store?”

  “Actually, the knight stayed with him. He thought he might want it for the restaurant. I think his exact words were ‘might add a touch of class to the patio.’ ”

  “Not really sure a medieval theme is the right message you want on a restaurant patio.” I laughed.

  “Exactly what I told him when I went to bring it back.”

  “Wait, so you already went and got him?”

  “I did.”

  “You were sure I’d say yes to bringing him back to the house?”

  “I was.”

  “You’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “So what the hell did you call me for? Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out already, Clark,” I said, rolling over on my back. “You sure that’s the only reason you called?”

  It was silent on the other end of the phone. Except for the almost imperceptible sound of him taking a sip of what I assumed was Scotch. Water. Neat. An image rose in my mind: Clark, sitting low in a leather armchair, one hand on the phone, the other on his glass. Hair, unparted and messy. Eyeglasses, abandoned for the evening next to a book on the side table. Jeans. White button-down, untucked and the top two buttons undone. Blue tie, loosened but not untied. A five o’clock shadow that had progressed to scruffy goodness.

  I pulled my pillow from behind my head and covered my face to muffle my giggle. What in the world had gotten into me?

  Then I heard him take a breath. Deep, prolonged, and almost . . . shaky? Almost a . . . shudder?

  My own breath? Caught. Held hostage by a librarian three thousand miles away who called me in the middle of the night to ask me about a bisected suit of armor.

  I held so very tight to my pillow.

  “You want to know if that’s the only reason I called, Vivian?” he asked finally, his voice octaves and octaves lower than Daytime Clark. Raspy, gruff, rough-and-tumble.

  “Uh-huh?” I squeaked.

  “That’s the only reason,” he said. “Have a good night. Sweet dreams.”

  He hung up.

  I buried my head into the pillow, kicking my legs into the air.

  Eventually, I slept.

  But sweet dreams? Not in the slightest. Salty? Hell, yes.

  Over the next week, my activities mirrored what I’d been doing on the West Coast. Except instead of packing up someone else’s things, now they were mine. My things, my clothes, my pictures, my knickknacks and paddywacks and everything I owned. It was easier and harder than I thought it would be. Harder, because I was hanging my hat in a new state, and new state of mind. I was leaving my family and my brothers’ families.

  Yet it was also easier, because I was ready to sink my teeth into the renovation and get started on whatever was coming next. Easier because I missed waking up to the sound of the waves crashing, missed the fresh sea air and rocking in my old lady rocking chair on the back porch while the sun set on the ocean, Scotch in hand.

  Mendocino was on my mind, but Philadelphia would always have a piece of my heart. And part of that piece of my heart was currently in the kitchen, packing up my collection of refrigerator magnets. My mother insisted on wrapping each one of them in tissue paper, even though there was nothing remotely fragile or breakable about a magnet that said “I got crabs in Key West, Florida.” Stone crabs, to be clear. Good eating. My magnet collection was my one spot of tacky chaos in my chaos-free apartment.

  “Ma, you really don’t have to do that, seriously. Just throw them in a box, it’s all good,” I said, walking past her on the way to the living room, where the fort of boxes was getting higher and higher. Clothes, personal items, artwork—both mine and some I’d purchased over the years. My furniture was either going into storage (read: my parents’ basement), being donated, or being appropriated by a brother. My mountain bikes were bound for Cali, same for my kayaks. I couldn’t wait to get out on the trails and into the water out there.

  “Since when do you just throw anything into a box?” my mother asked.

  “What does that mean?” I asked her, grabbing for the tape roll that she held just out of reach.

  “The daughter I know likes everything neat and orderly.”

  “I still do. I’m just thinking that they’ll be going back up all messy and random, so it’s not necessary to make it perfect inside the box, right?” I shrugged.

  Perhaps a little touch of California had already made its way into my sensibilities. Wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

  Clark continued to call me while I was back east, not every night and not always at the same time. But late enough and with enough regularity that I went to bed each night wondering whether Nighttime Clark would be making an appearance. And more often than not, he did.

  “Wait a minute, just wait a damn minute. Chess team? Please tell me you’re joking,” I said during one phone call. I was lying in my bed, eating Sour Patch Kids and asking Clark about his high school days. A few nights ago we’d started chatting about grade school, progressed on to everyone’s least-favorite and most-awkward junior high years, and had finally made it to high school.

  “Chess team was serious business. Do you know how great that looks on a transcript? Colleges eat that shit up.” He laughed and sipped his Scotch. Three hours ahead of him I wasn’t indulging at the same time he was, but it did make for a more relaxing conversation. And for a looser Clark.

  “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before, Mr. Barrow.”

  “I’m sure I have,” he said.

  “Nope, pretty sure you haven’t. Although I’ve gotten a few willy-nillys and a holy mackerel and—”

  “I’ve never said holy mackerel and you know it,” he interrupted me, and I laughed.

  “Oh yes you have; it was when I was going to throw away the moth-eaten blanket that was on the back of the couch in the living room. You launched into this tirade about how it was an authentic Adirondack woolen blanket, extremely rare for California, as they were typically found in upstate New York, from the old camps where wealthy families would go to escape the heat of Manhattan and Philadelphia and Boston at the turn of the last century, and that we couldn’t possibly throw it away. That it would be akin to trashing Americana as we know it,” I said, snorting a little at the end.

  There was a long pause.

  “You have a stunning memory, Vivian,” he finally said, a hint of humor in his voice. I’d been worried I’d hurt his feelings.

  “Sometimes I do, I suppose. About some things.”

  I switched positions on the bed, getting more comfortable. “So, chess team, huh? Tell me more about that.”

  “What did you just do? You sound different,” he said.

  “I just turned around in bed, I had my feet up against the wall before.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he breathed.

  Nighttime Clark. I grinned into the darkness.

  “I’m lying the right way,” I said, my voice lifting a little at the end.

  “I wasn’t aware there was a right way to lie in bed, Vivian,” he said, his voice deepening, going all warm honey.

  “Depends on the bed, I suppose,” I teased.
r />   “Depends on the body, I’d suppose,” he teased right back, and just like that, my skin pebbled. “Tell me all about the right way,” he said, with more of the warm gooey.

  Officially? I was lying on my back with my head on the pillow, my legs under the blanket. But unofficially?

  “I’m stretched out on my back, arms over my head, my legs barely tucked under the comforter since it’s so hot in here tonight. I’ve got one hand twisted in my hair, and my other hand is holding . . . you.”

  I closed my eyes, held my breath, and waited.

  Clark. Groaned. Deep.

  Holy mackerel.

  Two nights later I was on my back again with Clark in my ear, telling me about his favorite spots to kayak on the Big River.

  “It’s not too swift there; just enough current that you can relax and go where the river wants you to. The trees on either side, the sound of the water, there’s nothing like it,” he said, slipping into that low and melodic voice that came at night. After hours.

  “Well you’re in luck, because I’m bringing my kayak back with me,” I said, taking a swig from the water bottle next to my bed. “Two in fact, if you want to borrow one.”

  “I also have my own, but thanks for the offer,” he said. “Maybe we’ll have to take them out sometime, see how they do.”

  “Whether they’ll play nice together?” I laughed, rolling over onto my side.

  “You must know all about that. With five brothers, I imagine ‘play nice’ is like a mantra.”

  “It was the opposite—we played hard and rough most of the time. They never went easy on me just because I was a girl. They knew I’d punch them if I thought that they were.”

  “I believe you. Receiving end over here and all,” he teased.

  “Never going to let me forget that, are you Clark? Besides, you snuck up on me. You’re lucky no nuts were kicked.”

  “I realize you think you’re being funny, but with five brothers, I’m amazed you could even joke about that.”

  “Believe me, I’ve seen my share of nuts kicking, accidental or otherwise. And I bet you just curled up over there like a roly-poly, didn’t you?”

  “Can we talk about something else, please?”

  “Sure, anything you like, Clark. What do you want to talk about? It’s your dime.”

  “Why do I feel like this just turned into one of those 900 calls?”

  “Do you want me to call you Big Daddy?” I giggled into the phone, in my sexiest kitten voice.

  “Vivian,” he warned.

  “Just kidding. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

  “Something? There’s plenty you don’t know,” he said with a laugh.

  “Okay, so tell me about plenty.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Loosen up, librarian, and gimme the good stuff,” I said deadpan, and he chuckled. “So I’ll start it. Favorite cereal?”

  “Oatmeal,” he said.

  “I love oatmeal! With brown sugar?”

  “Molasses. And dried cherries. Occasionally chocolate chips.”

  “That sounds amazing.” I sighed. I’d have to try it sometime. “Okay now, favorite movie?”

  “Just one?” he asked.

  “Deserted island, you can only take one DVD.”

  “There’s a DVD player on this deserted island?”

  “You’re not playing the right way,” I told him, scissoring my legs so that one was on top and one was under the covers. I was both hot and cold at the same time.

  “Well in that case, I guess I’d take . . . wow, that’s really a hard one.”

  “We haven’t even gotten to hard yet, Clark,” I teased, and bit down on my knuckle when he muttered something under his breath.

  “All right then, let’s move on to hard,” he said.

  “Biggest regret?” I asked quickly.

  “Don’t have any,” he answered back, just as quickly.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, really. Sure, there are things I wished had gone other ways, but mostly those have been out of my control. I think if you have regrets, they’ll start to eat at you. And who wants to live in the past?”

  “Good answer,” I said, then fired another question before he could ask me about my regrets. “Biggest turn-on?”

  “A woman who takes what she wants, when she wants it,” he answered back just as quickly, and I quickly pulled my other leg out from under the covers. Not so much cold now. Nighttime Clark was going to be the death of me.

  “Biggest goal in life?” I asked, to steer the conversation back to safer ground. Hearing him tell me about working for the Smithsonian or the New York Public Library would be a good way to cap off the night.

  But for the first time, he hesitated.

  “Clark?” I asked.

  “Biggest goal in life, huh?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Yes,” I promised, wondering where this was going.

  “I feel like I should say something like climb Mount Rainier. But you want the truth? My real, biggest goal in life?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, holding my breath.

  “To fall in love with an amazing girl, get married, and fill up a huge house with a whole mess of kids.”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “So old-fashioned, I know,” he said with a slight laugh. “Not like the mountain climbing, right?”

  I finally found my voice. It was buried, you see, behind this lump that kept showing up lately. “No mountain climbing, Clark. Go with the other,” I whispered. “It sounds pretty great.”

  “It does?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I answered. “Who wouldn’t want that?”

  My hand actually hurt from clutching the phone so tightly.

  It was my last night back east. Everyone was at my parents’ house, the table surrounded by my family, immediate and extended. The table was extended too, bursting with enough casserole dishes and serving platters to feed the Franklin army. We laughed, we yelled, we joked, we teased, we ate. It was everything I’d be missing every single Sunday, and somewhere between the scalloped potatoes and the triple-layer strawberry shortcake, my heart was full to bursting.

  Feeling a little overwhelmed, I left the table and went to the back porch, wrapping my arms around myself to fend off the chilly air. And the melancholy.

  “It’s too much sometimes, isn’t it?” I heard, and saw a puff of smoke coming from behind the boxwoods framing the swimming pool.

  “You know she’ll kill you if she catches pipe tobacco on your clothes,” I warned, knowing my mom’s thoughts on my father’s smoking. He’d cut down considerably as he’d gotten older, but she still got on his case about it.

  “I’ll tell her it was Peterson next door. She’ll never know the difference,” he said, blowing a few smoke rings my way.

  “Right, because Mom was born yesterday. She’s looks good for only being a day old.” I crossed over to him as he tapped his pipe out on the bottom of his shoe.

  We looked up at the stars for a minute. It was a clear night with a bright moon.

  “Peanut. Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

  Straight shot to the gut. Not to mention the tear ducts.

  “Where did that come from?” I asked. My father was a man of few words when it came to raw emotion.

  “I have no idea what you’re up to out there, and it scares the hell out of me. But I haven’t seen you this fired up since you left for Paris, and that scared the hell out of me too. So I figure you must be on to something.”

  “Wow, I—”

  “I wasn’t finished. You let me get this out, okay?”

  I nodded, and he took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t insist you wear dresses.
I’m sorry you got a baseball before a Barbie. I’m sorry I didn’t let you paint in the house with your watercolors in second grade, and I’m sorry that when your mother wanted you to take tap dance instead of soccer, I didn’t listen to her. I’d say I’m sorry that you went into computers, but I’m not. You’ve got a good head for it; you just don’t have the heart. And if you hadn’t gone into computers, then I wouldn’t be able to buy you out and help us both at the same time.

  “And I’m very glad to be helping you now, since I didn’t before when I should have.” He squeezed my shoulder, then let go. “That’s all I’m going to say. But I’m damn proud of you.”

  Tears burned as I looked up at my father.

  He cleared his throat, then squeezed my shoulder one more time. “Let’s get some of that shortcake before your brothers eat the whole damn thing.”

  Color me surprised. Color me wrecked. Color me Peanut.

  “All packed?” Clark asked late that night.

  “I think so. Everything that’s being shipped has already gone out. I sold my car yesterday, so I’ve got that extra to go toward Seaside Cottage. I was thinking of installing a skylight, or maybe even an aboveground pool in the front yard,” I said, yawning into the phone. I was spending this last night at my parents’, since I was now officially moved out of my apartment.

  “You never miss an opportunity to mess with me, do you Vivian?” He sighed. “What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  “I get into SFO around eleven thirty. You should have heard me on the phone with the rental car people, making sure no putt-putt would be issued this time. Hopefully I won’t have to drive it for very long. Any word on the Bel Air?”

  “You’ll be glad to know they delivered it this morning. It’s waiting for you when you get home.”

  I let out an excited yelp, which I then tried to muffle with the pillow. Too late, I heard bare feet coming down the hallway. I rolled over, hiding the phone just before my mother opened the door.

  “Vivvie, it’s past two in the morning! You have to be up in a few hours. We have to be up in a few hours, for that matter. Who in the world are you on the phone with?”

  “Clark,” I said to my mom, but he answered as though I was talking to him. “Not you, be quiet,” I whispered into the phone, and looked back at my mother. “Don’t worry, I’m getting off soon.”