Screwdrivered Read online

  Another one bites the dust. Or chicken finger, in this case.

  As I shut the front door to my home, the silence was palpable. My shoes rang out dully against polished concrete, the lights low and a bit lonely. I peeled off my jacket, snickering once more when I thought of Dick’s face when I took it off. Tattoos were commonplace in this day and age, but there’s nothing like neck ink on a girl to make a guy in a suit blink. I shouldn’t snicker; he didn’t deserve total annihilation like that. Not over appetizers. I tamped the snicker down as I passed by the wall photo of my mom on my way to kitchen. “Sorry, Ma, but come on. Berretta?”

  I may have snickered once more. Just the one.

  Contemplating the effects tomorrow morning of having one more bump of Scotch tonight, and deciding the hell with it, I splashed a little more into a glass and leaned back against the counter. Polished concrete, like the floor. My home had an industrial feel to it: clean, uncluttered, orderly. Steel, chrome, blacks, and shades of—you know.

  Along one wall was a line of pictures, all in black frames with black mattes. Spaced exactly three inches apart (above, below, and in between) were photos of my family. Five older brothers. Mom. Dad. All of us together.

  It had been interesting, growing up. By the time my parents got around to having me, they were so used to football, hockey, and baseball, that into the jerseys I went, and never even entertained the idea of a dress. I wore dresses sometimes now, but they were the skintight-over-fishnets-and-combat-boots type. Courtney Love circa 1996. Without the smeared lipstick. Or the heroin.

  Growing up with five older brothers meant that everyone in town saw me as one of the “Franklin Boys.” Something that became harder to lump me into when I developed serious lumps of my own when I hit puberty, but the fact that I ran around in ball caps and sweatshirts continued the myth. Following in my brothers’ footsteps also meant that I excelled at school, particularly math and science, taking calculus in tenth grade. Franklins are good at math and science, therefore as a Franklin, I was too. The hitch in the giddy-up was that I also loved art. Drawing, painting, you name it, I loved it. There’s a symmetry to drawing, an innate sense of placement and scale that appealed to my inner math geek. But between after-school sports and advanced placement college prep classes, it was a side that I didn’t have much time to explore.

  And frankly wasn’t encouraged to explore. The family business was computers, and that’s what all of us were groomed for. And I followed suit—for a while.

  Next to the framed pictures of my family was the single piece of artwork in the room, the only piece that was in color. Bold splashes of bright corals, cotton-candy pinks, soft curling puffs of white. April in Paris. I let my eyes follow the swoops and swirls of color, remembering what it felt like to spend my days in a studio in France. Heaven. A heaven that was a world and a computer software company away.

  I pushed the thoughts aside, draining the rest of my Scotch and fumbling for my phone. I decided to bite the bullet and check my messages. There were at least three from my mother and two from an unknown number. Knowing that Mother just wanted to see how the date went, and not caring about messages from someone I didn’t know, I erased them all and headed for my bedroom.

  Slipping out of my clothes and into a fluffy white robe, I made my way toward the only room in the house that didn’t have my monochromatic modern theme. I opened the door into rosy chaos.

  Rose wallpaper, rose carpet—if there was a surface I could stick a rose onto, I did it. Gold candelabras too; I had plenty of those. White taper candles with romantic drips spilling down them—it was all there. My private escape. My romantic nirvana.

  Soaker tub. Deep. Long. With a shelf overflowing with bubble bath gels, salts, pearls, and oils. Fragrances of lavender, geranium, and of course, rose. I flipped on the radio, tuned to the local classical station, and felt the evening fade away as I turned on the hot water. While I poured the rose-scented bubbles into the stream, my eyes zeroed in on the book I’d be finishing tonight. On the cover? Man. Strong. Fierce. Pecs. Woman. Beautiful. Swooning. Boobs.

  Dropping the robe and all memories of Dick Weenie, I slipped into the perfumed water and let my world fade away.

  I was sound asleep when my cell phone rang, jolting me out of a dream in which a giant shoe was chasing me down a water slide. I grappled across the nightstand, knocking over a stack of books and a water bottle, finally clutching my phone. “Hello?”

  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 vaca
tions 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.

  chapter two

  “Viv Franklin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Hi, Simon. Did I catch you at a bad time? I figured it wasn’t too late to call, since you’ve never been an in-bed-before-midnight kind of guy, right?”

  “No, not usually. Although lately—”

  “Spare me the details of your love life, except to tell me that you’re still with Caroline, right? You didn’t mess that up, did you?” At our high school reunion last fall, I’d met the woman who’d finally tamed the man that is Simon Parker.

  “I am indeed. She’s back at home in San Francisco. Well, actually, home is now Sausalito.”

  “Back at home? Where are you now?”

  “On a shoot in Cambodia. You’d love it, Viv. I just did a study on the forest taking back the lost temples and cities over and around Angkor Wat. Fucking unreal.”

  I sighed, thinking back on my more adventurous days. I’d picked my prospective colleges with my parents, comparing the programs they offered in computer engineering, advanced mathematics, etc. But I also spent some time researching the art programs at those schools. And when I chose a small liberal arts college over the prestigious technical colleges my brothers had attended, I told my parents that a more well-rounded education would make me a more appealing young woman. Read: Your “sixth son” is turning into a young woman, and she needs something beyond field hockey.

  So off I went, acing my advanced applied mathematics courses and taking some art classes every semester. By the time I was a junior and declared my official major, computer engineering, I stunned my family with my minor: studio art. I further stunned them when I turned down a summer internship at a rival software firm for a summer program in Italy, studying in Florence. What was even more stunning? I spent a semester of my senior year in Paris, studying at the Sorbonne. I took just enough core classes to satisfy my parents and a figure drawing class just for myself.

  Graduation loomed, job offers came in, but it was understood that I’d be following my brothers into my father’s company. So I did what every girl from a wealthy family does: I rebelled. In perfect, by-the-book fashion. I dyed my hair, got several tattoos, pierced some things that were noticeable—and some that were not—and when I walked across the stage to get my diploma I did so in combat boots and a sign on the top of my cap. In masking tape, I’d spelled out:

  MOVING TO FRANCE

  This was my totally pussy in-your-face way of telling my parents I wasn’t taking their job, or any job for that matter. I’d secured an internship at a gallery on the Left Bank in Paris, had some money from a trust that kicked in when I turned twenty-one, a travel visa, and a spanking-new backpack.

  My. Parents. Were. Livid.

  I. Was. On. An. Adventure.

  I apologized to my parents, who initially responded with the threat of disowning me and insisting I was throwing my life away. They eventually ended in tears, fearing I’d lose my head and virtue to a Frenchman. They had no idea that my virtue had been lost years ago in the backseat of my car, The Blue Bomber, but that was neither here nor there. The here was leaving my family behind, to do something no one was expecting. The there was a fourth-floor walk-up in the 11th Arrondissement with two roommates I’d met online and arranged a sublet with.

  I had the best time of my life. I lived, worked, and loved in the City of Light. I spoke marginal French but learned quickly, ate delicious food, danced in delicious nightclubs, and had my first delicious sexual encounter with an uncircumcised man. Ooh la la. I took art classes, I rented a studio space, I had passionate love affairs with passionate artists as passionate about their craft and their determination to live a bohemian idealistic lifestyle as I was. I traveled throughout Europe and points farther east, resulting in an unexpected meeting with Simon in Istanbul toward the end of my European adventure.

  By now I was well into my romance novel addiction, taking any gloomy day or disappointing date as an opportunity to indulge in steamy and dreamy. But while the heroines in my books all ended up with their happily-ever-after, my love life was falling short. Sex life was off the rails, but love eluded me. I’m a reasonably attractive young gal, great rack, nice legs, and never had any complaints in the sack. But I’d never been—cue sad music—in love before. And no one had ever been—cue sadder music—in love with me. No one had ever taken me in his arms, kissed my sweet lips, and whispered the words I love you.

  For the record? No one knows that. But back to Paris.

  I remained in adventure mode, indulging in very satisfying but safe naked times with beautiful boys, traveled all over, painted whenever the muse struck, and just lived. Lived in that way you can only live in your early twenties, when nothing truly epic has happened yet, and it’s time to just dance.

  But then my father had a heart attack, which sobered me up fast and brought my traveling ass home. Seeing my strong, invincible father falter like that brought everything into focus. Family trumps everything, and soon after his recovery, I was back in the fold as if I’d never left. I’d had my adventure, I was now twenty-three, and math was calling. I’d actually missed the certainty that came from working with numbers. Safe, solid, wonderfully complex simple numbers.

  I retained some of my independence, though. Early on, I got lucky with a computer program I’d written, and used the money from selling that license to fund my own start-up. So I was within the realm of the family business, but on my own two feet. Which were still clad in combat boots. And though I liked my comfortable life, sometimes I caught myself holding my pen like a brush, mimicking brush strokes when I was puzzling out a particularly tricky problem. Sometimes I missed that romantic, wild, carefree lifestyle.

  So hearing Simon talk about where he was and what he was doing made me a bit wistful. “Sounds amazing,” I said with a sigh. I was dying for an adventure!

  “What’s up, Viv?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Mendocino,” I said.r />
  “Mendocino? As in California? As in, three hours north of where I live?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Um, it’s on the beach.”

  “That’s descriptive.”

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

  “I just found out that my Great-Aunt Maude, who I barely knew, passed away and left me her beach house, her ranch, and everything that comes with it.”

  “Holy shit! So when are you coming out?”

  “Not sure yet,” I replied, chewing on my fingernail, then sat on my hand. Nasty habit.

  “What’s your family say?”

  “I literally found out thirty minutes ago. My family knows nothing about it,” I answered, chewing on my fingernail. Again! I grabbed a sock from the dresser and put it over my hand.

  “Wait, wait, so this is, like, all yours?”

  “Apparently. The attorney said I can go out there to sign everything and take possession, or he can handle selling everything for me.”

  “Don’t sell it,” he said instantly.

  “Oh, I’m totally not. At least not until I’ve seen it again.” Huh. Looks like I was going.

  “Cool,” Simon said.

  I agreed. Very cool.

  Now I just had to tell my family. Me going off on an adventure? These conversations traditionally never went well.

  I took the sock off my hand.

  Two weeks, three fights, and four packed bags later, I was ready to fly across the country. Telling my family had been interesting, especially my mother. It was her aunt who had passed away, albeit one she had no contact with. Aunt Maude had pulled away from the entire family toward the end of her life. My mom called a family meeting with her sisters, Gloria and Kimberly, spoke with our family attorney, spoke with Aunt Maude’s attorney, and realized it was all very clear. Maude had died without wanting anyone to know except me, her sole heir.

  My brothers—Michael, Jared, Greg, Kevin, and Chris—were divided on how it all went down. Michael and Kevin were pissed that they didn’t get anything, while Greg, Jared, and Chris just chalked it up to crazy Great-Aunt Maude. What they all agreed on, including my father, was that I shouldn’t be heading out there.