“Hiya,” I announced, surprising him. Pushing his glasses up onto his nose, he glanced down at me. I was dressed for cleaning in a tank top that I’d sweated through, denim cutoffs that showed most of my legs, and a headband, and he took me in with an appreciative glance. Amused, I let him look, and when he finally met my eyes again, I let him know with my look that I’d caught him peeking.
A blush colored his cheeks, and he pushed his glasses up once more.
“Vivian Franklin?” he asked, his voice deeper than I thought it’d be.
“It’s Viv. Who’s asking?”
“Vivian, my name is Clark Barrow. I heard you were looking to make some changes to Seaside Cottage?”
“Hell yes, probably starting with this porch. It’s a death trap, Clark,” I affirmed, thumping on the column, which wobbled. “You should see the cut I got on my leg yesterday when I went through the plank.” I propped my leg up on the railing just to the right of him, running my hand down to highlight the bandage.
His eyes followed my hand. “That looks like a doozy of a cut,” he agreed, his gaze on my skin.
I cleared my throat.
He still stared.
“So, Clark, you’re here to put in a bid?”
“A bid?” he asked, looking up.
“Yeah, you said you heard I was looking to get some work done, right? I don’t know for sure if I’m staying, but if I’m even going to consider it I’ll need to have an idea of what kind of money I’d be shelling out to make this house livable, know what I’m saying? I’m thinking we’ll start with the front porch; all these rotten boards are going to need to be torn off. The roof’s leaking, so that’s obviously the first thing we’ll need to start on, and when I was trying to get to sleep last night, before the rain started that is, I could have sworn I heard something scuffling around behind the walls. I’d hate to have to rip out that plaster, but I’m not going to have anything furry surprise me some night so—”
“Rip out the—wait, no. No, no, you can’t do that.”
“What the hell kind of a contractor are you, Clark?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.
“I’m not a contractor, I’m a librarian. I’m also the town archivist, and that’s really why I’m here,” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“I’m confused. If you’re a librarian, why are you here about ripping off my front porch?”
“No one is ripping off anything, Vivian, least of all this front porch.”
“What the hell kind of librarian is in charge of front porches?”
“Not just front porches, the entire house. Seaside Cottage is on the historical register, as is much of the town of Mendocino. So any repairs, small or large, have to be approved by the town—specifically, the director of the historical society,” he replied, straightening his lapel.
“And that would be?” I asked, dryly.
“Me,” he answered, puffing up a bit.
“I see.” I turned away, walking back and forth along the porch, ever mindful of the splintered floorboard. I fingered my cameo while I contemplated this wrinkle.
“So I can’t make any changes without consulting you first?”
“Correct.”
“Including the front porch.”
“Correct.”
“Or the wobbly bannister?”
“Good God, no! It was handcrafted by Jeremiah Wo—”
“Easy, Clark, easy,” I soothed. “So where does that leave us?”
He looked past me into the house, easily seeing the stacks of boxes. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that your aunt was a bit of a packrat, but many of the things she owned could easily be donated to the historical society. You know, to make more room for you?” he asked hopefully.
I thought of the paintings in the closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to just let things go quite yet.
Channeling Aunt Maude? Yikes.
“Look, Clark, so here’s what I’m thinking. I just got here, haven’t even cleared off a bed yet. I slept on the floor last night, can you imagine?” I said, taking his arm just above the elbow patch and guiding him back down the steps.
“I can imagine. I mean, not about the bed of course but—” he stammered, blushing a deep red. I may have let my boobs brush his arm. Sweeten the pot when you can, right?
“So how about you let me get settled, carve out a bit of living space, as it were, and then we can talk some more?” I asked, walking him right back to his car. A Taurus, of course. Safe. Dependable.
“Well, that’s just fine, Vivian,” he answered.
“It’s Viv,” I said with a sweet smile. “And if I decide to rip off my front porch, I’ll make sure to call you first, huh?”
“I’m not too comfortable with that phrase. Restoration work has to be slow and methodical. Patient.”
I leaned one hand on the car behind him, bringing me a bit closer. It was fun making this guy blush.
“I don’t know. Sometimes fast and hard and furious has its place—know what I mean, Clark?”
Cue blush. Also cue eye sparkle. Although to be fair, they were more than sparkling. They were burning. Hmmm.
He thrust a pamphlet into my hand, got into his car, and drove away. It was a pamphlet from the Mendocino Historical Society. On the back, his name was listed.
Clark Barrow. Historian. Archivist. Librarian.