Clean white cotton sheets now covered the bed in the second bedroom. I’d washed them twice and added extra softener so they didn’t have that folded-in-the-linen-closet-for-years look to them. I’d lucked out in a hall closet and found stacks of lovely old quilts, folded neatly and encased in Aunt Maude’s favorite storage container, Hefty bags. They’d done their job, though; the quilts were in great shape. Now the old iron bed was dressed with a simple but very pretty nine-block piece in lemony yellows and dusty pinks. Not my taste, but chrome and black leather would be out of place here. In this house, quilts just felt right. And if I was being honest with myself, I liked the look more than I thought I would. I scrubbed the wood floors not only in the second bedroom, but down the hall as well. Slowly but surely, clean spots were starting to take over. I’d nearly used up my meager cleaning supplies, though, which meant another run into town.
I consolidated Post-its and to-do lists from all over the house and made one big master list. I needed to hit the grocery store once more, lay in supplies for the weekend. Simon and his gang weren’t staying here, but I still wanted to have some snacks and drinks on hand.
I made a cursory pass through the kitchen drawers, looking for the key to the Bel Air, but found nothing. No matter, I’d add that to the list of questions I would be asking Mr. Montgomery. I was meeting him after my shopping trip.
I drove into town, thankful I had a rental car but still not entirely sure how long I’d actually need it. If I was going to live here, I’d have to either bring my car out from Philadelphia or sell it and buy something here.
Or you could drive the Blue Bomber 2.0.
In an instant, I saw that car driving up the coast, top down like it should always be, whitewalls shining. The woman behind the wheel had dark curly hair, not unlike mine perhaps, tied back by a cheery aquamarine scarf. There was a song playing on the radio, something beboppy and doo-woppy, something designed to make your fingers tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel and sing along, even if you don’t know the words. The woman pulled the car over to admire the view. To the left of the car, the Pacific. To the right of the woman? A man.
A man also designed to make you tap out a rhythm, on his back. His strong and magnificent back, skin of the most golden velvet, sheened with sweat earned not from a hard day’s work, although he was certainly no stranger to that. No, this sweat was of the sweet kind, brought forth from each pore as a testament to this man’s pure and unadulterated sexual prowess. His pulsating pillar of passion tall and proud, like a flagpole on the Fourth of July. But the fireworks hadn’t begun yet. Not even close . . .
Um. Yeah. I was losing it. Cowboy Hank was doing a number on me . . .
And that number was sixty-nine—
Stop it!
I went into the store and busied myself with choosing cleaning products, and damn me if Mr. Clean didn’t look particularly fetching. I slapped myself with a new sponge and kept on walking.
Stocked up and loaded for clean, I dropped off my supplies at the house and headed back into town for my meeting with Mr. Montgomery. He’d agreed to meet me at John’s, the restaurant I’d been getting my pizza fix from. Sliding into a booth, I waved a hello to Jessica’s boyfriend behind the bar.
“Ms. Franklin, delightful to see you again,” Mr. Montgomery said. He nodded toward John. “Looks like you’re making friends.”
“Oh, I’m a regular gal about town.” I grinned, scanning the menu. I needed something light today; I’d been eating like a truck driver. “Oh look, a Philly cheesesteak. On whole wheat? Blasphemous.”
I shook my head. One thing you can’t get anywhere but back home was a cheesesteak. Or a good hoagie. When the waitress came by, I squelched my cheesesteak argument and ordered something healthy. A cheeseburger. The healthy? I didn’t add bacon.
We kibitzed for a few moments about the house, the weather, the town.
“So, you said you had some questions about the will? What can I help you with?” he asked, folding his hands across the table.
“Yeah, a few. The car in the garage, any idea last time it’s been run?”
“I’m pretty sure your aunt kept the Bel Air tuned up; she loved that car. Though she didn’t drive it the last few years, Mr. Higgins drove her into town in it a few times in the last year.”
“Mr. Higgins?”
“The man she hired to help out around the house and barn.”
“Oh, Hank! Let’s talk about him. Who exactly is paying for the cowboy?”
“The cowboy?”
“Yeah, Fabio. Mr. Man. Whose payroll is he on?”
“Ah, yes. Maude provided for him in the will as well, provided he stays on to tend to the animals. She did love her animals. Used to have more of them, you know, but now it’s just the two horses. And the chickens, of course.”
“Yeah, about those chickens. Who owns them? Do I?”
“Yes.”
“And the horses? Paul and Paula? Are they mine?”
“Yes.”
“So, who does Hank work for?”
“Well, technically Maude.”
“So how exactly is that going to work out long term?” I asked, taking a slow draw on my cherry Coke.
“That’s up to you and Mr. Higgins to figure out.”
“Not helping me here. If they’re my chickens, can I use the eggs? He takes care of them, but they belong to me, so who gets the eggs?”
“Interesting question. I didn’t expect to be debating the chicken versus the egg argument today.” He laughed, and I frowned.
“Glad I could amuse. Do I get the eggs?”
“In my professional opinion?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, then bit into my burger. “Oh mah gaw.”
“Are you all right, Ms. Franklin?”
I nodded, unable to speak through the best burger I’d ever tasted.