Screwdrivered (Cocktail #3)

“Oh boy, I better go see what she’s gotten herself into. I left her alone once in my bathroom, and my lipsticks were alphabetized and color coded within minutes.”


As Caroline headed upstairs, I shook my head. Although part of me thought that seemed like a good idea, the two lipsticks I owned were already color coded. Barely There Pink and Knockout Red. Pink for first dates. Red for, well, you know.

Grabbing a broom, I decided to spend a few minutes sweeping up the dust that seemed to come out and do a dance party every night after I went to bed. These floors were so old they literally made their own dust! Sighing, I was bending over sweeping up yet another pile when I heard a sound behind me.

Turning, I saw Clark. Nose bandage, briefcase, hand raised as though he’d been about to knock. And directly behind me, so he had a wonderful view of my posterior.

I stood slowly, wondering which Clark I’d get today. Nighttime Clark or Daytime Clark?

“I’m going to tie a bell around your neck, so you quit sneaking up on me like that,” I said, crossing toward the screen door.

“I’ve got scones. Do you like scones?” he said, lifting the bag so I could see he did indeed have scones.

I laughed in spite of myself, and the grin that spread over his face literally took my breath away. For a moment, he reminded me of someone. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and it’s a good thing too, because at that very moment I wanted to put my fingers, and hands for that matter, all over—

“Vivian, I do hope you’re not planning on removing that mantel-piece. I see that chunk of marble just thrown haphazardly on the floor. Need I remind you that the fireplaces in this home are all original, even down to the tile in the—”

“Oh, Clark, just stuff a scone in it and get in here.” I sighed, holding the door open. He set his scones and briefcase down, then inspected the offending piece of marble.

“Oh good, this’ll be a simple repair. You really must be more careful when you—”

“Oh, please, it came off in my hand! I literally just leaned up against it when I was on the phone the other day, and—”

“I’d say you don’t know your own strength, but based on this”—he pointed at his nose—“I know that’s not entirely true.”

He wore his glasses today, in spite of the fact that they must hurt.

Get a grip, Viv.

“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked, interrupting some speech about turn-of-the-century architecture. Which always confused me, frankly, because the century had turned twice since people started saying that phrase . . . so which century? A question that would not be posed at this moment, however.

His mouth hung open in midrant. I leaned in, pushed his chin up and closed his mouth, then turned for the kitchen. “Follow me, Clark. I hope you like it strong.”

He murmured something, but followed me. And for the record? What he murmured?

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”


So Caroline was here to back me up, to agree with me, to be on my side and to make sure that Clark didn’t cause too much trouble—right?

Not so much what happened.

What did happen is the two of them bonded over a bottle cap, a ballroom, and a baluhwhozit.

Things started pretty well. We all agreed that the roof was a no-brainer, especially when I began my prepared speech about how rain coming inside would be doing continued damage to the already damaged living room. Clark didn’t disagree, only noting that as long as the original sight lines of the roof were retained, and the copper gutters were replaced, that a new roof was most certainly called for.

We made great strides toward a continued state of détente when we progressed to the front porch, almost re-creating my fall through the floorboards when Caroline pressed a little too hard in her heels. Once again, Clark surprised and impressed me with his ability to compromise. He did put his foot down—and almost through, which couldn’t have happened at a better moment, when I suggested that the railing and the cornice thingies were a little too fussy for my taste. Though I loved this house I wanted to put my own stamp on it, even if just in the tiniest of ways. When Clark began to make a stink, Caroline wisely interjected with a suggestion that was period-specific but slightly less Victorian. And in the end, he agreed the changes would look nice on the new front porch.

Things began to unravel when we went upstairs. When Clark leaned on a cabinet in the hallway that I’d been unable to pry open, something came loose. A tug and a push and a pull later, the panel slid upward.

The house had a dumbwaiter, like an elevator for food. Or laundry. Or dolls. When we pulled it up there were several dolls sitting there in suspended psychotic silence. And sitting among the dolls was an old bottle cap.

“Holy crow, this is a Nesbitt’s bottle cap! Do you know how old this is?” Clark exclaimed.

“What’s a Nesbitt’s?” I asked.

“Oh my gosh, I loved Nesbitt’s!” Caroline chimed in. “The orange one was my mom’s favorite. It got so hard to find, but I remember having it when I was a kid!”

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