Clark could rally, I gotta give him that. Twenty minutes later the bat was set free, the windows were all closed against the torrent of rain that was lashing at the house, and I was perched at my kitchen table with one Mr. Clark Barrow at the stove. Wearing an apron he’d found hanging in the pantry, he was scrambling me some eggs and making toast like it was his job.
“Well, what else were you going to do?” he’d asked when he’d first suggested helping me make something else for dinner.
“Order a pizza?”
“You’ve got eggs and bread; how about I make us something to eat? It’ll give the rain a chance to slow up before I head home,” he said, and I agreed. And now here he was, cooking for us both.
I’d warned him about how temperamental the stove was, but he had the hang of it. “My Nana used to have a stove just like this one, I’m used to it,” he said, expertly flipping the burners and lighting it just so.
“I’m impressed,” I said, and I was. Sure, it was just eggs and toast, but I’d punched the guy not too long ago, yet here he was, making me dinner. Nice guy.
I had no idea what to do with a nice guy. I’d never dated a clean-cut, Backstreet Boy type; I’d always stayed in the heavy metal/alternative, dirty, tattooed-boy section. I could appreciate what a Nick Lachey had to offer, sure, but my type was always going to be a Dave Navarro, a Chris Cornell.
A nice guy? Hmmm.
Shaking off the feeling, I sipped my wine. “So, tell me about yourself, Clark.”
“Me? What’s there to know?”
“Oh, I bet plenty. Tell me about the man, the myth, the legend.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, then nodded at the wine. “Pour me another glass and you’ll get all three.”
Yeah, I poured. He talked. Born and raised in Mendocino, he’d gone away to college at Pepperdine, history major, minor in library sciences. His family had always been heavily involved in the area’s historical society, preserving old homes, churches, restoring and repurposing older buildings. He confirmed what Caroline had already told me, that much of the town of Mendocino was in fact a historical site. Most of those efforts were privately funded, although he worked with homeowners to apply for and receive federal grants, like the one my aunt had received. The library was his main job, although hours had been cut steadily over the last few years and there was now a pretty small staff that assisted him.
“No one does pure research anymore, not without the Internet of course. Sure, we’ve adapted pretty well, but for the most part, the library here exists for a pleasure reader. Although with Kindles and iPads, we’re even starting to see those readers begin to slip away. Plates?” he asked, bringing the pan with the scrambled eggs to the table. I helped him butter the toast, and we settled ourselves around the kitchen table. There was still a rake stuck in the chandelier in the dining room and it was raining too hard to go out to the barn for the ladder so, yeah, that was out for tonight.
“Well, I’ll be down for my library card just as soon as I can.” I forked up a mouthful. “Mmm, these are great, Clark. You want some hot sauce?” I asked, sprinkling Tabasco over everything on my plate.
“I’ll pass. Do you read a lot?”
“I’ve been known to, sure,” I said, hoping my face wasn’t as pink as it felt.
“Last book you read that changed how you felt about something,” he said.
I thought quickly. Not sure I could tell him about Loins, and how it changed the way I now saw baguettes. “Um, let’s see. Black Holes and Baby Universes.”
“Wow, impressive. Hawking. How did you think it compared to A Brief History of—” The kitchen was suddenly plunged into darkness. “I wondered when that was going to happen,” he said.
“What happened?” I asked, looking around in the dark. I had a flashlight in here somewhere.
“Power goes out in town when there’s a bad storm. They usually have it back on within a few hours, though, not to worry.”
“I’m not worried.” I fumbled in the drawer until I found it. “Ah, there we go!” I said, turning on the flashlight.
“What wattage is that thing?” he asked, holding up his hands.
It was a bit bright.
“No dimmer on this thing, sorry,” I said, trying to cover it up a bit. “Wait, I know!” I hurried into the other room, dodging the rake, and grabbed the candles. Striking a match, I lit them quickly, then set them down on the kitchen table. “See? Even breakfast for dinner can have ambience.”
I looked across the table at him, hair rumpled from the bat fight, mud on his T-shirt from being under the porch, and an intense-looking smile. And the bandage, God bless it. I smiled back at him, then took a bite of toast.