I missed Clark. I missed the shit out of him. I was used to him being there, telling me interesting factoids and bits of trivia. Used to him challenging me on everything from the proper way to save photographs to why a properly working fireplace is essential to life as we know it. I was used to his neatly parted hair, his dusty eyeglasses, and his low chuckle when something I did truly tickled him.
I missed his phone calls. I missed the insight into the man behind the tweed, the man who was interested in more than memorabilia and historical significance. I missed the innuendo after he had a Scotch or two and the delicious way his deep voice slid over me. I missed Nighttime Clark a lot.
But Nighttime Clark didn’t call.
I finally started cleaning out Aunt Maude’s bedroom, the last one to be done. I let the knight keep watch from the hall while I began to declutter, starting with the bowling balls down the center of the bed. I put fresh sheets on, along with a new duvet I’d picked up in town. I cleared out clothes, clutter, and stacks of old mail.
But her closet yielded a fascinating windfall. Buried behind an old chest of drawers, in the deepest part of the closet, was another trove of paintings. I dragged the entire stack out into the late afternoon light and went through them one at a time.
These were not landscapes. They were of a decidedly more intimate nature. Sensual, erotic, beautiful, in fact. The faces were mostly suggested rather than shown clearly, but the one or two that did include features showed that the woman involved was Aunt Maude, and the man was . . . No.
“Mr. Montgomery?” I whispered, a violent blush erupting across my face.
Good God damn, this house has seen some funky shit go down. And speaking of going down, please see painting number seventeen. The real eyebrow raiser was painting number eighteen, but my viewing was interrupted by a knock on the front door. For a second my heart began to beat faster in anticipation, until I remembered I’d asked Jessica to help me hang curtains today.
“So tell me all the latest gossip. What’s going on with Hunky Hank the cowboy man?” she asked, settling into a rocking chair on the back porch, cold beer in her hand.
I sat down next to her, rolled my eyes at her comment, but offered her a clinking cheers.
“What? Romance novel not quite working out as you’d planned it?”
“No comment,” I answered through my smile.
“He doesn’t want to saddle up and ride?” she teased, making me laugh in spite of myself.
I thought of the offer he’d made about the bareback and the riding and the everything else. At the time, I’d thought it was exactly what I wanted. I mean, he was the ideal, right?
“All is going according to plan.” I sipped my beer.
“I see.” We rocked a few times. “You sure about that?”
“Nosy bitch.”
“Friendly bitch—there’s a difference.”
“It’s a fine line you walk there.”
“The finest,” she agreed.
We sipped and rocked some more.
“So this plan of yours. You think that Clark—”
“Jessica? I’m going to need you to drop it, ’kay?”
“ ’Kay.”
She did. For exactly seven seconds.
“Can I just say one thing?”
I had to laugh. “One thing. Better make it count.”
When it came, it was not what I was expecting.
“Okay. Here’s my one thing. You think you’re living in a romance novel, right?”
“Well, shit, when you put it that way it sounds ridiculous.”
“Answer please,” she said, looking at me carefully.
“Okay, yes. I admit it. I think I’m living in a romance novel. Go ahead and laugh,” I said, rocking a little faster.
“I’m not going to laugh. Because I totally believe you,” she said, drinking nonchalantly.
I waited for her to finish, and then grimaced when she didn’t. “Okay, ha-ha. What’s your actual point?”
“Already made it.”
“But wait wait wait—you believe me?”
“Sure do,” she said, clinking my beer again.
“Elaborate please,” I said, feeling a bit uneasy.
“Don’t need to. I agree with you.”
“Oh come on, you do not!” I protested.
“Are you this aggressive with all people who agree with you?” She laughed, staring off into the sunset. “We’re supposed to get rain later this week, but it sure doesn’t look like it right now. Smooth sailing today,” she said, changing the subject.
She looked relaxed as she rocked away. I finished my beer, decidedly unrelaxed.
That night when I went up to bed, I looked at my calendar. Tomorrow was Friday. Caroline was coming. The contractor was coming. And the librarian was coming. I shivered under the covers. It must be really cold tonight . . .
But I couldn’t fool myself anymore. And I’d always been able to do that.
I woke with a start, covered in sweat, so completely turned on that I could barely stand even the touch of the sheets on my skin. I kicked them toward the bottom.