“Yes, and today’s the day we decide how we’re making it better,” I answered, grabbing her bag out of the backseat and swinging it up onto my shoulder before she had a chance to get it herself.
“You sound like a motivational speaker!” She laughed, stepping from the car and stretching her arms over her head after the long drive. She was dressed for work, long legs encased in trim black pants, a raspberry-colored sweater with a soft pink scarf accenting her long neck. She had the kind of easy good looks I’d always envied—that, and her ability to navigate a gravel driveway in three-inch heels.
“You make that look so easy,” I told her, looking down at her shoes as she followed me onto the back porch.
“I learned from the best—you should see my boss walk around a job site. Add sawhorses, electrical cables, and another two inches, and you’ve got Jillian.” She looked around the kitchen. “It looks good in here. I like what you’ve done.”
She examined the open shelves over the stove that I’d cleared off, and then filled with an old set of heavy orange pots and double boilers I’d found in the basement. I’d arranged them by size. “Fuck me, these are all Le Creuset. You brought these with you, or they were here?”
“I found them in the basement behind a bunch of old canning jars.”
“Watch them carefully, please, and you might want to go through my bag tomorrow before I leave. If I’m listing to one side, you’re for sure going to want to check my duffel,” she warned, turning to take in the expanse of cleared counter space. “And you’re very lucky that’s not a KitchenAid,” she finished, pointing to an ancient-looking mixer. I’d left it on the counter, even though I had no idea if I’d ever use it. It looked homey. It felt homey. So it stayed.
I led her upstairs, and she exclaimed in delight over how much progress had been made. I let her pick which guest room she wanted, and she marveled in the view of the ocean. She bounced on the bed, pronounced it good, and then watched me raise and lower the blinds three times until I had them the exact height I wanted. She watched as I made sure the windows were open to the same level, and then she watched as I adjusted the books on top of the dressers, fanned with exactly two inches of space between them.
“You nervous about something?” she asked.
“Nervous? No, why?” I asked, just as the doorbell rang. The books were now all on the floor, the result of my involuntary muscle spasm at the dingdong. I sighed as I bent down to pick up the books.
Jesus, Viv, get a grip.
Caroline watched with raised eyebrows as I said, “Pretty sure Clark’s here. I’ll go get the door.”
I hurried down the stairs, spying the familiar outline on the other side of the lace. It had been a long week. Stomach in knots, I practically jumped the last two steps, flew across the floor, and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. Once there, I finally paused to breathe. What would I find on the other side? Familiar and Funny Friend Clark? Or Distant and Detached Clark?
I opened the door. He filled it. Tall, dark, and tweedy. I smiled without even thinking about it. His brown eyes warmed instantly, taking me in and then, as usual, dropped down to scan me head to toe. Per usual, I let him look. I leaned against the doorframe as he took in my legs, clad in the shortest cutoffs I owned. I didn’t really plan out my outfit this morning at all. Not at all . . .
When he got to my stomach and its jewelry, his eyes widened. I wore a T-shirt casually knotted in the back to bare my navel. He stopped somewhere around my chest and I puffed up a bit, letting my fingers play with my cameo. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. The brief perusal felt like hours. And when his eyes finally made it back up to mine, they were warm and kind and happy to see me. But then they became all business.
“I trust you have everything in order before the contractor arrives?”
My stomach rolled over. He was still pissed.
“Good to see you too, Clark. Come on in.” I sighed, holding the door open wide and ushering him in. His arm brushed mine and my fingers touched my skin absently as I watched him walk into the room, turning in a circle and examining the work I’d done this week. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the Post-it I’d stuck on the loose newel.
“Don’t start. I’m only asking if they can restore it, not replace it. Happy?”
“Yes, that’s exactly the word I’d use to describe myself,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear.
I stifled a snappy remark, watching him from the door. “So, how was your week?” I asked.
“Busy,” he said, now examining the wood-framed mirror in the entryway. “Did you scratch this?”
“No,” I huffed, crossing to stand next to him, looking where he was rubbing his finger along the bottom frame.