that.”
“What the hell kind of a contractor are you, Clark?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.
“I’m not a contractor, I’m a librarian. I’m also the town archivist, and that’s really why I’m here,” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“I’m confused. If you’re a librarian, why are you here about ripping off my front porch?”
“No one is ripping off anything, Vivian, least of all this front porch.”
“What the hell kind of librarian is in charge of front porches?”
“Not just front porches, the entire house. Seaside Cottage is on the historical register, as is much of the town of Mendocino. So any repairs, small or large, have to be approved by the town—specifically, the director of the historical society,” he replied, straightening his lapel.
“And that would be?” I asked, dryly.
“Me,” he answered, puffing up a bit.
“I see.” I turned away, walking back and forth along the porch, ever mindful of the splintered floorboard. I fingered my cameo while I contemplated this wrinkle.
“So I can’t make any changes without consulting you first?”
“Correct.”
“Including the front porch.”
“Correct.”
“Or the wobbly bannister?”
“Good God, no! It was handcrafted by Jeremiah Wo—”
“Easy, Clark, easy,” I soothed. “So where does that leave us?”
He looked past me into the house, easily seeing the stacks of boxes. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that your aunt was a bit of a packrat, but many of the things she owned could easily be donated to the historical society. You know, to make more room for you?” he asked hopefully.
I thought of the paintings in the closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to just let things go quite yet.
Channeling Aunt Maude? Yikes.
“Look, Clark, so here’s what I’m thinking. I just got here, haven’t even cleared off a bed yet. I slept on the floor last night, can you imagine?” I said, taking his arm just above the elbow patch and guiding him back down the steps.
“I can imagine. I mean, not about the bed of course but—” he stammered, blushing a deep red. I may have let my boobs brush his arm. Sweeten the pot when you can, right?
“So how about you let me get settled, carve out a bit of living space, as it were, and then we can talk some more?” I asked, walking him right back to his car. A Taurus, of course. Safe. Dependable.
“Well, that’s just fine, Vivian,” he answered.
“It’s Viv,” I said with a sweet smile. “And if I decide to rip off my front porch, I’ll make sure to call you first, huh?”
“I’m not too comfortable with that phrase. Restoration work has to be slow and methodical. Patient.”
I leaned one hand on the car behind him, bringing me a bit closer. It was fun making this guy blush.
“I don’t know. Sometimes fast and hard and furious has its place—know what I mean, Clark?”
Cue blush. Also cue eye sparkle. Although to be fair, they were more than sparkling. They were burning. Hmmm.
He thrust a pamphlet into my hand, got into his car, and drove away. It was a pamphlet from the Mendocino Historical Society. On the back, his name was listed.
Clark Barrow. Historian. Archivist. Librarian.
He forgot to list Elbow Patch Rocker.
I turned back to the house with a chuckle. And almost stepped on the bad plank again. Slapping the porch railing, which wiggled generously, I muttered, “Can’t make any repairs? We’ll just see about that.”
I worked my ass off all day, stopping only for leftover pizza and beer while standing in the kitchen, picking at contact paper on the pantry shelves. Was this historical contact paper? Was I allowed to pick this off? Or does the future of this town rest on the 1970s snail-and-grasshopper motif on this very contact paper?
After my standing lunch I ventured back to the basement, armed this time with three flashlights and a box of lightbulbs I’d found under the sink. Now fully lit, it wasn’t nearly as scary as before. I investigated the cold
“What the hell kind of a contractor are you, Clark?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.
“I’m not a contractor, I’m a librarian. I’m also the town archivist, and that’s really why I’m here,” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“I’m confused. If you’re a librarian, why are you here about ripping off my front porch?”
“No one is ripping off anything, Vivian, least of all this front porch.”
“What the hell kind of librarian is in charge of front porches?”
“Not just front porches, the entire house. Seaside Cottage is on the historical register, as is much of the town of Mendocino. So any repairs, small or large, have to be approved by the town—specifically, the director of the historical society,” he replied, straightening his lapel.
“And that would be?” I asked, dryly.
“Me,” he answered, puffing up a bit.
“I see.” I turned away, walking back and forth along the porch, ever mindful of the splintered floorboard. I fingered my cameo while I contemplated this wrinkle.
“So I can’t make any changes without consulting you first?”
“Correct.”
“Including the front porch.”
“Correct.”
“Or the wobbly bannister?”
“Good God, no! It was handcrafted by Jeremiah Wo—”
“Easy, Clark, easy,” I soothed. “So where does that leave us?”
He looked past me into the house, easily seeing the stacks of boxes. “I’m sure you’ve discovered that your aunt was a bit of a packrat, but many of the things she owned could easily be donated to the historical society. You know, to make more room for you?” he asked hopefully.
I thought of the paintings in the closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to just let things go quite yet.
Channeling Aunt Maude? Yikes.
“Look, Clark, so here’s what I’m thinking. I just got here, haven’t even cleared off a bed yet. I slept on the floor last night, can you imagine?” I said, taking his arm just above the elbow patch and guiding him back down the steps.
“I can imagine. I mean, not about the bed of course but—” he stammered, blushing a deep red. I may have let my boobs brush his arm. Sweeten the pot when you can, right?
“So how about you let me get settled, carve out a bit of living space, as it were, and then we can talk some more?” I asked, walking him right back to his car. A Taurus, of course. Safe. Dependable.
“Well, that’s just fine, Vivian,” he answered.
“It’s Viv,” I said with a sweet smile. “And if I decide to rip off my front porch, I’ll make sure to call you first, huh?”
“I’m not too comfortable with that phrase. Restoration work has to be slow and methodical. Patient.”
I leaned one hand on the car behind him, bringing me a bit closer. It was fun making this guy blush.
“I don’t know. Sometimes fast and hard and furious has its place—know what I mean, Clark?”
Cue blush. Also cue eye sparkle. Although to be fair, they were more than sparkling. They were burning. Hmmm.
He thrust a pamphlet into my hand, got into his car, and drove away. It was a pamphlet from the Mendocino Historical Society. On the back, his name was listed.
Clark Barrow. Historian. Archivist. Librarian.
He forgot to list Elbow Patch Rocker.
I turned back to the house with a chuckle. And almost stepped on the bad plank again. Slapping the porch railing, which wiggled generously, I muttered, “Can’t make any repairs? We’ll just see about that.”
I worked my ass off all day, stopping only for leftover pizza and beer while standing in the kitchen, picking at contact paper on the pantry shelves. Was this historical contact paper? Was I allowed to pick this off? Or does the future of this town rest on the 1970s snail-and-grasshopper motif on this very contact paper?
After my standing lunch I ventured back to the basement, armed this time with three flashlights and a box of lightbulbs I’d found under the sink. Now fully lit, it wasn’t nearly as scary as before. I investigated the cold
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