Starting Over on Blackberry Lane--A Romance Novel Page 11

  She did ask how things were going, but Stef merely said, “They’ll go better with a latte.”

  “The usual?”

  “Yes. And give me half a dozen gingerbread boys, too.”

  “That’s not your usual order,” Jet remarked as she rang it up.

  “I feel like a splurge.” She also felt a little like a rat. Although, really, she had no reason to.

  “This looks like a peace offering,” Cass said as she handed Stef the cookies.

  “Let’s just say my husband is in a sour mood. I’m thinking some gingerbread boys will sweeten him up.”

  “Good idea,” Cass said. “And good luck.”

  Stef took her latte and sat at a bistro table in the shop, sipping and hoping that things would calm down and Cass would have time to talk. It didn’t happen. One of the moms from school came in to pick up an order of cupcakes—regular, gluten-free and vegan—to take to school in honor of her son’s birthday. Maddy Donaldson was having company for lunch and picked up half a dozen cream-puff swans. Pat York and Muriel Sterling-Wittman popped in for lattes and said a friendly hello to her, then settled at a nearby table to talk. People came and went and smiled and laughed.

  There was simply too much contentment in this place. She took her box of cookies and left.

  Brad was on the phone when she walked into the office. He didn’t smile at her as she came in.

  She set the box on his desk and headed back to the door.

  “Let me know what you decide, Herb. Great talking to you,” he said. Then he called out, “Stef, wait.”

  She turned back around and gave him a look that showed him he wasn’t the only one who was unhappy.

  “Thanks for the cookies,” he said and managed a smile.

  “I thought maybe they’d sweeten you up.”

  The smile hardened into a thin line. “Oh, so that’s the problem, is it?”

  “You’re not being very reasonable. Or mature,” she couldn’t help adding. And she probably wasn’t being very diplomatic, but this mess he’d made had called for more than diplomacy. It had called for action, and that was what she’d taken.

  “Yeah, well, that’s me, immature and unreasonable,” he said and dumped the box in the garbage.

  “Oh, yes, that was mature,” she taunted.

  “I have work to do, Stef.”

  “I have things to do, too,” she said and steamed out of the office. The steam turned to tears as she walked back home. Why was he being like this? Why couldn’t he simply admit he didn’t know what he was doing and let her get the house finished? Why did he have to be so stubborn? Why, why, why? What was his problem? Her?

  No way. She was not the problem here.

  For a moment she was tempted to call her mother and complain, but only for a moment. Mom would side with Brad. She was a big believer that any problem in a marriage needed to be fixed by the wife. “Someone always has to make the first move,” she liked to say, “and that’s hard for men. When it comes to a happy marriage, we women are the glue that keeps it all together.”

  Mom wasn’t living in rubble and Stef didn’t want to be glue.

  Back inside the house, she took one look at the disaster area and knew she’d done what needed to be done. Brad would have to live with it...just like she’d lived with his mess.

  Chapter Nine

  “Hi, sweetie. How are you doing? I’ve been thinking about you,” said Mom. Translation: I’ve been worried.

  “I’m fine,” Griffin assured her mother.

  “You’re all by yourself up there.”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have answered the phone. “Not exactly.” Yes, she was all by herself in the house and she had to admit she still hated that. She still heard every creak and bump in the night, every twitter and howl that drifted in from the woods. But she wasn’t without support.

  “I’ve got friends here.”

  “Friends are not the same as family,” her mother said.

  Griffin poured hot water over her herbal tea bag and sat down at the kitchen table with her mug. The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming. Her mother was worrying.

  “Are you eating?”

  When she was fat, the big concern had been that she was eating too much. Now that she was skinny, the big concern was that she was hiding an eating disorder.

  “Of course I’m eating.” Griffin moved to the toaster and inserted a piece of sprouted wheat bread.

  This was accompanied by a big sigh on the other end of the line. “Well, once you sell the house...”

  “I’ll come and visit before I move to New York.” Emphasis on the word visit.

  Another big sigh. “That’s on the other side of the country, darling. And do you really want to be there all by yourself?”

  “You lived there by yourself,” Griffin reminded her. She’d seen pictures of her mom when she was young. She’d been gorgeous. She’d also been a lot more adventurous than she was now.

  “Yes, and I was robbed twice. That’s why I moved to the West Coast. It was the best decision I ever made. I met your father.”

  “Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams in New York.” The toast popped up and she spread on a small amount of almond butter and took a bite. Not as good as Beth Mallow’s blackberry scones but a lot less deadly for her waist.

  “Big cities are dangerous. Honestly, Griffin, you’re doing so well right where you are. I simply don’t understand why you have to move clear across the country.”

  Because she wasn’t doing all that well right where she was, and it was now or never. She said as much.

  “You know we want to be supportive.”

  Substitute overprotective.

  “But we don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

  Griffin was ready for something to happen to her. She was tired of being stalled out. And yet the more her mother talked about the dangers of moving so far away, the more she began to wonder if relocating was a wise idea. She liked living in Icicle Falls. She’d found a close friend in Stef, and she loved hanging out with Cass and the women she’d met in the book club. Was she crazy to want to leave all that?

  Was she crazy to want to make more money?

  “You’re not being very realistic, dear. It’s awfully risky. And what if you don’t succeed?”

  “Thanks for believing in me,” Griffin muttered. Suddenly she didn’t have an appetite and dumped the unfinished toast in the garbage. Mom wouldn’t approve of that. Wasteful.

  People are starving all over the world. How many times had her mother used that line when she and her brother were kids? Mom mostly used it on Jeremy, who’d been a picky eater. Griffin had rarely needed to be coaxed to eat. And once the pounds sneaked on, food became her best friend. A shy little girl didn’t have to worry about what to say to a cookie. Of course, the pudgier she got, the more the kids teased her and the more cookies she needed. It had been hard work shedding those pounds in high school, but she’d done it. And she’d kept the weight off ever since and liked it that way, so the toast could just stay in the garbage.

  “Of course we believe in you,” her mother insisted. “We just want you to be practical. We only have your best interests at heart.”

  “I know.” Still, this wasn’t exactly an inspiring conversation. “I have to get going, Mom. Can I call you later?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You have that cookbook job. See? You don’t need to move so far away to get work.”

  Griffin didn’t point out that the cookbook job would soon be ending. Then she’d be back to hoping her agent could sell some more stock photos.

  She said goodbye to her mother, got dressed and brushed her teeth. She was ready to go to Beth’s for another photo shoot when Grant Masters arrived to finish up her living room.

 
The ladder and paint were still where she’d left them, along with the paint pan and roller. The paint on it had now hardened to cement. She apologized for the sad state of her tools. “I should have washed it.”

  She hadn’t bothered, since washing things was more of a challenge in a cast. Even doing dishes was a pain. Not that she did dishes much these days. Paper plates worked fine.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ve got what I need.”

  “Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee? Bottled water?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Do whatever you’d normally do.”

  “Okay. I have to go to a photo shoot.”

  “I’ll be right here,” he said and started unpacking tape and rollers and small paint sponges.

  “Okay,” she said and left him to go to Beth Mallow’s house for more food temptation.

  Today’s temptation was chicken curry sandwiches, the filling packed with not only chicken but also walnuts and apples and stuffed into Beth’s crusty home-baked raisin bread.

  “I made extra,” Beth said after they’d finished, and began wrapping sandwiches in plastic wrap.

  “I can’t eat that much,” Griffin protested. Actually, she could have, once upon a scale. A woman had to be ever vigilant.

  “But don’t you have our new resident handyman over at your place doing some work today? He’ll be hungry.”

  Griffin didn’t have much in her fridge to interest a man unless he liked spinach salad from Zelda’s and take-out General Tso’s from the Safeway deli. She’d like to be able to offer him something, especially since he was giving her a deal on his services. She took the sandwiches.

  Back at her house, the front door was open and she could hear some kind of old rock and roll playing. Inside Grant was on a ladder, working the roller up and down the wall while his phone sat in a wireless speaker, serenading him. The living room was already three-quarters done.

  “Wow,” she said. “This looks great!”

  “Glad you like it,” he said, still working away.

  “I, uh, brought you some lunch.”

  “That was nice of you. Not necessary, though.”

  “Beth Mallow sent it. We were taking pictures of sandwiches today. You might not have met her yet, but she’s a wonderful cook.”

  Grant came down the ladder, picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Is that one of the perks of taking pictures for people? They feed you?”

  “They do if they’re Beth. She’s putting together a cookbook of family recipes. I gather her mom was an excellent cook, too.”

  “Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll take a ten-minute break.”

  He went to the bathroom to wash up, and she went to the kitchen and put the sandwiches on a plate, then got out a napkin and a bottle of water. By the time he entered the kitchen, she had everything on the table.

  “You going to join me?”

  “Oh, not right now.”

  “Don’t like chicken salad, huh?” He helped himself to one of the sandwich quarters and took a bite. Nodded. “This is good. Probably good for you, too. All that protein.”

  He nudged the plate in her direction and she picked up one of the quarters and took a bite.

  “So, you were taking pictures of this today?”

  She nodded. He was looking at her expectantly, so she fetched her camera and brought up the photos she’d produced. She thought they were charming. Beth had liked them. But Griffin always felt a little nervous when she first showed people her work.

  She studied the picture again, trying to see it with fresh eyes. Two quarters of a sandwich sat on Beth’s kitchen table on a white plate, one lying down, the other upright, leaning against it like a miniature pyramid, the filling nearly (but not quite) spilling from both, a perfect ruffle of lettuce poking out like an edible slip. A vintage ceramic rooster strutted in the background, unaware of the fate of some of his relatives.

  Grant nodded in approval. “What else have you done for her?”

  Encouraged, she brought up some more pictures—the apple scones, begging her to bake a batch and eat every one; a tureen of mulligatawny soup, promising warmth on a cold day; an apple pie with a scoop of faux ice cream.

  “I’m eating and these still make me hungry,” he said.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Have you talked to my daughter-in-law? She might want to do a cookbook featuring some of the restaurant’s food.”

  “No, I haven’t. After I finish this project, it’ll be time to move to New York.” Clear across the country. “My mom doesn’t want me to go.” Now, why had she shared that?

  “Oh? How come?”

  “She’s worried about me moving so far away. This is already far away, in her opinion. My family lives in Oregon.”

  “Moms worry,” he said.

  “She thinks I’m taking a big risk.”

  “Well, maybe. But it’s important to have a dream.” He took another quarter of a sandwich and, once more, nudged the plate toward her. She shook her head. “Taking pictures of food only gives you half the experience,” he said.

  “I’m not a very big eater.” He said nothing to that, at least not verbally.

  She wanted to assure him that she wasn’t anorexic or bulimic, just careful. Instead she asked if he’d ever had a dream.

  “Oh, yeah. When I was framing houses in the dead of winter and freezing my ass off, I used to dream about getting away, going someplace where life was easy, the fish were always biting and the beer was cheap. The good life.”

  “I guess you found it. Somebody said you were in Mexico.”

  “Yeah, but in the end, it wasn’t that good.” He took one final quarter of a sandwich and got up. “I’d better get back to work. Thanks for showing me your pictures.”

  It wasn’t that good. What did that mean? Grant’s words left her feeling a little unsettled. She grabbed another quarter of a sandwich and took a bite. Protein. Good for you, right? She ate the rest.

  Ugh, bad for you, white bread. What had she been thinking?

  That it tasted really good!

  * * *

  Grant had finished Griffin’s living room and promised he’d be back as soon as possible.

  “I understand you have to do stuff for Cass and Stef,” she’d said. “And they need help more than I do.”

  “Understandable that you want to get this done,” he’d said. Putting the house on the market as soon as possible and all that. He got it.

  “But I’m not living like Stef is, and I don’t need to worry about rain, like Cass.”

  “We’ll get you taken care of,” he’d assured her and wished he could clone himself.

  Good grief, he was right back to his construction days, hopping from job to job, doing one thing at one house, then running to another when supplies came in, while at every site owners pressured him to hurry up and finish.

  He’d planned for this to be easy and part-time. No pressure, just something to do. It was all snowballing, out of control.

  Still, Griffin had been so delighted. “It looks so much better with a fresh coat of paint.”

  “Things usually do,” he’d said.

  His stomach rumbled as he walked to his truck. The sandwich he’d had at Griffin’s had been great, but he’d worked that off in no time. Charley had insisted he drop in at the restaurant later, but he needed something to tide him over, so he swung by the store for corn chips and a six-pack of beer.

  Once he was there, he decided some fruit would be in order and wandered over to the produce section. Apples or oranges, which did he want?

  He suddenly caught a whiff of strong perfume. It danced up his nose and tickled him, making him sneeze.

  “Well, if it isn’t our newest resident,” cooed a female voice behind h
im.

  He turned to see Priscilla something-or-other, one of the women he’d met at the fundraiser.

  “We met at Raise the Roof,” she said. “I’m Priscilla Castro. I’m the office manager at city hall.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Good to see you.” Sort of. Not really. She’d come on strong at the fundraiser and he wasn’t particularly fond of predatory females.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said. “I’ve got a problem and I really need a man.” She reached out and started fondling a banana.

  Oh, boy. How to get out of this? “Well, uh, I’m completely booked these days.”

  “I bet you are. All those women wanting you for silly little jobs. Are you free right now? This probably wouldn’t take long.” She took a step closer.

  Boundaries, lady. He inched away.

  She inched along with him. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He wasn’t the only one here who was hungry. Her hormones were growling so loudly he was surprised people all over the store couldn’t hear them.

  She had him up against the bin and there was no place farther to go, although he still tried. The apples shifted behind him and suddenly he’d started an avalanche. Apples began bouncing every which way and rolling along the floor. He bent to pick one up and she bent over, too, showing off her cleavage. Don’t look!

  He grabbed a couple of apples and returned them to the pile. She held an apple in each hand and ran her tongue along her mouth. Oh, man, he was getting turned...off, big-time.

  “I’ve got an Icicle Ridge cabernet at my place just waiting to be opened.”

  “What’s your problem?” He meant that on so many levels.

  “My sink is clogged,” she said mournfully.

  “That’s an easy fix.”

  “Great.”

  “A plumber can take care of it in a few minutes.”

  She frowned. “A plumber?”

  He plucked an apple out of her hand. “That’s your best bet, since you’re in a hurry. Nice seeing you,” he lied and took the apple and scrammed. He dashed down the beer-and-chips aisle, half fearing she’d come chasing after him, then went through the self-checkout line. Got back in his truck and let out his breath. That was a close one.