Molly

TIME WAS FLYING, even though every time I looked at the clock, the hours were dragging. In the last three weeks, I’d written enough of my book to make the publishers happy and to buy myself some more time. The lawyer who’d been dealing with my mom’s estate contacted me and sent me some paperwork to sign. She didn’t have a lot of monetary things to pass down to me after her debts had been paid, and I lost money on the sale of her home. But I still had some of her jewelry and what little she had of her pension after working at JCPenny’s for twenty-five years. Anything that was left in storage, I’d asked the lawyer to set up an auction and mail a check for anything that was made. I had no reason to travel back to the East Coast. I’d brought everything I wanted of hers with me. Things were falling in line.

Dealing with the death of my mother had been a hard blow. It had been just the two of us since I was a teenager, when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I’d never forget that day for the rest of my life. The doctor had sat us both down after they’d done a string of tests. Never had I thought my mother’s forgetfulness and thoughtlessness would be summed up into a nice neat little word such as Alzheimer’s. I honestly thought she was too young for something like that. I’d expected to be told to up her Vitamin B and try to take away some of her stresses, like her mounting bills. My world came crashing down when that one word was uttered.

I asked all the questions I could think of, which weren’t that many because I was in shock. He’d sent us home with a packet of information and what we would need to do as the disease progressed. I asked him how much time I had left with her. He said he couldn’t say. He guessed a year or two at best before she would need to be placed in a home or a nurse would have to come in and help me with her daily needs. I had no clue just how quickly she was going to deteriorate. The mother I once knew in a matter of nine months went from minor blips of forgetting to not even remembering how to brush her teeth or how to feed herself.

I wish I could say it was the disease that had turned her into a shell of a woman, but I think the sadness of my father leaving us did it to her. Alzheimer’s just facilitated her desire to forget and never remember again. While it made me upset that she didn’t seem to be angry with her diagnosis like I was, I found myself wondering what it would be like to forget the pain he put us through. I was the adult between the two of us. She leaned on me more than any parent should, but I never resented her for it. She did the best she could.

At least I think so.

It wasn’t all bad, though. I had some very fond memories with my mom, most of which were as a child before he left. I loved how she always moved the gummy worms container to the bottom cabinet so I could reach it and help myself as a reward for taking a good nap. Or how I’d sit on the bottom part of the shopping cart at Safeway and she’d stop at the bakery so I could take one of those samples they gave out. But the best was when she’d wake me up in the morning with her sweet sing-song voice and carry me into the kitchen. She’d set me on the counter and ask me what I wanted for breakfast, even though it was always the same options. I cherished those moments because they were ours. They were the times I knew she was my mom. She wasn’t lost or broken or forgetful. It’s what I choose to remember of her.

I wished I’d grown up with two parents I could call on to help walk me through the process of buying a home. I wanted a dad who’d fly out and stay with me as we fixed it all up together. And a mother who’d give me design tips and tell me ‘Molly, not everything has to match in a home. If you like it, buy it, and it will find a place to make your home warmer.’ But here I sat, in the same coffee shop on the water, looking out at the small crests and hoping like hell I was still just as confident about this house as I was a few weeks ago. It was going to be a hell of a lot of work.

And I was on my own.

There had been some bad news with the inspection, which I’d kind of prepared for, but what it boiled down to was the house needed a new roof and hot water heater. All of the other issues I agreed to take on as long as the seller would take care of the pricier things. Non-cosmetic things. I was already going to have my fair share of expenses as it was.

A few days ago, Melonie had let me know that everything was set and I’d be signing papers next week. Cue my desire to vomit. I had no idea why I decided that renting was no longer the way to go, but this was it. I was becoming an adult. Homeownership, parentless, and a handful of friends. Why I thought of Blake Whitmore, I didn’t know. But his face popped into my head. Having him as a neighbor was going to be interesting. Maybe I could set up my office space facing his house. He could be my new muse without him knowing. Hell, even catching him outside washing his car could be a treat this coming summer.

That’s what I’m about, finding the positives in everything.

Moving day.

My extra small storage unit was loaded up, and I closed my account with the front desk. I had very little in the way of actual things. My bed, two boxes with kitchen items, a box of winter clothes, and some knick-knacks. I had to get a little truck to haul it to the house because it wouldn’t all fit in my car, but this was going to be a breeze. Any other things I had were in my trunk of my little Toyota that I had at the hotel with me.

Excitement was in the air, along with a cool breeze. The sun was rising in the sky, but it wasn’t at its peak warmth. I had a hoodie and a worn pair of jeans on with some tennis shoes I owned since high school. My wavy long blond hair was pulled up into a messy bun that loose tendrils had fallen out of. Looking in the mirror, my blue eyes were bright and full of unease. Ready or not, I was doing grown-up things and being a big girl.

Pulling up to the house, I’d noticed some balloons were attached to a ‘sold’ sign in the front yard, and the lock box was no longer on the door. All of it was like a huge ‘welcome home’ announcement. I smiled to myself.

As I backed into the driveway, I looked across the street at the perfectly cut green grass, and the windows that were drawn. Blake wasn’t home because his car wasn’t there. I shouldn’t look, but curiosity got the best of me. I wondered when or if I would get the chance to meet him. Maybe the sour look on his face from a month ago was simply the cause of a bad day. I didn’t want to write off the probability that he very well may be a nice man based off a small assumption. One thing I do remember my dad always saying was ‘you know what they say about people who assume things.’ To which I didn’t actually know what he meant because he never elaborated further. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood that saying.

Anyway, this is it. I’m home. Home for as long as I’m going to make it that way.

The house itself on the outside was far more appealing than what I knew was inside. The new roof was going to be put on in a couple days and it was going to make it shine. Currently the shingles were a faded black, almost a dark gray color. But the house was wood siding that had been painted a pretty, medium shade of blue. The edging that had been done to the bushes, and navy shutters on the windows made it all pop. Small shrubbery lined the whole front of the house, and white rocks were in the bedding. The style and color of my new ranch home may not fit in anywhere else, it was quite typical for homes here.

It didn’t take long for me to unload the truck. I got everything out and in the house in less than an hour. I should probably feel a little sad that I had so few things, but I was optimistic about finding bargains and filling my space with furniture that fit my space. I’d hit up a few resale shops in the area tomorrow. For now, I wanted to pay for my room at the motel and unpack what little I had. I was pleasantly surprised to see there was a basket of fruit, meats, and crackers on the counter, along with a bottle of chardonnay. Melonie and her office left a small gift, congratulating me on taking such a big step and welcoming me into homeownership. It was a kind gesture. I put the wine in the fridge and left everything else where it was. I smiled at the fact that I didn’t exactly have a glass to pour it in to, but straight from the bottle would be perfect. Just what I’d need to unwind.

The space was exactly as I’d remembered it, only now that it was mine, the work that was ahead of me had me scratching my head. A list was going to need to be made in order of priority. For example, the carpets and flooring could come up later. But this kitchen would have to be dealt with. The bathroom shower needed a new shower head, and eventually I wanted to put in subway tile, and the toilet needed to come out and a new one in its place. Porcelain was awfully heavy and I knew I’d have to hire someone to do that for me. I’d planned on tackling small things as well, such as removing wallpaper and painting new colors. Those small projects would make a huge impact on the look of the home. It would make it feel comfortable and homey.

I was excited. It was going to be perfect. I rubbed my hands together, thrilled with hope and elation that I was moving forward. Healing could begin, and resentment, hostility, and sadness would hopefully be torn away with each task.

Week one, I’m not sure I’d consider a success. Other than scoring a deal on a couch I needed to reupholster, I also had to go out and buy a BB gun. Melonie never warned me about the critters that sometimes came around.

Late last night I was in bed reading when I heard some small scratching sounds near the window. My bedroom was at the back of the house and entirely too far away to make a mad dash to my car at the opposite end. At first I assumed someone was breaking into my house. It was truly one of those moments in life where you go completely stupid. My phone was in hand and I’d grabbed a razor from my bathroom. My heart was pounding so hard, I’d felt it in my throat. I didn’t know what I planned on doing with a freaking razor against an attacker. I suppose either slice them up with mini paper-like cuts or give them the smoothest legs in Port Townsend. It certainly wasn’t my most shining moment, but I saw it and went with it.

There were two sliding glass doors in the house. One in the living room and one in my bedroom. I had yet to use the one in my room as a means to get into the backyard, but that night I did. I slowly crept out just as there was more clattering. My razor was by my side, and my cell was in the pocket of my robe. When I heard the bang of the trashcan lid hit the pavement, I startled and stepped back. Around came a four-legged little creature.

A fucking raccoon.

I knew they were smart, and they were creative when it came to getting food, but I had no clue they knew how to remove the lid of my trashcan. I’d nearly peed myself stumbling around. You’ve got to be kidding me? I was going to have to figure out something to deter them from coming back. My poor heart couldn’t handle the excitement.

The next morning after a quick search online and a trip to the hardware store, I hopefully had a remedy in hand. Mothballs and bungee cords. I walked to the side of my house and put everything down. I grabbed my first bungee cord and held it up. Oh crap, I think I got the wrong size. I started placing the hooks on one edge and stretched it across the top. It bent and strained under the colorful threading, but to no avail. It wouldn’t go the whole way across. I tried again. Nope… wasn’t happening. Jesus! I didn’t know they sold these in different lengths. I thought they were like resistance bands at the gym. All the same around, just different thickness for the job. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I snapped the one I’d been tugging on, off the lid and tossed it on the ground. Maybe there was a longer one in my bag. I began rummaging around when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

I stood quickly, whipping around. My hair slapped me in the face. I blew a few strands out of my mouth in a non-graceful like way, a little bit of spit flying in the air. The cord fell out of my hand, and the man I’d stared at a few more times than I cared to admit through my window was currently standing five feet away. Any thought of raccoons and rubber cords left my head.

“Lady, is there a problem?”

Blake Whitmore was an extremely intimidating man. I couldn’t resist my eyes traveling up his long, lean frame. His six-foot-two stature made even larger by his tan work boots. He was wearing dark wash jeans that were splattered in different-colored paint and small tears in one of the knees. He had a dark green T-shirt on that stretched snuggly over his broad chest. The cotton of the sleeves had nothing left to give, covering biceps that looked like he was smuggling large balls underneath them. But his face, it was a face that once you saw it, you never forgot it. When you fantasized about a gruff manly man, this was the face that would pop into any woman’s head. It was everything I remembered it to be. His photo online didn’t do the intenseness of his eyes justice. They were dark chocolate, with some lighter flecks of brown. He had a hint of darkness under his eyes, making him appear exhausted from a long night’s work, yet still every bit of handsome. A shadow of a beard added a few years to what I already assumed was a man in his early thirties.

He was truly stunning. Till he snapped his fingers in front of my face. I had been staring with my mouth slightly parted and a deer in the headlights look.

“Hello.” Snap, snap, snap. “Is anybody in there?”

His deep, gruff voice brought me back to earth. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. Am I making too much noise?”

I knew I wasn’t, but maybe he’d come over to see if I needed any help. Hell, this was my excuse to finally meet the elusive man across the street.

“No, but I have some of your mail. This is the third day in a row I’ve gotten your crap. You need to go to the post office and get it fixed.”

I jerked my head back and looked down. Sure enough there were a few white envelopes sticking out of his hand. “I apologize. I didn’t know they’d made a mistake.”

“Well, they did.”

I held out my hand to take them from him and to attempt to introduce myself. “I’ll stop by this afternoon to see if there was some sort of mix-up.”

He grunted at me.

“Erm, well, anyway, I’m Molly. Your new neighbor.”

Blake stood there, his gaze bearing down on me. I felt like I’d sprouted a second head, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. While I knew I wasn’t being overly exuberant, he appeared annoyed and not in the least bit interested in greetings and small talk. I should just take the mail and maybe catch him on another day. My hand was still in the air when he slapped the papers down into my open palm.

“Listen, Mary, I don’t appreciate having to walk over here when I have a load of shit to deal with. I don’t care that you bought the house across the street, or if you were the goddamn Pope. It’s taking up my time.” His stare was unrelenting.

Wow. He was dealing with the situation like I was some annoying pebble in his shoe. Never in my life had I been spoken to like this by a stranger. Not even disgruntled readers I’d left on a cliffhanger. What had crawled up his ass? I sucked in a deep breath and blew it back out. I tended to be a glass half full kind of girl. People had bad days, and I understood that. While I didn’t appreciate being in the crosshairs of his bad attitude, I was willing to let it slide. Rolling my shoulders back, I cleared my throat.

“It’s Molly, and like I said before, I’ll get it taken care of. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

He narrowed those chocolate eyes at me. And for the first time he glanced down my body. It elicited a shiver that went down my spine. I half-liked the way he did a quick inspection. But he gave nothing away with his expression when that piercing stare came back to mine. Nor did his tone soften.

“I get anything else of yours, it’s going in the trash.”

“Now that’s not really necessary. Just put it back in your mail box and they will hopefully deliver it to the correct address next time. That way you’re not walking back over here.”

“Fine.”

There, that wasn’t so hard. I mean, I suppose he could have done what I did and taken my mail without giving it back. Granted I didn’t toss it on the ground to be blown away with the wind, but he could’ve easily opened it and tried to be nosy. He didn’t strike me as the type to really care what my mail was. However, I caught him doing another pass over the length of me. It was so quick, if I blinked I would’ve missed it. “Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” I tried to play it off that I hadn’t already dug deep on the Internet for little morsels of information.

“That’s because I didn’t say it.”

He was either being purposefully an asshole, or this was the real Blake Whitmore. His short, brash responses had me grasping for straws here. I was growing uncomfortable and agitated by the second.

“Well, I suppose if you’re not going to give me your name, I’ll get back to what I was doing.”

He grunted for a second time. I gave him my back and resumed pulling a bungee cord across the top of the trash’s lid with no luck. Struggling through a few attempts, I finally glanced over my shoulder to spot him still standing there staring at me.

“Mister, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m pretty sure our conversation is over. So, either leave, or try and attempt niceness to your new neighbor who’s clearly having a losing battle.”

I kept my back to him. I didn’t care to face the scrutiny of his eyes. I knew damn well he could offer me some advice or maybe tell me what I was doing wrong.

“For starters, those are too short.”

I dropped the cord back into the bag. They’d have to be exchanged.

“Why are you putting those on there anyway?”

I sighed. Only now was I realizing what I was wearing. The mornings near the water were still crisp and called for a hoodie. It used to be black, but had faded to a paler shade of black. There was a grease stain right over my left boob from a time I’d gone to a crab boil on the beach and dripped butter on it. I loved the feeling of the inside of it, so I refused to toss it. To top it off, I had on a pair of dark gray stretch pants I’d worn to bed. While I didn’t mind my appearance at the local hardware store, being dressed like this in front of him left me feeling sheepish.

“I was told it would help keep raccoons from getting into my trash,” I responded.

He looked down at my bag. Stepping forward, he bent down to inspect the contents. “Are you having an issue with raccoons?”

I nodded. “One was rummaging around last night. I’d heard it, but scared it off when I came outside.”

His brow rose and he peered up at me. “Moth balls might keep them away for a bit, but it’s not going to solve your problem permanently.”

“Okay, so what would you suggest?” I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging my middle.

He followed the movement. Standing back up, he said, “Own any guns?”

I gasped. “You can’t be serious. You want me to shoot it?”

“It would get rid of the problem, now, wouldn’t it?”

My mouth dropped open. Never in my life had I shot a gun. I didn’t even own a weapon. After last night and how scared I was, it may not be a bad idea to at least have something better than a measly razor to protect myself, but I didn’t think killing an animal was the answer.

“Possibly.” I tried to remain indifferent. “But I’m sure if there’s one, there’s more.”

He snickered. “Lady, believe me, if one gets killed, the others won’t bother coming around.”

I was standing semi close to him, and the wind blew past us both. I caught the scent of aftershave and soap coming off his skin and I nearly closed my eyes to bask in it. My nostrils flared. Jesus, he smelled amazing.

“Again, it’s Molly. And I think I’ll try the mothballs first, thanks.” I reached out to take them from him.

He pulled his hand back before I could grasp the box. “Is it just you living here?”

That was not a question I’d expected to come next. I dropped my arm. Why was he asking? Could he be interested?

I sound like I need a cat.

I tried my hardest to hide the surprise in my voice. “It’s just me.”

He grunted, again. I wasn’t sure he realized how much he did that. Or maybe he did and that’s how he filled the silence while he thought something. “What do you know about this house?”

“Uhhh…” Not a lot. “Enough. Why?”

The corners of his eyes softened a touch and lifted, almost like his lips would do the same. I thought he was going to smile. Except he didn’t. “For someone who lives by themselves, no husband or roommate to deal with the mess in there makes me question your intelligence.”

Okay, I was getting the feeling this wasn’t the first insult he’d slung my direction since he marched onto my grass. “Who said I wasn’t married?”

“Are you?”

I jerked back. “No.”

“Okay, my point remains. How do you plan on fixing everything in there?”

“How do you know what problems my house has?”

“Marcie, I know the people who built this house. It has been through more owners and renters over the last fifteen years than I can count. The people who last owned it were a couple of college kids who couldn’t wipe their own asses, let alone take care of it. I thought the fucking thing was going to be condemned when they were done with it.”

What was it with him not getting my name right? It was agitating me. And that was information overload. I thought the last owners were a younger couple who’d outgrown it and were buying something bigger. At least that’s what Melonie had told me. When I’d shown interest in this place, I wonder if she’d fibbed in order to not scare me away from the sale. Whether that was illegal or not, I had no idea. It was a moot point. I’d signed on the dotted line and now it was mine.

I cleared my throat. “It’s honestly not that bad inside. Mostly cosmetic.” I chose not to correct him again with my name.

He scoffed. “If you say so.” He paused and I could see he was sorting out some errant thought. “So, who’s going to take care of the ‘cosmetic’ work?”

“Me.”

He guffawed. “You? You’re going to do the work?”

I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. “Yes, I sure am.”

“And have you done any home renovations before?”

“Well, not exactly.” I tried not to fumble, but I knew what he did for a living, and I didn’t want to sound like an idiot. “It can’t be that hard.”

He blinked a few times. “If you say so,” he repeated.

I’d had about all I could take. He offered me no help. He refused to give me his name, even though I already knew it. He’d insulted my intelligence. And now I just wanted to go inside and blow off some steam writing my next chapter.

I pulled my hands into my sleeves and reached down to grab my bag. He handed me my box of mothballs, which I quickly snatched away. “I’ve got a lot to do today. Thanks for all your—”

I didn’t even finish my sentence. He was already walking back to his house. I gaped at him. However I’d imagined I was going to start my day, this was not it. Not even remotely. The beautiful Blake Whitmore was a class-A asshole. His appearance may have temporarily stunned me, but a gorgeous face could only get you so far. It didn’t make up for a lack of manners and likeability.

I clenched my bag in my hand and stormed into my house. I had no clue how easy or hard it was going to be to ignore him, but I’d sure try. I stomped around muttering under my breath about egotistical jerks and me not needing a man. I dropped my mail off on my counter and walked out my front door to grab today’s mail. The postal service was going to need to get this taken care of as soon as possible. The less interaction with him I had, the better.

Blake’s car was already gone, and he’d taken off for the day. Good riddance. I was still fuming as I pulled down the handle of my mailbox and nearly choked on my own tongue. You’ve got to be kidding me. All by itself was a single white business card, Blake’s name written in bold glossy print, along with his phone number and Whitmore & Son’s address. I tentatively plucked it from the mailbox and flipped it over. In messy male writing it said, ‘call for cosmetic work.’

Oh boy.