The all over blush of embarrassment raises my body temperature a few more degrees. Between that and the dry clothes I am no longer shivering. I pluck out the weeds and stuff my unruly hair into a bun on top of my head. Thankfully the water is working, and even warm, so I wash the best I can using the sink. I stoop, collect my clothes, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Mitch is waiting in the hallway leaning against the wall. I grab the door jamb to prevent another awkward fall.
“I was debating whether to knock to see if you were okay.” He pushes off from the wall and holds out a plastic bag. “I found this for your wet things.”
“Thanks.” I take the bag from him, stuff my clothes into it, and clutch the bundle to my chest. I look back up at him.
He stands with his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “You good?”
“I’m fine. Most importantly, dry.”
His smile sends flutters in my chest. I grind my back teeth together. His smile has caused that reaction in me for much longer than I care to admit. Casting my gaze away from him, I tilt my head to the side to peer down the hallway I’m longing to explore.
“Want a tour?”
“I’d love one.” The words slip out of my mouth and I wince. I should head home as quickly as possible. “If it’s not too much trouble.” Curiosity wins out. This might be my only chance to see the house I’ve been dreaming of exploring for years.
“No trouble at all.” He strolls by me. My gaze drops and I can’t help but appreciate the view as he moves past me along the hall. The worn denim cups his well-shaped butt.
So sue me, I’m only human. Besides looking at and appreciating what God gave him shouldn’t get me in too much trouble.
Especially when he can’t see me doing it.
“You coming?” He glances over his shoulder at me still lounging in the doorway.
“Hmm… oh of course.” Please don’t let him be aware I was ogling him behind his back. Although he must be accustomed to women’s covetous looks considering it was once part of his profession. A particular advertisement comes to mind where he posed for a famous designer. He was on the beach in a tight swimsuit and nothing else but a pair of lowered sunglasses, his intense blue eyes gazing over the top. The ad was for the sunglasses, but I can’t recall a single thing about them.
I trail behind him and drag my gaze from admiring him to admiring the house. We step through a wide archway into a giant foyer with a marble floor and curved grand stairway. My mouth drops open.
“The place needs a ton of work, but when I walked into this room, I knew I had to have it. They don’t build houses like this anymore.”
Wood paneling lines the two-story walls and ceiling. A gigantic crystal chandelier hangs from a chain centered in an ornate ceiling medallion in the middle of the coffered ceiling. “It’s spectacular. All the times I fantasized about this place I never imagined it was this magnificent.”
“You fantasized about this place?”
I said that out loud? “Um… well… yeah.”
His grin ratchets up a few notches. I might not have believed it possible, but damn the man’s smile really can melt hearts. His hand is resting on the carved wooden banister which depicts a vine of roses winding up its base. The woodwork is stunning and intricate. How many hours of labor were required to create this masterpiece?
“Then I must give you the grand tour. Come on, wait until you see the view from upstairs. They haven’t worked up there yet, so you still get a strong impression of its turn of the last century charm.”
He takes the stairs two at a time and I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. I’d feel the same way if the house was mine.
Large wooden double doors stand at the top of the stairs. A hallway stretches in either direction with multiple doors off each one culminating in floor to ceiling windows at either end allowing light to pour in.
He opens the doors to reveal an enormous master bedroom. A fireplace is centered on the wall to the left flanked by two open doors. I can see that they’re both closets. Mitch strides in front of me and across the room to a set of French doors which open onto a wide balcony. He has to lean against the door and give it a shove to get it to open.
A loud creak sounds before it swings open with a flourish. Mitch steps to the side and holds open the door. “The balcony is safe and sound, I promise.”
Stepping past him, I can’t help but inhale sharply when a faint scent teases my nose. A masculine mixture of wood shavings, exertion, and him—it’s an aphrodisiac I want more of.
Metal scrolled railings at waist level edge the balcony which extends the length of the second floor, but it’s the view that captures my attention. From up here, the lake shimmers for miles. The sun is setting and layers of pink and lavender stretch across the horizon.
A few of the many islands inhabiting the lake are visible. Some are little more than a stand of trees and rocks. Others are several acres with houses on them. What it is like to live on an island? You can’t just hop in your car and go to the store. You have to hop in your boat and then your car unless you want to do all your shopping in the village. It must take an organized soul. A few of the houses are year round so travel gets even more precarious and requires careful planning. I’m not sure I’d enjoy being trapped on the island until the ice is thick enough for snowmobiles. When I run out of something, I want it immediately, not at the whim of the weather. What happens if there is an emergency and someone needs immediate medical care? It’s doubtful a helicopter could find a place to land on the tree clustered islands.
Mitch leans on the balcony next to me and we both silently enjoy the panoramic view. The mountains surrounding the lake are thick with evergreens. A few houses peek out of the trees on the hill tops, but mostly unspoiled nature fills the vista.
The air cools and a breeze tickles a lock of hair curling behind my ear. I sense his gaze on me, so I veer back towards the inside of the house.
I lose count of the number of bedrooms he shows me on the second floor. There’s something unique found in each, whether it be a stained-glass window, a window seat, a quiet alcove, or built in bunk beds in a room meant for kids. Back downstairs, I follow him from room to room as he points out the house’s treasures and explains the renovations he has planned.
To my everlasting relief, he plans to maintain the house’s grand history. He appreciates its value. My fears he may have purchased it for the land alone are unfounded. Other than asking a question here and there concerning the renovations, I’m relatively silent throughout the tour. The deep timbre of his voice lulls me into a relaxed state. No wonder he was such a successful actor.
“Have I bored you to tears?”
I owlishly blink at him as we stand facing each other in the formal dining room. “No, not at all. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you plan to keep all the wonderful elements of the house intact. The house has far surpassed the limits of my imaginings.” I peek towards a swinging door on the side of the room. “Honestly, I’m dying to see the rest of the place, especially the kitchen.”
“Coming right up.” He pushes through the swinging glass door to reveal a butler’s pantry filled with cabinets and a prep area and sink. It opens into what could easily hold at least three of my parents’ kitchen and their kitchen is large.
My gaze flits around the room. Where to start? I want to take it all in and start opening cabinets and peering into drawers, but I clench my hands together behind my back instead and stroll around the room.
“As you can see, the contractors haven’t started in here. I have yet to approve the final layout for the kitchen. Something isn’t quite right. Would you like to look at the architect’s plans sometime and give me your professional opinion?”
I stare at him and desperately hope he isn’t kidding. Oh, what I could do with this space.
“From your expression, I’ll take that as a yes?”
Am I drooling? I close my mouth and smile. “I would love to.”
“Great, it’s a date then.”
A date? Did he say date? Yes, he did, but he didn’t mean date date. He meant it as an appointment of sorts, not the man-woman thing.
Okay, when he offered for me to look at the plans, I envisioned I would take them with me and make notes and hand them back. Nowhere did my imaginings include Mitch being with me while I added my opinions about his kitchen.
Get it together Franny.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. How about we get a pizza or something on the ride home?”
He’s planning on giving me a ride home? “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’ve got the kayak and all. I should head back.”
“Have you looked outside? It’s dark. You can’t kayak home.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ll stick close to shore.”
“Franny, it’s not safe. You have no lights on the kayak. Boats won’t be able to see you. Not to mention, the temperature is dropping. I’ll drive you home and we can make arrangements to pick up your kayak.”
One side of my brain knows he is correct, but the other part is busy trying to come up with excuses. I can use my phone for light. But it had been in my pants pocket when I fell into the lake. I haven’t thought to check if it even still functions.
He’s renovating this house and bought my building. My intention to avoid him is not working, and I admit it wasn’t all that feasible once I found out he was living in the apartment over my bakery.
The past needs to remain in the past.
My new life plan is all about moving forward. I can’t do that if I dwell on ancient history and allow it to influence my actions and choices in the present.
“A ride home would be great, thanks.”
He leads the way to the front of the house where a blue pickup truck is parked on the circular driveway. I look around for the sports car or luxury sedan I expect Mitch to own, but he strides toward the truck.
When am I going to stop making assumptions about him or anyone else? Time and experience keep showing me I usually make the wrong ones. Am I missing the female intuition thingy people are always talking about, or is mine asleep on the job? I’d like to have a word with my guardian angel as well. Then again, maybe mine is so overworked making sure I don’t kill myself with all the accidents I somehow end up in the middle of.
A sharp piece of gravel bites into my bare foot and I wince. I prance my way along the rest of the path and over to the truck where Mitch is waiting.
“I didn’t think about your bare feet. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I’m the one who decided to take a swim in the lake with my shoes on.”
“So you planned that little swim?”
I return his smile with a wry one of my own. “Planning had nothing to do with it. It was more like the result of the absence of planning.”
Mitch chuckles as he holds open the passenger door for me and I haul myself up into the truck and shove the plastic bag with my things on the floor next to my bare feet. Looking up, I stare at the large stone fountain in the center of the loop. A sailboat crests a stone wave. Mitch walks around the front of the truck, climbs into the driver’s seat, and starts the truck. A moment passes before I realize we aren’t going anywhere.
I glance at him and he quirks one side of his mouth up. “I don’t know where you live.”
“Oh.” Damn, now I have to admit I still live with my parents. Either that or have him drop me off down the street at a random house and hope he never finds out it wasn’t mine.
Forcing a tight smile to my lips, I mumble, “I still live with my parents.” Lying isn’t the answer. For one, I suck at it. I was always caught as a kid. And two, he lives in town now, he is bound to find out eventually. The town isn’t that big, and everyone tends to know everyone else’s business.
New vehicle smell permeates the cab of the truck. The seats are a soft, tan leather. He presses a button on the dash and heat permeates from the top and bottom warming my back and legs. I snuggle back against them and luxuriate in the warmth.
My car is secondhand, maybe third or fourth hand, a basic sedan with none of the extras. With my strict budget, frills like heated seats, or even adjustable ones are off the list. My driver’s seat has been stuck in the same position since I bought it. A few buttons on the side tease me with the option of movement, but I’ve resigned myself to accept they are there just for show.
“Are you warm enough? I can raise the heat.”
“No, I’m good, thanks. Can I take this heated seat home with me? I might sleep in it if it were mine. It’s more comfortable than my bed.”
Ugh, stop talking Franny.
“I might have napped in the truck last week, but don’t tell anyone. I’m not used to the physical labor of construction. Working out in a gym is a lot different from working in the sun all day on neglected grounds.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The blinking neon open sign of Joe’s Pizzeria flashes when Mitch drives into the parking lot. “They still sell pizza by the slice?”
“Um… yeah.” Joe’s is in an old Federal style building. The first floor is the restaurant and the second is a bar. The attic is split into a pair of apartments accessed by two sets of stairs on either side of the building. Maybe one of them is available for me to rent.
Mitch jumps out of the parked truck and strides to the front door. He did say he was hungry before we left. Thankfully he doesn’t appear to expect me to follow him inside. There is no way I am going in public dressed in his sweatpants and hoodie. Especially with no bra and no shoes. Ha, they wouldn’t allow me in with no shoes, anyway. I have the perfect excuse, not that he even asked.
The parking lot is full of cars. Is he being mobbed inside by everyone who’s dazzled by the new celebrity in town? The only celebrity, unless you count Annabelle Carpenter. Her claim to fame is the three appearances she made on the local news show as the resident expert on a local bird. She holds court at the library after each appearance and puts up flyers all around town. Mitch might attain her level of celebrity, but then again, to the older generation he might not.
He steps out of the restaurant smiling at Maria, one of the waitresses, who trails behind him chatting away. She used to live in one of the apartments above the restaurant, I’m not sure if she still does. About three years behind me in school, she was a popular girl, a cheerleader. Maria holds the glass door open with one hand and props the other on her hip. Short black hair swings against her jawline as she tilts her head and winks at him. Dangly earrings rest against her cheek and a nose ring flashes in the overhead light.
A slight temptation to crack the window and eavesdrop on what they are saying grips me. I glance at the controls and roll my eyes. They’re electric and he has the keys.
Mitch strides across the parking lot to the truck.
I watch Maria to see if she will linger in the doorway and if she will recognize me when the interior lights come on when he opens the door. Will she be surprised? Will she gossip about it? Do I care?
Of course I do, I’m human and insecure. I fervently wish I didn’t give a rat’s ass what other people think about me, but it has been ingrained in me since birth to behave and not shame my parents. I’ve failed at this family doctrine more times than I care to count.
She flounces back into the restaurant before Mitch opens the door, so I guess I’ll never know the answers.
He climbs into the truck carrying a large pizza box and a thin plastic bag with two bottles of water, plates, and napkins inside. “They had a whole pizza ready, so I grabbed it.” He shuts the door and looks at me. “You eat pizza, right? I guess I should’ve asked. You’re not allergic or anything?”
A loud grumbling echoes in the truck's cab emanating from my stomach.
“Should I take that as a yes?” Mitch laughs while I wince and try not to sink down in the seat.
He hands me a paper plate, napkin, and water bottle and opens the pizza box. The aroma of hot pizza wafts from the box and my mouth waters.
“Thank you.” I accept the pizza slice he holds out with a smile. It smells delicious and I know from experience it will taste just as good.
Taking a bite, I close my eyes and savor the combination of seasoned Italian sauce, thin crust, and gobs of cheese melting in my mouth. A string of cheese hangs between the pizza and my mouth on the second bite and slaps me in the chin when it releases. Sauce speckles the sleeve of the borrowed hoodie. Cringing, I vow to spray with stain removal as soon as I get home. I always keep a stash of the stuff in my bathroom and at the bakery.
I cave and take a second piece. Mitch gestures with his pizza to the side of the restaurant. “Look familiar?”
Two young teenage boys stand on the sidewalk digging through their jean pockets and counting out whatever cash they scrounged up.
A chuckle slips from me. “Yes, it does.” We had collected cans and bottles wherever we could find them a couple of times to exchange for the deposit money and then we used the cash to get a couple slices of pizza.
I had received a small allowance every week from my parents, but I don’t think Mitch did because he never had any money.
“Do you remember that time we were looking for cans and thought we’d come across the mother load when we found that tree with the cans stuck on the ends of the branches?”
Mitch’s laughter rings out in the truck. “That old guy appeared out of his garage shaking a fist at us and yelling we were destroying his art.”
“How were we supposed to know cans stuck on a tree branch was art?”
“Damn, I had forgotten about that.”
“Me too. Seeing the kids made me remember it.” Not really. I had always remembered it.
It reminds me I have no cash on me and no way to reimburse him for the pizza. I’ll have to pay him back later.
“So, tell me what’s changed in the past decade? The town seems busier than I remember.”
“Well it is the start of tourist season. The summer people are arriving.” Mitch’s parents had once been part of that group. They lived here only in the summer and left in the fall. Many of the locals rely on the income generated by the summer people. “I guess there are probably more of them. They built a condominium development on the other side of town a few years ago. It’s still the same Granite Cove though. Hanson’s Grocery is still around. Do you remember we used to get a root beer and bubblegum there all the time?”
“Sure do. And what were those chocolate cake things they had there called?”
“Whoopie pies.”
“Those were good. They still make those?”
“No, Mrs. Simpson used to make them, but she moved to Pennsylvania to be with her grandkids a few years ago. I bake them in the bakery from time to time.”
“My mouth is watering just thinking about them.”
“Well, I suppose I could make them this week.”
We reminisce over our summer adventures, one tale after another. The last one has tears leaking out of the corners of Mitch’s eyes as he laughs. My eyes are watering too, but it isn’t from laughter. Not that I will let him know.
We had gone raspberry picking and most of the berries had ended up in our stomachs rather than the containers we carried. I had tripped over a tree root in the ground and lay sprawled on the grass with raspberries all over me. The juice had stained my skin and clothes. Not all the stains on my pants were from the raspberries, however. Unbeknown to me, my entrance to womanhood had arrived that day.
After I had left Mitch, I had been on my way home when I ran into Vanessa and her friends. They had laughed hysterically pointing at my pants in horrific delight. I had run home in tears. Their torment had continued once we returned to school in the fall. Not a happy memory for me.
“I suppose I should get you home.” He starts the truck and drives out of the parking lot while I gaze out the passenger window trying not to let the memories drag me down.
Colonial and Federal style buildings line the main street of the village. They were private homes at one time, but now they are stores and other various businesses. He drives past the small-town green which divides the old part of town commonly referred to as the village and the newer part of town that developed as the town grew and sprawled out. A large octagonal gazebo occupies the center and a war memorial statue presides over the pointy triangle end at the intersection of Main Street and Town Street. Flowers and neatly trimmed bushes surround each structure and are dotted throughout the green along with benches. Lights strung throughout cast a luminous glow over the entire area.
“Today was your day off, so the bakery is open tomorrow, right? I’ve been missing your coffee. I may be going through withdrawal.”
I glance at his profile and smile. “I told you I make good coffee. The bakery is open Wednesday through Sunday.”
“Award-winning, I know. I see why. Those muffins are spectacular too.”
“I told you I would bake whoopie pies for you, didn’t I? I guess now I’ll have to make those for you tomorrow since you rescued me and bought me pizza.”
He grins. “Interesting name choice, whoopie pie.”
“I didn’t name them. They’re named that because kids exclaimed, whoopie when they got them as a treat. I believe it predates any different connotation on the name you might be referring to.”
“Are you blushing Franny?”
Damn it. My cheeks heat even more after he points it out.
“The bane of fair skin and freckles.”
“It’s cute. The blush itself and that someone saying whoopie makes you blush.”
Rolling my eyes, I grab my bag of stuff from the floor as he enters my parents’ driveway and parks. “It’s not the word, it’s what you were implying.”
“What did you think I was implying?”
“You know very well what you were implying.”
“Yeah, I do, but I want to hear you say it. The word is sex, Franny. Come on, say it.”
“What are you, twelve?” I open my door and climb out.
“Chicken.”
I puff out a breath and stare at his grinning face. Glancing around behind me at my parent’s house, I turn back to him and whisper, “Sex, there are you satisfied now?”
“Not particularly.”
I stare at him gazing back at me. What did he mean by that?
“Yeah, well, thanks again for everything. Goodnight.” I back away and shut the door.
Mitch lowers the passenger window. “Goodnight Franny. I’ll be dreaming of your whoopie pies. Don’t disappoint me.”