Ex and the Single Girl (12 page)

“
Portia?”

I froze. The door swung open and there he was, holding his WORLD
’
S GREATEST GRANDMA mug.

“
I was wondering if you were going to come in and say hi,”
he said, his smile radiating warmth and good humor. “
I
t was looking doubtful there for a minute.”

I winced. “
You could see me?”

He jerked his head toward the front window to his left. “
I like to write by the window. The view inspires me when I get stuck.”
Oh. Good. God.

“
I
’
m sorry,”
I
said, dropping my head and putting my hands over my eyes. “
I just... I...”

I looked up. I had no excuse. There was no way to mitigate the humiliation. Time to face the music.

“
Come on in.”
He raised his mug and winked at me. “
I have coffee.”

“
I
’
m sorry to
interrupt your writing,”
I said, sitting on the couch with my mug of coffee. Ian sat on a high-backed chair in front of a small table pushed up against the window. His laptop sat on the table, a screen saver drawing random multicolored swirls behind him.

“
Not at all,”
he said. “
I needed a break anyway.”

“
I was just coming by to see... Yesterday, I forgot to ask you... I was wondering if you might be interested in doing a book signing event at the Page? We couldn
’
t pay you, but there
’
d be hot coffee and some
more of Vera
’
s signature muffins.”

He raised an eyebrow. “
Blueberry?”

“
Anything
’
s possible.”

He laughed. “
I
’
d love to. Thank you for asking.”

I smiled at him, then looked down at my coffee. I could feel his eyes working on me, checking out my dusty sneake
rs, my mussed hair, my slept-in clothes. I suddenly wished I
’
d taken a shower before I
’
d come.

“
Do you want to tell me what
’
s really going on?”
he asked after a moment.

“
Hmmm?”
I
’
d been enjoying talking in circles around the very obvious fact that I was a
woman on the edge. I
’
d been hoping he would have picked up on that.

“
It
’
s okay,”
he said. “
If you want to tell me what
’
s going on, I
’
m happy to listen. If you
’
d rather talk about something else, we can talk about something else.”

I took a deep b
reath, willing myself to think of nothing other than Tan Carpenter and the Russian mob that was, at the end of chapter three, threatening to kill his daughter.

“
The book,”
I said finally, motioning toward the desk where it sat next to the laptop. “
It
’
s rea
lly good. I especially like the way Tan used the prosthetic leg as a weapon. Very funny.”
He cut his eyes at me. “
Are you making fun of me?”

“
No,”
I said, although I was, a little. You can take the girl out of the snobby elitist literary program, but you c
an
’
t take the snobby elitist literary program out of the girl. “
I
’
m just changing the subject. Badly.”

He nodded. After a moment, he stood up and walked over to me, holding his hand out for mine.

“
Come on,”
he said. “
I want to show you something.”

The barn
stood back on the property, about fifty yards away from the house. The earthy smell of the summer morning was thick on the grass, and each step we took seemed to make the fragrance stronger. Ian dropped my hand when we got to the barn to pull one of the
d
oors open, then motioned for me to go inside.

I stepped in, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. The last time I
’
d been in the barn was when I was in high school, when Vera sent Bridge Wilkins and me over to help Morris do some repairs on the
roof. My role was limited to handing tools to Bridge like a surgical nurse, and keeping Morris, whose body was just starting to fail him, from working too hard.

While the barn still looked the same from the outside, inside was a bit of a shock. All the ag
ing straw and random whatnot that had been stored there over the years was gone. The cement floor had been swept, and fresh planks of wood were piled up next to a table saw and a couple of sawhorses. Two golden X
’
s glowed along the barn
’
s east wall, vibra
n
t against the older, darker wood they supported.

“
Have you been doing this?”
I asked.

“
Bridge mentioned tearing it down when he met me here to show me the place. I thought that would be a shame.”

“
Bridge Wilkins?”

He nodded. “
You know him?”

“
You
’
re in Trul
y now, darlin
’,”
I said, thickening my drawl. “
Everyone knows everyone.”

“
Good point,”
he said.

I looked around. “
How
’
d you learn how to restore barns?”
Ian shrugged. “
My uncle was a carpenter.”

“
And you
’
ve been doing this? All by yourself?”

“
Today, as it
happens, I think I
’
ll be needing some help.”
He walked over to the pile of lumber and picked up a limp tool belt that was sitting on top. He grinned at me as he returned, cinching the belt around my waist, his eyes locked on mine. He gave the belt one fin
a
l tug, dropped his eyes, and pulled a hammer out of a loop on my side. “
My father always said that nothing clears a mind like manual labor.”

“
Sounds like a wise man,”
I said.

He nodded, not moving. “
He was.”

My breathing went shallow. He stood perfectly st
ill, two feet away from me, his eyes reading mine. I inhaled as my heart rate quickened, thus making it official: I had me a bona fide crush.

And it was the absolute last thing I needed.

I put my hands on the tool belt and smiled up at him. “
Where do I sta
rt?”

***

It was noon when we broke for the day. I hadn
’
t decided not to go in to work at the Page so much as I hadn
’
t wanted to stop working on the barn, so I played hooky and stayed with Ian, pounding nail
s into walls and feeling better with each swing of the hammer. We
’
d managed to put up a few more supporting posts on the east wall, but when we were done, it didn
’
t look like the sweat and dirt that covered us amounted to a whole lot. We went back to the
h
ouse, and Ian grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from his room.

“
The shower
’
s across from the master bedroom,”
he said, pushing me up the stairs. “
I
’
ll put something together for lunch.”

I headed up to the second floor, looking at the old fam
ily photographs. Fading school pictures of gap-toothed kids, family portraits that betrayed their era with wide lapels or excessive shoulder padding, old black-and-whites of Babbs gone by. I traced my fingers over a smiling anniversary picture of Morris a
n
d Trudy, taken probably around the time Morris was paying me five dollars a week to hawk his eggs at the farmers
’
market. I heard the clunk of a kitchen cabinet being shut and tore myself away to get my shower.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling refreshed and
calm, I hopped down the stairs, dropping my balled-up clothes by the front door. I pulled my wet hair into a ponytail and turned the corner into the kitchen, my grumbling stomach following the smell of food.

Ian was at the sink, wearing a frilly faded apro
n that read DON
’
T MAKE A MESS IN GRAMMA
’
S KITCHEN. I laughed, picturing Trudy surrounded by grandchildren bearing the Hallmark-sloganed fruits of a hundred Christmases and Mother
’
s Days. Ian smiled back at me and nodded toward the kitchen table, where he
h
ad two plates set out, filled with sausages and eggs and toast, accompanied by two glasses of orange juice. I sat down and pulled a napkin into my lap.

“
This smells great,”
I said, digging a fork into the eggs and stuffing in a mouthful. “
I
’
m starving.”

“
G
ood,”
he said, walking over and putting the lid from the skillet over his plate to keep it warm. He pulled the apron off and balled it up, leaving it on the counter. “
I
’
m going to clean up. I
’
ll be back in a minute.”

I nodded and watched him walk out, the
kitchen door swinging absently in his wake. I took another bite and gulped down some orange juice, then sat back and took in the kitchen. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with pictures of vegetables that looked like they came straight out of a ni
n
eteenth- century newspaper. Shelves at random heights held volumes of knickknacks: plastic plates with children
’
s drawings on them, old lady dolls frozen in the act of sweeping, wooden cats with paws hanging over the edge of the shelf, ready to pounce. I
b
et if Trudy were there, she could tell me exactly who
’
d given her each knickknack and what the occasion had been when she
’
d received it.

The door swung and Ian came back in, his hair still dripping from the shower. He grinned at me as he rounded the table
and lifted the lid from his own meal.

“
Feeling better?”
he asked.

“
Good as new,”
I said, smiling and forking a piece of sausage.

***

“
Portia.”

My eyelids flitted open. The sun was still out. I rolled my eyes up without moving my head to get a look at the
clock: 4:38. Ian had driven me back home at about one o
’
clock, and I could barely remember making my way to the bed before falling asleep. I picked up my head and turned it to the right, where the voice had come from.

Bev was standing next to my bed, her
arms crossed over her chest. She didn
’
t look happy. My mind stumbled in a fog, grasping at a sense of unrest that huddled in the back of my head.

“
Hey, Bev.”
I pushed myself up on my elbows and rubbed my fingertips over my closed eyelids, trying to generat
e some activity in my brain.

“
Mags is going to be home soon. She was worried about you when you weren
’
t at the store this morning.”

The fog in my head began to clear. I had a flash of Jack, holding his arms out to pick me up while classical music played. A
spear of anger shot through me. I sat up.

“
Where is she?”

“
Still at the store,”
Bev said. She hadn
’
t moved, was still looking down at me like I was the bad guy here. “
I came back early, hoping
I
’
d
find you first.”

“
Well, you found me. Wanna tell me what the problem is?”
Bev
’
s jaw tightened, a gesture
I'd
learned to read very carefully when I was a kid, as it usually meant you could get in maybe one more smart-mouth comment before the can of whoop ass was officially o
pened. “
You ran off without telling us where you were going, for one. Mags was worried about you. We all were.”