Starting Over On Blackberry Lane

Chapter Five

Nenita Einhausen from Mountain Meadows Real Estate arrived at Griffin’s house promptly at three in the afternoon. She was short and slender and professionally put together in a black power suit and heels, her dark hair caught back in a ponytail to accentuate her delicate features.

Griffin, who hadn’t bothered with makeup and wore jeans and a sweater, suddenly felt dumpy. Like her house. “Thanks for coming over,” she said.

“I’m happy to,” Nenita said cheerfully and walked into the room like a woman on a mission. “This place has so much potential. If I didn’t already have a house of my own, I’d buy it in a minute.”

That was encouraging. “So you don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling it?”

Nenita shook her head. “No, we’ll find you a buyer. Hardwood floors, nice. Can I look at the kitchen?” Before Griffin could answer, she was on her way there. Griffin followed and watched as she assessed the dated appliances with a silent nod, then poked her nose out the back door. “Lovely little yard. The back porch needs some help.”

“I know. My ex was going to get around to that,” Griffin explained, then felt her cheeks burning. Why was she telling that to a perfect stranger?

Nenita gave her a sympathetic smile. “Been there, done that. As it turns out, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It motivated me to get into real estate, which I love. What do you do?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Really? Can we see the upstairs?” Nenita asked and started power walking toward the stairs. “Do you do portraits?” she asked as Griffin trailed her up them. “Would I have seen your work for sale at any of our festivals?”

“No. I specialize in pictures of food.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It is. I’m thinking of moving to New York, where I can get more work.” Or I could move back home and live with my parents forever. Which option should I choose?

“Good idea,” Nenita said. She looked in the first bedroom. “Nice size. So, are you in a hurry to sell?” she asked and moved to the next bedroom.

“Well...” Was she?

“The reason I ask,” Nenita said, “is because you could get a lot more money for the place if you had time to fix it up a little. It needs some updating, a few repairs. New paint. Not that I couldn’t sell it as is, but I assume you want to get top dollar.”

“Of course,” Griffin confirmed. “How much do you think I could get?”

“Fixed up?” Nenita told her and started dollar signs dancing in front of her eyes. “The market’s on the upswing.”

“Tell me what to do.”

The list was daunting. In addition to fixing the broken back stair and painting the outside of the house, Nenita suggested painting most of the inside, as well—two bedrooms and the living room had been deemed in need of freshening.

“You should replace the stove and fridge and dishwasher if you can afford it,” she finished. “Once you get all of that done and we stage the place, it’ll sell pretty fast. Summer’s the best time. People want to get moved and settled before the school year begins.”

Okay, she could do this. It would be great to hire that new handyman everyone was talking about, but she could save money if she did most of the work herself. Painting wasn’t all that hard. She’d tackle that first and then worry about the broken step and the appliances.

Highly motivated, she went straight to the hardware store with her credit card after Nenita left, and started looking at paint chips. So many different shades—it was almost overwhelming. She finally decided on a cream for the living room as well as one of the spare bedrooms and a light turquoise for her own room. It would pick up the colors in her bedspread and pillows, and that would help with staging. The cream would look attractive with the house’s hardwood floors, which Nenita had suggested refinishing. Ugh.

Painting the outside of the house was going to be really spendy and would have to wait until she could work up the nerve to ask her dad for a loan. She selected her paint, brushes, roller and about a million other supplies, and took them to the cash register to be rung up. She swallowed hard when she saw the total but stoically handed over her credit card, reminding herself that you had to spend money to make money. She’d heard that somewhere. She hoped it was true.

She was pushing her cart full of paints out of the store when a man walked in past her. Whoa. “Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh,” she muttered and pulled out her cell phone.

Stef answered after several rings. “Did you see the Realtor?”

“Yeah, but never mind her. I just saw George Clooney!”

“What?”

“Seriously. I’m sure it was him. What’s he doing in Icicle Falls?” Was he making a movie here? And if he was, why hadn’t it been splashed all over the papers? Why wasn’t everyone talking about it?

“George Clooney in Icicle Falls? Okay, were you in that new cannabis store outside of town? Are you, like, hallucinating or something?”

“No. I swear it was him. I’m going back inside to check it out. I’ll call you later.”

Griffin loaded her supplies in her trunk and then hustled into the hardware store again. Okay, where was he?

“Did you forget anything?” asked Alan Donaldson, who owned the store.

“I was thinking I might need another paintbrush,” Griffin improvised. She knew she was blushing, could feel the heat on her cheeks.

He gave her a sly grin. “You know where they are.”

Yeah, but where was he? She hurried up and down the various aisles, passing everything from sandpaper to gardening supplies. Had she imagined him?

No. She turned a corner and ran right into the man. He dropped the tube of caulk he was carrying and she dropped her jaw. “Oh, my gosh. Mr. Clooney, I’m so sorry.”

“No worries,” he said, bending to pick it up. “And I’m afraid I’m not George Clooney.”

“You’re not?” He stood and she studied his face. Okay, maybe not. This man’s nose was a bit different, and he had a few more wrinkles. But still, wow, you could’ve fooled her. Oh, yeah. He had. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. What would George Clooney be doing in a hardware store in Icicle Falls? Except I thought someone was going to make a movie here or...something.” Lame. Totally lame.

He smiled. “It’s okay. It happens a lot.”

“That must come in handy when you’re traveling. Free drinks on planes, stuff like that?” Okay, she sounded like a complete moron.

He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he introduced himself.

“The Honey Do man! We were just talking about you. Both my friends want you.” Hmm. Did that sound a little...sexual?

“That’s good to hear.”

“We’re all going to be at the Raise the Roof fundraiser,” she went on. What did he care? “I guess we’ll see you then.”

“I guess so. And your name is?”

Idiot Girl. “Griffin James.”

“Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m Grant Masters.”

He had a friendly smile, and he wasn’t looking at her as if she only had one brain cell. She didn’t feel quite so stupid now and smiled back. “Nice to meet you, too. See you at the fundraiser.”

“Or maybe in here again.”

“I promise not to ask for your autograph.”

“At least wait until I’m famous,” he said, deadpan.

“Oh, sure,” she said. Her cell phone rang and she excused herself and hurried out of the store, answering as she went.

“Did you find him?” asked Stef.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t him.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s too old for you, anyway.”

“This man really looks like him, though. And guess what? He’s the new handyman and Mrs. Donaldson wasn’t kidding. He’s so nice.”

“That’s not surprising, considering how nice his son is. Dan’s always sending Charley flowers. And he bailed Cass out when her roof was leaking.”

Steve had gotten Griffin flowers. Once. For Valentine’s Day. After she bugged him to. She thought of the broken back porch step and frowned. “Too bad somebody can’t clone him.” Dan, not Steve. One Steve was probably enough.

“I think he’s got a brother. I hear he’s single.”

If the brother looked anything like Dan Masters or his dad... Woo-hoo. Oh, well. She was on her way to New York. She’d hold out for some slick metrosexual. Meanwhile, here in Icicle Falls, she had things to do.

She spent Friday morning working with Beth on another photo shoot—rhubarb-strawberry crisp—and then spent much of the afternoon editing. Come five o’clock, she tossed together cut-up sandwich meat and spinach and called it good (no one would ever take pictures of her cooking). Then she settled down on the couch to eat dinner.

All by herself. On a Friday night.

She’d complained to Steve about their life being boring, but at least they’d had one. Often on Friday nights they’d gone over to Brad and Stef’s to play Mexican Train or watch a movie together or, when she insisted they had to get out, to Zelda’s. She didn’t want to go to Zelda’s alone, and somehow it didn’t feel right to go over to Stef’s when it was only her. Friday night was couples’ night. She wasn’t part of a couple anymore. Now she was a third wheel.

Maybe she’d see if Cass wanted company.

She put in a call and got Cass’s voice mail. “If it’s after eight, sorry, I’m in bed. If you’re calling on a Friday, sorry, I’m pooped. Leave a message, though, and tell me what I missed.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Griffin said at the sound of the beep. And how pathetic was that? Oh, never mind, she had a new Susan Wiggs book to read. She’d spend her evening with that. Then tomorrow it would be paint day. Oh, yeah. Look at the exciting new life she had now that she’d broken up with Steve.

It was going to be exciting, she promised herself. And it was going to be good to get her house fixed up. Who knew—maybe once it was all painted and pretty, she wouldn’t want to move.

The next morning she donned her grubby jeans and an old sweatshirt and got busy. She decided to start with the living room, the first thing people would see when they walked in. She laid out her drop cloth and opened her paint can. Then she went to the shed in the backyard and hauled in the ladder, a rickety old thing that had probably been around since the fifties. Just as well she didn’t weigh a lot, otherwise it might not have held her.

She poured paint into her tray, set it on the ladder and went to work with her trusty new roller, starting from the top of the wall and working her way down. After she’d done a section, she stepped down to admire her work. Oh, yes. This place was going to look good enough for an HGTV show by the time she was done.

Back to the ladder, up to the top step. Paint, paint, paint, reach out just a little farther...lose balance, let out a screech, grab for the ladder and miss, tipping the roller tray and sending it—and her—flying. Land on right hand, right hip in roller tray. Experience pain. Big pain, super pain. Sit on the floor and wail. Yes, home improvement was such fun.

* * *

Her baking was finished for the day, and the kitchen was cleaned. Cass was ready to sneak away and leave Gingerbread Haus in the capable hands of Misty and Jet, her Saturday crew, and go home to shower and take a nap. Then, for the evening she had big plans—watch all her favorite TV shows that she’d recorded during the week. And make some popcorn. Popcorn and TV, real exciting. As Charley had said, she wasn’t that old. Why was she living like it? Why did her life suck?

Your life doesn’t totally suck, she reminded herself. She had three great kids, whom she’d raised single-handedly, thanks to her ex. He was finally back in the picture, along with his trophy wife and her ridiculous little dog and their trophy toddler. Ever since Dani’s wedding, they’d made a habit of coming up and staying with her at Christmas, along with the kids, giving family holiday gatherings the feel of a cringe-humor movie. But, in spite of that, life in the family department was good. Her business was thriving and she was well respected by everyone in town and had great friends. Okay, her life didn’t totally suck. It only semi-sucked.

But...she’d like to have sex again. Yes, sex would be nice. So would going out to dinner once in a while with someone who had a voice lower than hers.

Remember Mason.

Reminding herself how miserable and frustrated she’d been with her former husband was usually enough to convince her that she didn’t want a man. Men were, for the most part, a selfish and inconsiderate breed. Yes, Charley’s husband was great, and her other best friend, Samantha Sterling-Preston, had done okay. So had both of Sam’s sisters. But Cass was still convinced that those were the exceptions, not the rule. At this point in her life, she didn’t want to sort through the losers to find a winner. That would be like looking for a diamond in a gumball machine.

She’d just removed her apron when Misty raced into the kitchen. “OMG! You’ve got to come see who’s here.”

No, she didn’t. She hadn’t slept well the night before and she wasn’t wearing any makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was still in a hairnet and she was in her grubbies.

“I’ll pass,” she said.

“No, really!” Misty started towing her out of the kitchen, babbling as they went. “I don’t know what he’s doing in Icicle Falls. Maybe he has family here? Maybe he’s hiding from the paparazzi.”

“Hiding from the paparazzi in Icicle Falls?” Cass repeated with a snort. “Who are you talking about?”

They stepped out into the shop and she didn’t have to ask. For a moment her heart forgot to beat.

“Hi, Cass,” called Dan Masters. “You remember my dad, right?”

She’d have to have been brain-dead to have forgotten.

“I’m taking him around town to meet people. Thought we’d stop in for a cookie.”

Why was she wearing this stupid hairnet? And why didn’t she ever bother with makeup? Why hadn’t she stuck to her diet? Why, why, why?

“How about it?” Dan prompted.

“Hmm?”

“Cookie?”

“Oh, yeah. A cookie, of course! I do owe you cookies for life.” She’d give his daddy cookies for life, too. She’d give his daddy anything. “Jet, how about a couple of cookies for the gentlemen?” she said to her other gape-mouthed employee.

Jet nodded and produced the requested treats.

“No more leaks?” Dan asked Cass.

“So far, so good.”

“Okay. But don’t push your luck. You need to get that roof fixed.”

Cass gave him a salute. “Yes, sir. Will do!” He chuckled.

“We’re off to Zelda’s for lunch. Wanna join us?” he offered.

Like she wanted to sit at a table with Dan and his gorgeous father for an hour so she could leave the man with an indelible impression of herself looking like this. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

“Okay. We’ll catch up with you later, then,” Dan said and started for the door.

“Nice seeing you again,” said his dad.

“Same here,” Cass lied. Nice was hardly the word for it. Torture would be more appropriate.

“I thought for sure he was that actor,” Misty said after they left. “He looks so much like him.”

Yes, he did. Dan’s father was the male equivalent of chocolate, cream puffs and key lime pie all rolled into one. He definitely made a lasting impression.

She didn’t even want to try to imagine what he might have thought of her. Not that she was butt-ugly, but she wasn’t going to win any beauty contests. A man like that wouldn’t look twice at a woman like her. He probably hadn’t even remembered her.

But since she wasn’t in the market for a man, who cared, right? She took out the chocolate cake she had in the display case and cut off a large piece to take home. There. Who needed a man when you had popcorn, TV shows and chocolate cake?

Chapter Six

Of course, Brad couldn’t work on the house this weekend. Petey had his T-ball game that afternoon. “We got up too late,” Brad pointed out.

Yeah, because they’d been busy in bed, working up an appetite for breakfast. “We have three hours until Petey’s game,” she said.

“I know but I’ll just get going and it’ll be time to stop. There’s no sense starting something I can’t finish.”

Was he kidding? It was all she could do not to snatch away his plate of pancakes. Her husband didn’t deserve pancakes. “You’ve started things all over the house that you haven’t finished.”

“I’m gonna get to them. Give me a break, Stef.”

Stef, not Sweet Stuff. Okay, he was pissed. Well, so was she. She’d given him sex and pancakes, and this was the thanks she got? “All right, you had your chance,” she growled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can be replaced.”

His brows dipped down. “You shouldn’t even joke about stuff like that.”

“I meant as a carpenter. I’ve had it, Brad. I really have.”

“Oh, come on, now. Don’t be like that.”

Yes, don’t be so demanding. Be happy your house looks like a war zone.

“Is Mommy mad?” asked Petey, looking from one to the other.

“Not at you, sweetie.” She leaned over and kissed the top of Petey’s head. “So, guess what?”

“What?” he asked eagerly.

“You and Daddy get to hang out this morning and watch cartoons while Mommy goes out for a little while.”

“Are you coming to my game?” Petey asked.

“Of course. I’ll be back in plenty of time. We’ll have lunch and then we’ll all go together, and maybe Mommy can get in some batting practice with Daddy,” she added, giving Brad the faux sweet smile that telegraphed you’re in deep kimchi, dude.

That made Petey giggle. “Mommy, you don’t play T-ball.”

“I know. I won’t have to worry about hitting the ball. I’ll have a much bigger target.” She drained the syrup out of her voice and said to her husband, “See you later.”

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“Someplace where I don’t have to look at this,” she said and grabbed her purse.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that patience is a virtue?” he called after her.

“And didn’t yours ever teach you to finish what you started?” she called back, then stormed out the door, slamming it after herself.

Honestly, he made her so mad. She needed a sympathetic ear, and that sympathetic ear was only a few houses down Blackberry Lane. The front room curtains at Griffin’s house were open, and as Stef walked up the front walk, she could see signs of home improvement—a ladder, a drop cloth... She got closer and saw her friend sitting on the floor, holding what looked like a package of frozen vegetables on her wrist and rocking back and forth.

She banged on the door. “Griffin!” She anxiously turned the doorknob, found the door unlocked and rushed into the living room, where Griffin sat, tears racing down her cheeks. Her jeans were covered in paint and she was whimpering.

Stef knelt down beside her friend. “What happened?”

“I fell off the ladder,” Griffin said through gritted teeth. “I think I broke my wrist.” She moved aside the frozen peas to reveal a very swollen purple mess.

“Oh, not good,” Stef said. “We need to take you to the emergency room.”

“The paint spilled. Everything’s a mess,” Griffin wailed.

It was. There was paint all over the floor. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll clean it up. Let’s get you taken care of first.”

“I can’t go to the hospital like this.”

“Okay, I’ll find you some new pants,” Stef said.

“In my bedroom dresser. Ooh, this hurts.”

Stef fetched a clean pair of jeans, and between the two of them, they changed Griffin out of her paint-covered ones and into the new pair. Then they got into Griffin’s car and Stef drove her to the Mountain Regional Hospital emergency room.

Fortunately, not too many people were having emergencies on a Saturday morning, and Griffin was admitted right away. The doctor who examined her was an older man, a kindly father figure, who strongly suspected a radial fracture. “But we’ll do an X-ray and a CT scan to be sure.”

“If I’ve broken it, I’ll never get my house painted,” Griffin lamented.

Stef wasn’t in a hurry for her friend to get her house fixed up and on the market, but she certainly didn’t want her to have a broken wrist. “I’m sorry,” she said.