LITMIR.BIZ

      2

      Larkin

       Current Day

      Why won’t this stuff come off? I fume, trying to scrub harder.

      I’m way up on a ladder that is propped up outside my mother’s house. Scratch that — my mom died three years ago, and before that she didn’t really take care of the massive old Victorian house.

      That is why I am on this ladder right now, furiously scrubbing at the spiderwebs and other black crud that has gathered along the eaves.

       I guess that makes it my house now.

      I’ve got on an old long sleeve shirt, my oldest pair of jeans, and I have my long blonde hair tied up in a kerchief. It may be the summer, but it doesn’t get very warm here on the Oregon coast. At best, it will get into the sixties.

      So really, cleaning the eaves of the house is a necessary task, but it also allows me to sunbathe a little. I soak up the vitamin D, hoping that it will somehow make me happier. Too bad that it can’t do anything about this black gunk on the side of the house.

      At last I manage to chip away a piece, and it comes off.

      Ah. I just have to chip and peel it away, I think.

      As I work, I have to wonder how Mom let it get this bad. The house is right in the middle of what I think of as Pacific Pines downtown area, a huge open area of grass surrounded by houses and shops. My mom’s house — my house now — is two stories, gray-green and gabled.

      At some point in the past, my mom paid to have the house converted into a duplex. Both sides of the house are decorated in bold, lurid designs that harken back to the early 1970s. But that’s my mom for you — Big Ruth, people called her. The elementary school principal, a serial philanderer, and a textbook narcissist if ever there was one. She didn’t do anything halfway, especially not home decor.

      I intensify my efforts, and am rewarded when a big strip comes off. The whole point of coming back to Pacific Pines is to sell this house and use the proceeds to move to New York. I’ve been here for six months, working at the library and hanging out with my Aunt Mabel, my mother’s much older sister.

      Unfortunately, like all things that had to do with my mother, it’s not a simple matter of putting the house up for sale. I’m going to have to fix the place up first. From the shutters hanging loose, to the paint peeling — inside and out — to the massive pile of rusting junk in the back yard…

      This is going to be a massive project. And since I don’t have the money to throw at fixing it, I’m doing all the reasonable stuff that someone who is five feet tall can do. Today is the first time that I’ve ever put any elbow grease into the house, and I’m finding it…

      Well, frustrating, if I’m honest.

      Actually, that’s not true. I did spend a whole day last week opening up the other side of the house, the one that basically sat empty for years. I was curious what I would find over there, so I opened all the doors and windows, disturbed all the dust bunnies and moths.

      To my mild surprise, the other side of the house is decorated as a mirror image of mine. Green cabinets and green paisley wallpaper in the kitchen. A large living area with cobblestone floors, contrasting wildly with the low sitting butter-yellow couch and chairs. All the bathrooms done in objectionable shades of green, pink, and yellow.

      I even went upstairs and found the same bedroom furniture, all cedar and teak, the bedspreads the same geometric patterns in browns and yellows. I did the same thing there that I did on my side; I pulled all the linens off the beds and replaced them with fresh new ones, right out of the package. I cleaned all the carpets, vacuumed all the drapes, and basically clean the hell out of every available surface.

      Yeah, I will have to replace everything over there or get rid of it sooner or later, but for now it’s clean enough.

      “Hey, Miss Lake!” a young boy calls.

      I turn my head and shade my eyes against the sun. It’s Sam Rees, a ten year old regular at my library. He’s wearing a little league uniform.

      “Hey Sam. How’s it going?” I ask.

      “Good,” he says. “I’m gonna go play baseball.”

      “Well, that’s awesome!” I say.

      He scratches his head. “Yeah… I would rather be in the library, though. Are you going to be there tomorrow?”

      “Yep!” I crow. “Bright and early, to get everything ready for you guys.”

      Sam grins. “Okay, good. See you then, Miss Lake!”

      “Bye, Sam,” I call down, but he’s already taken off in the direction of the town’s baseball field.

      I chip the last bit of black crud off that I can reach, and then start to climb down the ladder. As I pass the upstairs window, I’m sort of startled to see my personal zoo assembled there, watching and waiting.

      Muffin stares at me intently through her one good eye, her little feline tail twitching. Zack and Morris are my two lab mixes with six legs between them; they both bark and pant excitedly when I tap on the glass. Sadie is my most special dog — she’s a blind and deaf Malamute, and she’s currently got her head cocked, trying to understand why Zack and Morris are excited.

      I smile as I descend the ladder. They’re all considered broken in some way, but that makes them all the more precious to me. When I get to the ground, I see a tall, dark-haired man about my age coming toward me. He’s carrying a little girl that I judge to be about two. She has darker hair, but there is something about their bone structure that marks them as related.

      I glance left and right, making sure that the man intends to talk to me. There isn’t anyone in sight, so I square my shoulders. As the man gets closer, I see that he’s so much taller than I am. There’s at least a foot and a half between the tops of our heads.

      Not only that, but he’s a grade-A hunk, I admit to myself. Dark eyebrows sloping over bright green eyes, high cheekbones, broad lips, a day’s worth of scruff. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a black hoodie, plus military-style black boots. And his body is blush-worthy. He’s muscular and big all over.

       Yikes.

      “Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light and friendly.

      He hitches up the little girl on his hip, stopping in front of me. I examine her briefly; she’s wearing a light gray hoodie and navy leggings, plus a pair of black shoes.

      “Hey,” he says. “I’m Charlie Lawson.”

      The timbre of his voice is unexpectedly deep and rough. It gives me a chill of excitement down my spine. I feel bad suddenly for whoever’s husband I am clearly lusting after.

      Well, not too bad. They do get to sleep with him at night.

      “Larkin Lake,” I say, extending my hand. He bounces the little girl, then takes it. When his fingers clasp mine, I feel a little jolt of electricity. He drops my hand quickly.

      “This is my daughter, Sarah,” he says. “Say hi, Sarah.”

      The

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