Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

“I’m sorry. I did knock, several times in fact, but then I heard voices so I just came around. Hello, Jessica,” he replied, following me up the steps.

“Hey, Clark.” She smiled.

Today he was in a blue shirt, button-down of course, plaid tie, paired with his tweed jacket. Chinos, brown. Glasses, dusty. Hair parted on the side, swooped down in an almost old-fashioned manner. He looked at me expectantly.

“So, what can I do you for, Clark?” I asked, lifting up my T-shirt a bit to wring out the spilled beer.

His eyes dipped, his gaze drawn to my exposed belly. The two rings in my navel seemed to fascinate him. And make him nervous. “Beer?” I asked, knotting my T-shirt in the back, keeping my tummy exposed. He cleared his throat, then refocused his attention.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, Vivian.”

“I realize that,” I replied, draining the rest of the bottle. “And it’s Viv.”

“I came by today to show you something that I came across in the archives. Thought you might like to see this house as it was when it was originally built.” He gestured to the brown-paper-wrapped package under his arm.

“Sure, let’s see it. Come on in the house. Jessica, you coming?” I asked, herding Clark toward the door.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said, a mischievous and gleeful look in her eye.

Unfortunately, what started out as a simple look at a picture turned into a war of words. The word being . . . balustrade. Or as I liked to call it, that row of spindly things.

“You don’t understand, you can’t just go changing things willy-nilly! Not in a house of this stature, with this much significant history!”

“Let me tell you exactly what you can do with your stature—and did you really just say willy-nilly?”

We were standing on either side of the dining room table with the picture in front of us, Jessica and the creepy dolls bearing witness to the most ridiculous fight ever.

“It is willy-nilly when you talk about getting rid of things like a balustrade from this era. Do you have any idea how much craftsmanship went into this entire staircase? The balustrade alone is worth—”

“What the hell is a balus— Whatever you called it?”

“A balustrade, Vivian, is the row of individually carved spindles and the bannister they’re connected to. Which you want to casually throw out like a load of kindling—”

“I did not say I wanted to throw it out; just that it needed some work so that I don’t go tumbling down ass first some night when I’m throwing out buckets of rainwater pouring through the sieve masquerading as a roof! All I suggested was that perhaps replacing the old pieces with something newer might make things a bit more safe and—”

“You can’t replace a balustrade like that! They literally don’t make them like they used to. You think you can just waltz into a Home Depot and pick up a balustrade that—”

“If you say balustrade one more time, I will slap you right in your very own balustrade!”

“That doesn’t even make sense! Vivian, what can I say to make you understand how important these things are?”

“You can start by calling me Viv, dammit. My name is Viv!” I shrieked, slamming my fist down on the table and making the dolls bounce.

“Can I just interject something here?” Jessica asked.

I leaned over the table across from Clark, seething mad. And for a man in a tweed jacket, he could get worked up. He was breathing hard, his top button had come undone, and his tie was askew.

I was breathing hard myself. Fucking baluhoozie.

“How about we just dial it down a bit?” she asked.

“I don’t need to dial anything down. He’s the one who came into my house, trying to tell me what I can and can’t do with it—”

“It’s your house, but it’s on my register, Vivian. And I have a responsibility to this town to uphold the—”

“Oh, uphold this!” I snapped, my flipped bird ending the conversation with real dignity.

Silence. Except for all the heavy breathing.

“Impossible woman,” he muttered, straightening his tie and picking up the picture that had brought him here in the first place.

“Impossible woman,” I mimicked in a tone I hadn’t used since third grade. I accompanied it with a face I also hadn’t made since the third grade. Honestly.

Clark started gathering his things together, stacking them neatly and replacing them into his briefcase. “I can see that reason won’t work here. Since you’re new in town I wanted to be as neighborly as I could, but now? Here’s what’s going to happen.”

He pointed his finger at me. “You can’t change a thing in this house without going through me. Go ahead and check with Mr. Montgomery, he’ll tell you the same thing. Not one thing, Vivian.”

And with that, he left.

I slammed the door with a frustrated growl. Jessica started to say something but I held up my finger, scrambling for my phone in my pocket and dialing angrily. I really missed punching actual buttons sometimes, especially when I was this pissed off. It was hard to get rid of tension when you had to dial so delicately.

“You calling Mr. Montgomery?”

“Nope, I’m calling Simon.”

“And Simon is . . . ?”

“An old friend.” He answered his phone. “Hey, Simon. Your girlfriend’s a decorator, right?”