Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

“How’s the house, by the way?”

“Is there a sign on my forehead?” I asked, shaking my head. “How in the world do you know about that?”

“Jessica told me, but the East Coast thing gave it away.” He grinned. “Enjoy.”

I smiled, grabbed my change, and headed back to my car.

Back at the house, sitting at the dining room table surrounded by dolls, I ate the best pizza I’d ever had. Halfway through the second slice, though, I covered them up with a tarp.

Dolls are scary f**kers.

I liked my environment clean. Neat. Orderly. Hospital corners? Yes, please. Can labels showing to the front? Thank you kindly. How else could you see what’s in the can?

This house was the polar opposite of what I preferred, and yet . . . As I bedded down for the night, the bed consisting of cedar-smelling camp blankets I’d dug out of an old chest in a guest room and arranged on the large sofa in the living room, I felt strangely content. Belly full of pizza and beer, pleasantly warm and a bit tipsy, I’d turned out the lights and walked through the lower level once more, checking locks. I paused in front of the picture window, the moon full and bright on the Pacific below. I’d seen some clouds beginning to gather before full dark, but now things looked clear and peaceful.

I had a to-do list started for the next day, but tonight I was beat. Letting the long day finally overtake me, I sank into a deep sleep in my new home. And on the inside of my eyelids? A playback of Hank on that horse. The body, the bulk, the buckle. Bad boy? I could manage that . . .

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip.

I rubbed my face, wiping it dry. Back to sleep.

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip drip.

No. No no no!

I sat up straight, staring at the ceiling, only to be splashed once more. The room was bathed in a flash of light, illuminated like a photograph for an instant, then returned to darkness. I heard a rumble of thunder, accompanied by another flash of lightning. And another round of drips.

Then I remembered the tin buckets I’d moved to make room for my bed. I’d thought they were just placed here and there as part of the random collections. Nope. Rain catchers. Of course there was a leaky roof.

Sighing, I pulled my blankets off to the side, replaced the buckets where I could find the drips, and curled back into a ball. I mentally added another task to my to-do list. I fell back into a troubled sleep while listening to:

Drip.

Drip.

Drippity drip.

The next morning I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to make the Eisenhower-era coffeepot work, before I remembered that Jessica had said she opened her shop at 6 a.m. Since I’d been up since 4 a.m. (time difference was going to take some adjusting to), I was in my car and into town almost as soon as I could throw on some clothes. The storm the night before had scrubbed clean the already fresh air, and by the time I’d hit the front door of Cliffside Coffee, the cobwebs were mostly swept from my brain.

A bell tinkled overheard as I opened the door, and I saw that lots of people started their day here. It was a cross between old-fashioned dive diner and cozy coffee shop, and heads turned to check out my arrival. But all in a pleasant Hi how are you? kind of way. I spied Jessica behind the counter, and she waved me down to the end.

“I wondered if I’d see you this morning. Coffee?”

“Bless you.”

“Black, right?”

“As midnight, please.” I sighed, sitting down on the stool and gratefully accepting a mug.

She set down a menu with a grin, then topped off several other customers’ cups.

“By the way, you were right. That pizza was like a gift from the gods.”

“I told you! No one knows meat like my boyfriend. Eyes on your own breakfast there, Mr. Martin. I know exactly what I just said,” she warned, thumping the counter in front of who I guessed must be Mr. Martin. “Dirty old man.” She laughed. He grinned at her but did indeed go back to his own breakfast. “How was your first night?”

“Shitty, actually. Leaky roof.”

“Ugh. The worst.” She nodded sympathetically, then looked down at the menu. “You know what you want?”

I was famished. That sea air was definitely working on my appetite. “Let’s do the Hungry Man breakfast.”

“Nice,” she said. “I’ll go put the order in.” She moved away, taking care of her other customers as I watched the comings and goings. There was an interesting mix of people here, old and young. There seemed to be an artistic bent to this community from what I’d seen so far, equal parts California granola/free spirit vibe along with a side of coastal chic. I saw a few guys dressed in coveralls, and it made me think of something. When Jessica brought my breakfast over, I asked her, “So if I needed to get some work done on the house, roof, porch, et cetera, any recommendations on who to hire?”

“Sure, plenty. Want me to put the word out?”

“Yeah, I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’ll need yet, but there’s definitely some work to be done.”

“Sounds like you’re planning on staying awhile,” she observed, looking at me with a knowing smile.

“You’re kind of nosy, you know that?” I remarked, digging into my hash browns.

“Hell yes,” she affirmed, setting a bottle of hot sauce in front of me and waving a hello to a new group that had just come in the front door.

I finished up, got a coffee to go, and thanked Jessica in advance for putting the word out to get some help. I headed back to the house . . . where there was a cowboy waiting for me.