Молли Харпер - And One Last Thing...

What would I do all day? What would keep my racing mind occupied?

I didn’t even have cable. My only TV options were videotapes that had been at the cabin since my grandmother owned the place. She refused to watch movies made after 1950, so her collection was comprised of black-and-white movies featuring actresses she called “broads” in the fondest manner. When I was little, I would come up for special weekends and she would French braid my hair and lecture me about how Joan Crawford was considered a free-spirited flapper before she harnessed the power of her eyebrows. When I theorized that dear old Joan and Bette’s shoulder pads were like substitute testicles, she nearly wept with pride.

My grandmother would have been ashamed by what I’d become. If she were alive, she would have watched me cry for about two minutes, slapped some sense into me, and told me to show some backbone. I was a Muldoon, damn it. And Muldoons didn’t just roll over when someone kicked them. We stood our ground. We fought back. And we stole your good liquor on the way out the door.

Well, that was probably just Gammy.

Sighing, I picked up Gammy’s favorite, The Women. Somehow, it felt appropriate - a movie about infidelity, divorce, and vindication where not a single male character was shown. Perfectly in keeping with my new “no penis policy.” I pulled the worn purple quilt from the bed, snuggled up on the sofa, and let myself get swept away to a world where everybody is beautifully lit and has blistering retorts at the ready.

My movie marathon didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. I forgot at the end of The Women, Mary throws away her pride and goes back to her husband. It didn’t exactly put me in a drowsy place. I ended up watching a few movies where Rex Harrison pretended to sing and John Barrymore pretended to be sober. I wrapped up with Rebecca, a movie about a first wife who was such a vicious bitch that her mere memory eventually drove everyone around her kind of nuts.

I found that message a little more cheerful, but I was still awake at 5:00 a.m. and not sleepy in the slightest.

I hadn’t been awake to see the sunrise in years, so I decided to go out to the front porch and enjoy it. I settled into an old cane rocker with some juice and propped my feet on the porch railing. I loved the quiet time at the lake in the mornings, before the birds started chirping or the boaters and the jet Skiers started their wake wars. The water reflected a bright coppery light that made you feel cleaner and somehow healthier and more virtuous just for being outside in it. Even the gentle lapping of the water seemed muted and kinder.

I might have worried about the fact that I was wearing just an old Wildcats T-shirt, panties, and a surprisingly chipper expression. But the only cabin within sight was the old McGee place, about fifty yards down the shore.

The McGees had been friends of my family for generations. They were sweet people who co-hosted decades of Fourth of July barbecues with my grandparents. But the tradition had died with Gammy Muldoon. My parents preferred entertaining at their house and I hadn’t quite graduated to hosting family holidays yet. I was still doing “hostess training wheel” events like baby showers and bridal teas. Besides, Harold McGee was getting older and no one had opened up the house for years. I thought so right up until the front door opened and my new neighbor stepped out onto his porch.

“Gah!” I yelped, tumbling off of the chair in a panty-baring heap. If there was one thing Mama drilled into my head, it’s that you never have a second chance to make a first impression. And I had just made a first impression on my new neighbor with my ass in the air. Lovely.

Maybe I could commando-crawl into the house without him realizing I was even there. I peeked over the porch railing to see him staring at me, openly smirking. “Morning.”

Maybe not.

“Morning.” I said, standing and trying to pull my shirt down as far as possible. I stood behind the rocker, hoping it at least would cover my bare legs.

My new neighbor, hoo boy. I will admit that the only reason I own the X-Men trilogy on DVD is that I have an unnatural fixation with Hugh Jackman. And here I was living next door to Wolverine personified. Old battered jeans, black T-shirt, bare feet, a lot of dark wayward hair and sideburns that desperately needed a trim. Sharp hazel eyes and sharper cheekbones, and a wide, generous mouth set in a grim line. He raised his coffee cup in mock salute and padded back into his house.

“I usually wear pants!” I called.

Later that afternoon I sat at the scarred maple breakfast table, my hands on my chin, staring at a Saran-wrapped Bundt cake. It was my special Ugly Cake recipe. Chocolate cake swirled with a cream cheese and dark chocolate filling. Once baked, it was about as attractive as homemade sin. But it was a really good ice-breaker, even if it was “Sorry you started off your day being confronted by my airborne ass” ice.

And yes, I do consider cake mix and cream cheese to be essentials when I stock up on survival groceries.

Normally, baked goods wouldn’t pose such a heated internal debate, but I was absolutely mortified by the whole pantybaring welcome. That whole incident had thrown me off-kilter. I came to the lake for solitude. I didn’t particularly want to be on friendly terms with my neighbor. But here I was, having lusty feelings for the Wolverine look alike, which could not be healthy in my present emotional state.

“Oh, screw it,” I muttered, scooping the cake off the table and bounding for the door. “It’s just cake.”

I shoved the screen door open just enough to pop my new neighbor in the nose before I realized he was standing there. “Gaah!” he yelped, clutching his free hand to his face.

“Oh!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”

“You are reedy bad at meeting people, aren’t you?” he groaned, blood trickling out from under his fingers. In his other hand, he held a key ring.

“Come in,” I said, chucking the Bundt and grabbing a handful of paper towels. I pressed the paper to his nose. “I’m so sorry.”

He tilted his head back. “I broght you some keys that Mrs. Witter left for you,” he said. “I did not expect a door to the face.”

“I’m so sorry. I usually don’t assault my neighbors. And I’m wearing pants. Look, see?” I said, indicating the very covering jeans I was wearing.

“Very nice,” he muttered, blotting at his reddened nostrils. He extended his other hand and shook mine. “Lefty Monroe.”

“Seriously?” I said. “You tell people that?”

He gave a brief flash of gleaming white teeth, then tucked them back away. It was the first time someone had smiled at me and then taken it back. Interesting. Lefty? And to think I was embarrassed that I was going to call him Wolverine.

“Lacey Terwilliger,” I said, extending my hand. I shook my head and corrected myself. “Lacey Vernon.”

“New alias or multiple personality?” he asked, arching a brow, not shaking my hand.

“Newly separated. I’m taking my maiden name back,” I said primly. I didn’t think guys with prison nicknames should throw stones. But I did just hit him in the face, so…

“Sorry,” he muttered, his eyes immediately putting up what I can only describe as “defense shields.” Well, that was just fine. No matter how good he looked in worn Levi’s, I planned to maintain and defend the no penis policy.

“I made you a Bundt cake,” I said, handing him the plate. “But now I think I owe you another one for smacking you in the face.”

“I would feel better if you kept your distance,” he admitted. “God knows what you could accomplish with a cabinet door. Mrs. Witter said she would have left the keys in the house, but that she was afraid to. She told a very long story about you managing to lock yourself out of every room in the cabin in one afternoon.”