Cookie Cutter (2 page)

Outside, I pull the car door open and throw my bag inside.  I don’t have time to ogle.  How dare she accuse me of ogling.

“Seatbelt.”

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, then head down Sprit Drive, into our respective busy days, but not before I adjust the rear view mirror to get one more good look at the way Carter Blackwood’s jeans hang off of him.

Chapter 2. Carter

   
Wow
.

    Okay, I’m not one to judge, honest, but if I had to sum up the woman across the street, I think I’d have to go with something along the lines of . . . certifiable. To be fair, it could be a number of things, affecting her attitude. OCD, ADD, BPD, ADHD, I don’t know, PMS maybe? Regardless, she is definitely, and absolutely - certified.

Cute though.

I want to laugh as her hands flail out in front of her and the daughter unit says something from her side of the Beamer sitting in the driveway. Then both
their hands are flailing.  And when they each slide into their respective sides of the car, the doors slam shut simultaneously.

It’s like synchronized psychosis.

When the car backs out, Iris nearly hits the trashcan sitting by the curb.  The car jerks to a halt for a few seconds before she starts moving again.  I’m assume there’s more hand flailing going on inside the vehicle. Eventually, the car moves again and once she’s done backing out, the tires screech when she hits the gas to leave.  I’m taken aback by the look she gives me when she drives past, until my cheeks burn and they stiffen from the huge grin I’ve been sporting for the past few minutes.  

    And . . . why am I smiling?

    No time to think that one through. My cell phone rings as I turn and head back inside the fixer upper I recently took off its previous owner’s hands for a cool one-hundred thou. Deal of the century. In my century, anyway.  I’ll be making a huge profit off of this one.

Hopefully.

I drop the hammer I borrowed onto the futon I towed along with me on this trip and toss the broken one into a box by the door.  I check the number that’s blinking on my screen.  Then I sigh heavy before answering the call with as enthusiastic an attitude as I can muster.

“What’s up?”

Fail.

“Hey bro.”

“I’m kinda busy right now, Tony, so . . .” Hopefully, my younger brother will get the hint and end this call.

“I’ll be quick.”
Guess not.
“So there’s this get together next week in--”

“Can’t make it.”

“What? You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I’m in South Carolina for a while, flipping.”

“South
Carolina?”

“Yep.” I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can grab a tape measure and stretch it across the doorway leading into the kitchen. It’s awkward.

Tony breathes out a whistle and laughs.

“I gotta admit,” he says, “I thought for sure after you got the first one out of your system you’d be back.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s gonna take more than just one house to . . . get it out of my system.”

“Come on, Carter, I didn’t mean it like that, I--”

“I know what you meant, Tone.”

My jaw clenches. I’ve been here before. Not just with my brother but with every other member of my family.  I’m not in the mood for it today. A plane flies overhead, the sound of its jet engine echoing in its wake. Various topics of idle chit chat cross my mind to fill the void of this conversion as a lawn mower starts off in the distance somewhere.

Tony does it for me. “So, when do
you think you might be coming home?”

I take a deep breath and look around at the mess I’ve created in the living room. I spot the hammer belonging to Iris Alden laying on the make shift couch and grin.

“Not sure, bro. I’ll keep you posted though.”

“But--”

“Tony.” My tone is a warning, I’m not doing this.

“Yeah, okay.” He sighs, heavy. “Well, take it easy then.”

“You too buddy.”

He hangs up, mumbling to himself. It’s become the norm whenever we say goodbye. Usually he’s saying something like, later
,
or, whatever
.
Apparently today, I’m a dick. Jesus, my family is talented at this. The guilt trip. I don’t think Tony
does it on purpose. I do think he’s been around it so long he doesn’t know anything different. Poor kid.

“Moving right along.”

As the remnants of the conversation with my brother fade away, I slip the phone into my pocket. I pull my tool belt off of its hook and wrap it around my waist. I grab my borrowed hammer off of the couch and head out into the garage to finish cutting out the planks I need to repair the back patio.  I swore I’d get it done today.

It’s warm for this time of year. About a half hour into measuring and cutting and lifting and drilling. I open up the garage door and let some fresh air flow in. Every once in a while, a new stay-at-home mom speed-walks by with a stroller in front of her.  Each one of them slows down enough to give themselves a peek inside the garage to see who the new homeowner is.  

It’s the same everywhere, only different.

I swallow down a chuckle and put a hand up. I smile and wave and go back to my work. A few minutes later, a slick black Mercedes something-or-other class drives by. The way it creeps down the street at less than ten miles an hour, catches my attention and I follow it with my eyes for a couple of seconds. “Shit.” And nearly cut my damn hand off with the table saw.

I turn the machine off and walk to the garage entrance. The car idles in front of my place and then inches past the driveway.  I wait to see if maybe they’re lost; not that I could help them. When the car sits there long enough to have Googled some directions and then some, in my opinion, I start to walk over.

The front door of a house two down from me, opens and I stop short. I take a few steps back, into the shadows of my garage and wait. A woman dressed in the fluffiest pink robe I’ve ever seen and bare feet lingers at her door as a man exits the Mercedes.  I can’t make him out as he’s not facing me, and not that I care, but sure enough, he heads straight for the woman. He’s well dressed and average sized and I have no idea why I’m still standing here except that this is the most interesting thing that’s happened since meeting Iris Alden across the way.

I need a life.

The dark haired woman smiles when she greets him. They hug. She tries to kiss him but he pushes her away and looks around to make sure no one’s watching them. When his eyes scan passed my house without a single hesitation, I figure he doesn’t see me. When he’s convinced there are no witnesses to his tryst, he turns around, ushers the woman inside and they disappear behind the door.

Is he married? Probably, why else would he give a shit who’s watching him meet his girlfriend for some playtime?

“None of your business, Carter.”

I mentally chastise myself for getting caught up in the neighborhood soap opera, then get back to the tasks at hand.

* * *

I’m in and out of the garage throughout the rest of afternoon, to take boards to the backyard. At some point, the black Mercedes is gone but I’m sure he’ll be back again. I don’t understand why anyone would every want to be second choice to someone like that. Second choice is . . . fucked. Thoughts of a life, long gone, remain at the back of my mind because someone’s ankle biter of a dog, not once, not twice, but three times over the span of an hour and a half, has made me his new chew toy. I still don’t know who that little shit belongs to.

About forty-five minutes after that harassment comes to an end, I get one hell of an eye full of another neighbor when he decides to check his street mounted mailbox. Naked.

And I’m scarred for life.

It’s not until Iris, from across the street, returns from work and struggles to retrieve a shit load of what looks like work out of the back seat of her car that my mind finally begins to heal. I laugh a little. The daughter isn’t with her to help but Iris could easily make two, maybe three trips as opposed to trying to do it all at once. It’s not like she’s all that far from the front door.  She’s just stubborn.

I watch her for a couple of minutes from the safety of my garage, snickering every once in a while at her awkward determination and appreciating the childlike way she blows the bangs out of her face in between readjustments in her stack of . . . whatever it is she’s carrying.

Even from here, I can see that she’s cursing her belongings. And it’s completely hilarious, imagining such vulgar words coming out of her mouth.  Funny yet intriguing. Unexpectedly, I find myself wanting to hear her say them.

Whisper them maybe.

Into my ear.

Immediately, I shake that thought.  She lives right across the street for Christ’s sake and if that ended badly – and believe me, it would end badly – things
could get awkward. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun watching her antics, though.

Iris stumbles the rest of her way to the front door, and somehow manages to unlock the thing. The way her ass moves as she does it demands my attention, but when she kicks the door shut behind her, I’m snapped back into the present.

She has got serious issues.

Granted, she’s most likely having a rough day, based on the sound barrier being broken when she slammed that door, but still.

Issues.

Did me giving her a hard time this morning start her day off crappy?

“Nah.” Everyone likes me. Well, almost everyone.

I wave a hand at nothing and decide, being that the sun is starting to set, it’s time for me to call it quits on outside work. I can finish up the last of the deck in the morning. It’s time for indoor jobs and forgetting about how Iris Alden’s voice might sound as the word
fuck
comes out of it.

* * *

The next day, I happen to be outside filling up the dumpster I’ve rented, when Iris makes it home.  No daughter again today and when Iris gets out of the car, she hesitates when she sees me.  I wave to be friendly but get nothing back in return. Which figures. She most likely has no friends at all with that attitude. She begins to pull out of the back seat to her car, boxes upon boxes of God only knows what that she stacks into her arms. Once she’s got them balanced to her liking, she swings a hip to close the car door and slowly takes the tower of cardboard into the house. I don’t see her again while I finish dumping my trash and once again, I call it quits for the day.

Twenty-four hours later, it’s like Deja vu with this lady when she pulls into the driveway, ignores me again, and pops the trunk. Still no daughter, I notice. And wonder what the deal is with those two.

Today, Iris is determined to carry twenty or more bags of groceries into her house, in one trip, this time. I have no plans to offer a hand. I don’t really have time and I’m not exactly the Good Samaritan type. She’s not giving up though, and it’s clear she’s not going to be able to carry them all.

Dammit.

“Need some help?” I call over to her before I can stop myself. Then I curse myself for even thinking of interacting with her when she waves me off because, hell, obviously
she’d rather partake in fruit and vegetable fight club. I’m going to regret this stupidity. I know it. Despite that, I jog over when she looks like she’s about to topple over and I grab the two bags that she’s most likely to lose in the process.

“You sure? ‘Cause you look like you could use some help.”

“I got it. Thanks.” She tries to take the bags back but I swing them away, out of her reach.

She gives me a look that screams, “Asshole.”

I stifle a chuckle. “You’re welcome.”

She grunts and damn near drops a bag with eggs on top. I take that one out of her hand and shake my head, then I grab another one out of the trunk and march up toward her front door.

“Stubborn.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice raises an octave or two from behind.

I continue to stride toward the house but turn my head and raise my voice, slightly, so she’s sure to hear me. “I said you’re stubborn.”

“Stubborn.”  She lets out a loud snort. Then wrestles with her purse while trying to keep a bag from spilling out of her clutches.  When she finally finds her keys, she has a difficult time finding the right one.

“Iris.” I speak slowly, as I place one of the bags I’m holding onto the ground.  “Hand me the keys.”

“I’ve got it, I just--”

“Hand me the damn keys, Iris.” I’m a bit louder, and perhaps a tad harsher than I had planned on being but hell, she’s hard headed. Once the shock wears off of her expression and she realizes how ridiculous she’s acting, she relinquishes them to me.

“It’s the one with the zebra stripes.”

She’s slightly less agitated now. Bonus.

“Got it.”

I unlock the door and push it open. I allow her to go inside first then I follow her to the kitchen.  As we pass by the garage door where I saved her from falling on her ass a few days ago, I grin. By the time Iris sets her bags down onto the counter and spins around to eyeball me, the smile is gone. I hear the clock on her wall ticking and the trees are whistling outside. Despite these small noises, her house is quiet. Which is a lot like mine, only, homier. Iris looks like she’s thinking mighty deep and she’s about to say something. I should leave before she can ask me to go but, despite the tension between us, I want to stay. This is the most human interaction I’ve had, aside from lawyers or real estate agents, in a long damn time.