Page 8 of Edge of Ruin
Vivi
I tried to relax in the shower, but I was so angry at myself for not stopping to bathe and dress before meeting Kendrick. How sloppy and irresponsible of me. First impressions were so hard to shake. And getting all snotty and all up in his face—what had possessed me?
I’d always been impulsive, hotheaded. Lucia had lectured and scolded and admonished me for years, trying to teach me some class. Turn me into a lady.
With limited success. But it had been a noble effort.
Wow. Amazing water pressure. Fabulous hot water heater. Wonderful deep lovely bathtub. I turned off the faucet and grabbed one of the big, fluffy towels I’d found on the shelf. I’d found some soap and shampoo over the tub, too, and thank God for it, since I hadn’t remembered to pack any of my bath stuff into my duffel.
I sorted through my bag, hair dripping, taking inventory. Kendrick’s brooding presence outside the van had addled my wits. I had remembered dog food, for instance, but had forgotten the can opener. I was usually extremely organized. Maniacally so. It was an essential survival skill when one lived in a camper van.
I dragged out bits and pieces from the pockets of my purse and duffel. Matches, pocketknife, flashlight. Strange guy, that Jack Kendrick. He seemed so mellow and zen, quiet, soft-spoken, and then suddenly he turned provocative and rude. I hauled out a handful of candles, a pack of my favorite incense, but no pans, dishes, or human food. Which meant that I had to hike back to the van if I wanted to eat.
A bleak, exhausting prospect. My stomach rumbled restlessly.
First things first, though. Edna was waiting patiently, gazing through the glass door from the deck outside in limpid reproach. The pocket-knife would not open a can of dog food. I would have to face the man and beg a can opener off him. There was no avoiding this necessity.
A few careful, anxious primping minutes later, I walked down the stairs, wishing I had a blow-dryer. I needed to fluff myself up, get some volume. With wet hair, I looked even smaller and more insignificant than I already was. Like a wet Persian cat.
I was so angry at my silly self for being so nervous. This man had no power over me. He was nothing to me. He just happened to be good-looking and charismatic, that was all. No biggie. Super normal. I was a hetero female with a regular functioning load of hungry sex hormones, so yeah. I noticed a good-looking man when one came into my field of vision. So sue me.
Although I certainly hadn’t thrown out any come-hither glances since the Brian Wilder debacle. That bitter taste in my mouth still lingered. Six years of celibacy. I could hardly believe it myself, but there it was.
And this falling away, weak-in-the-knees feeling? This was absurd. Being afraid of what Kendrick thought of me? Wanting his approval? Yikes. Absolutely not okay.
I could not afford to feel so vulnerable. I’d spent too much energy fighting people’s opinions and efforts to control me. Like I had with Brian. I’d paid a high price for that, and the prize had to be worth something. My sense of self was too hard-won.
Just thinking about Brian made me angry, exhausted and sickened.
I’d given up so much to be free artistically. I’d sacrificed a high-profile, lucrative career as a sculptor for that precious freedom. That was why I’d been on the road so long, making the best of the hard choices I’d made. Trying with great energy not to regret them. And working my ass off, too, incidentally, which was nothing to be ashamed of. I’d be damned if I’d let some pinheaded, muscle-bound, small-minded, judgmental doofus make me feel small. No matter how fine he was.
I walked across the luxuriant lawn, up the porch steps, admiring the thickness and variety of the flowers bordering the house and the flagstone walkway. The garden was over-the-top beautiful. Wildly luxuriant.
At the front door, I raised my hand to knock, and my hand stopped in midair as my chest constricted. Oh, please. Enough of this crap. I forced myself to rap boldly.
Bam-bam, here I am.
The door opened after a moment, and there he was. He seemed even bigger, framed by the door. No poncho, so I could finally check out all his assets. Wow.
I was absurdly glad that I’d changed into the green rayon dress. I’d even considered taking out the nose ring. Then I’d concluded that the damage was done. Taking it out now revealed more about my fears and insecurities than leaving it in did.
And as if that wasn’t enough to make me feel self-conscious, the dress I’d shoved into the duffel was the very one that dipped down both in the front and the back, showing off the little flower tattoo over my breast, and the sun tattoo on my shoulder.
Just as well. It kept me honest. I’d flaunt ’em. He’d just have to deal with the tattooed, itinerant wild child that I was. Nyah, nyah.
Other than that detail, the dress was quite modest and feminine and pretty. It was ankle length, just skimming my minimal curves, and it looked great with the gold and emerald pendant that Lucia had given me. The last one of our trio. Snake Eyes had stolen both Nancy’s and Nell’s.
If my hair had only been dry, it would have covered both tattoos, being more than long and thick enough. But not when wet.
His eyes swept over me, and I suffered a burst of agonizing self-consciousness. I hadn’t packed a bra into my duffel, and my brights were on, big-time, and not just because of the cold. I’d put on a little bit of makeup, too, just because, and he was noticing it. Maybe he would think I was trying to impress him. Allure him. God forbid.
He was still in his mud-spattered jeans. Without the poncho, I could see how barrel-chested he was. The t-shirt revealed the muscular breadth of his shoulders. The faded jeans affectionately hugged his powerful thighs. Talk to the man, Viv, my frozen brain pleaded. Say something. Anything. Don’t just stand there gawking at the man’s pecs.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, kicking myself for my breathless, kittenish tone. None of that fluttery shit was allowed. I had to be an Amazon. A tough broad. Hard as nails.
“No bother. Come on in. I made coffee.”
I followed him into a big room with an open kitchen on one side, banks of windows on all sides, paneled in rosy, fragrant cedar. An old-fashioned woodstove had a couple of soft, battered-looking couches grouped around it, and a stack of cut wood tucked into a recessed space in the wall. There was an old-fashioned braided rug in deep, brilliant colors, on the wood-plank floor. Plants were everywhere: ferns, jades, spider plants, begonias, scores of others I couldn’t begin to identify. The deep windowsills were all lined with clay boxes filled with pale sprouts and tender seedlings. It was warm, cheerful, welcoming. Beautiful.
