Cookie Cutter Page 2

  “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.

  “Did you know we have a nudist in the neighborhood?” I ask.

  It’s the first thing that comes to mind and I almost regret saying it until the surprise in her eyes makes them sparkle and I can’t seem to pull my attention away from them while I think up the next thing to say. When she barks out a short laugh unexpectedly, I’m snapped out of my thoughts and into her smile.

  “I told the board there was no way he’d pay one bit of attention to that letter.”

  “Letter?”

  She nods and pulls a bag of tin cookie cutters from one of her drawers. She tosses it onto the top of her stove and bumps the drawer shut with her hip before going back to search the grocery bag for something.

  A multi-tasker. Nice.

  I lean against the counter. “What letter?”

  “The by-laws are pretty clear. This is not a nudist colony,” she says while she starts to take things out of her bags. I feel useless standing here like this, doing nothing, so I start pulling stuff out of bags too.

  “It’s not like he was hurting anyone. I mean except for my eyes.”

  Her chest heaves like she’s about to laugh but she covers her mouth with her hand to stop it.

  “That’s beside the point.” She starts to put her things away. “I’ve told Paul, several times, that--”

  “Paul, huh?”

  She stops to give me an impatient look, like she can’t stand being interrupted or something.

  “Yes, Paul.”

  “You and the naked guy are on a first name basis!”

  Iris sets the wooden spoon she recently picked up onto the counter, deliberately, and turns to me with a hand on her hip. It makes her appear even curvier than she already is.

  “I know every person in a ten block radius Mr. Blackwood,” she says, proudly. “Even the nudists.”

  “Fair enough.” I know she’s irritated, but I smile like she paid me a compliment, anyway.

  I’m curious about the things she’s unloaded onto her kitchen counter, suddenly.

  “So, watcha making here?” I empty the last of my own bag and fold it for her.

  “Cookies.”

  “Cool.”

  “And I need to make two-hundred before tomorrow morning, so . . .”

  I whistle. “That is a lot of cupcakes.”

  “Cookies,” she says, like she doesn’t care that I got it wrong. If I wasn’t paying attention to the evil eye she’s giving me, I’d believe her. As it is, she does care, and for some reason I feel the need to do damage control. “Need some help?”

  Need some help, Carter? Seriously? I have no idea why I even offer. I do not bake.

  Ever.

  The laugh that escapes Iris kind of makes it worth it. She removes the last items from a bag and forces her lips into a thin line.

  “Listen, I appreciate your hands but I really don’t need any--”

  “What?” Now it’s my turn to laugh.

  Her eyebrows curl upward, creating this crinkle in between them. “What?”

  She’s clearly agitated, but I’m still having a good time here. She’s adorable when she’s flustered. “You appreciate my hands?”

  She shakes her head, like she’s trying to get the words straight in her head before she says them. “I said I appreciate you giving me a hand.”

  “No.” I lean against the counter and look straight into her eyes. My voice feels strained, for some reason. “You definitely said you appreciate my hands.”

  “Well.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. Her chest heaves and makes it hard to keep my eyes on hers. “You know I mean, I was just--”

  “Appreciating my hands.”

  She stares at me, baffled. I can tell by the rapid blinking syndrome she’s got going on, and the way she sounds like she’s got something stuck in the back of her throat, making it impossible to talk, that she’s embarrassed. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips and her teeth trap her bottom lip for a split second. For me, the lighthearted moment is over. Something happened in between my wanting to make her squirm and the sensuality that just peeked out from behind her eyes.

  I clear my throat.

  “Okay well, on that note, I’m gonna …” I hook a thumb over my shoulder as opposed to finishing the thought. She seems relieved. I turn and head toward the front door but I don’t want to leave this on too serious of a note. Plus I hate not getting the last word in.

  “Oh and Iris?” I turn and walk backwards.

  She wipes her forehead and tries her best to appear interested in what I have to say.

  “Anytime you need a hand.” I show her my fingers and wiggle them for her.

  Her jaw slightly drops and a single eyebrow raises itself above the other. I don’t need her to say anything. This silent reaction is priceless.

  I wink and leave, letting her stew on my words. As much as I’d love to stay and banter with the woman for a while longer, I’ve got a house to fix up.

  Chapter 3. Iris

  Baking doesn’t come as easily as it should once my neighbor leaves. As long as I can remember it’s been considered among my favorite things to do when I need to calm my nerves and clear my head, but not tonight. No, tonight it’s having the exact opposite effect. I’m frustrated and can’t think straight to save my life.

  I have to completely trash the first batch of dough I’m working on. I’ve added baking powder where it should have been sugar and completely forgot the eggs in my second batch. I’m determined to get this third one correct but even so, at this rate I’m going to have to make another trip to the grocery store. And maybe the liquor store.

  It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I see Carter Blackwood’s smile and hear the distinct sound of his chuckle behind my right ear lobe where it sends a slight shiver up my entire body. And those hands.

  Those stupid, stupid hands.

  Strong hands.

  Hands that look like they could handle a thing or two.

  I roll the cookie dough into a ball. I coat it with flour, then absentmindedly fist it a little bit. It’s not necessary, but right now my hands need something to do while I think about the things I’d like Carter Blackwood’s hands to do. Then the phone rings. I jump at the sound and my heart leaps out of my body. I can’t quite pull myself together as I answer.

  “You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.” My daughter’s agitated voice from the other end of the line reminds me of one errand I overlooked today.

  I groan, defeated for the evening. “Shhhh . . .oot.”

  I am a horrible mother. Between the work hang-over I have today, Carter Blackwood, and the fiasco that is my baking abilities tonight, I completely forgot about Ally. Not to mention, leaving to go pick her up is going to set me back at least an hour. Not because we live all that far from her school but because she always . . . always has at least two friends that need a ride home as well.
And they don’t always live in Spangler.

  This is what I get for putting off her Driver’s Ed Class another few months.

  “I’ll be there in--”

  “Don’t bother,” she says. “Blake’s taking us home.”

  “Hold the phone, what? Who’s Blake? And who is us?”

  Allison makes that disgusted noise in the back of her throat that only teenagers can do without any effort at all; like I’m supposed to know who these kids are.

  “I’ll see you at home, mother.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. A trait she unfortunately inherited from me, then she ends the call.

  I could kill her. I could honestly kill her.

  Not really but ever since the divorce, she’s been testing my patience more and more. It has mostly to do with her wanting to live with her father, which has mostly to do with his lack of boundaries when it comes to our daughter. I didn’t have the heart to tell her he wasn’t interested, so I let her believe I won that battle. It’s been an uphill struggle with her ever since.

  After a few minutes of reviewing my list of the pros and cons to driving out to the school, I resolve to stay home and wait for Ally. My issues with her tone can wait, plus, she’s with Karen. At least I’ve got that going for me. For now.

  The good news is, I finally got a batch of dough right and I’m past my illicit thoughts of Carter Blackwood and what his hands may or may not be capable of on an intimate level. The bad news is, this batch of dough still needs to chill and I’m going to be up very late baking cookies.

  * * *

  Every second of every hour that Ally is not home weighs on me. Not just tonight but every night since she’s been old enough to go out on her own. Even when she’s under the parental supervision of people I’ve known for years; it’s the curse of being a mom. I realized a long time ago, no matter how old she is, I will always worry. At sixteen, it’s worse than ever. So when she walks into the house an hour later, I breathe easier. Then I jump right into curious mom mode.