Tall, Dark And Difficult. Patricia Coughlin
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know what a yard sale is?’
“I have a vague idea,” he admitted, “and no interest in learning more.”
“But you do still have an interest in acquiring the pieces to complete Devora’s porcelain collection.”
“True,” he countered, his smile amused, “but I hardly expect to find them amidst piles of used baby clothes and old exercise equipment.”
She grinned broadly. “That’s the beauty of this business, Griffin—you can always expect the unexpected. You know what the seasoned veterans say…”
“I’ll bite. What do seasoned veterans say?”
“They say when it comes to junk, you just never know.”
“And on that less than inspiring note…”
“Who do you think coined the phrase ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’?”
“A woman.”
“Wrong. A yard sale enthusiast. In case you’ve forgotten, Griffin, you’re the one who asked me for help. You’re a desperate man, remember? And desperate men can’t afford to overlook a single possibility, no matter how insignificant it may appear to the eye of a raw, still wet-behind-the-ears novice.”
The raw, still wet-behind-the-ears novice resisted the urge to toss something out the window at her.
“So now that you’re up to speed on the day’s agenda, let’s get cracking,” she ordered, tossing the thermos and newspaper back into the truck. “Our first stop is an early-bird special in Middletown.”
“I don’t even want to think about birds for another five or so hours.”
“I’ll give you five minutes.”
“For what?”
“To shower and dress and get down here.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Would it help, from a motivational standpoint, if I pointed out that you are paying me by the hour…and that the meter’s been running since I turned into your drive?”
He glared at her, but didn’t bother to protest. She didn’t seem to be in a capitulating state of mind this morning…if she ever was. Beneath Rose Davenport’s soft, pretty facade beat the heart of a cutthroat venture capitalist. Pride alone demanded he not allow her to bamboozle him out of any more money than absolutely necessary.
“I’ll be right down.”
“Did you really make these muffins?” Griff asked, polishing off his second and washing it down with a swig of very fine coffee.
“Sure did,” replied Rose. “With frozen blueberries, because that’s all I could get. You ought to taste my muffins in August.”
Was that an invitation?
Griff glanced across the small cab at her. Her words held an erotic appeal that he was pretty sure she did not intend, and as tempting as it was to explore the matter further, he was smart enough not to risk it. His belly was pleasantly full, the coffee was just as hot and strong as she’d promised, and a taste of Rose Davenport would top the morning off nicely. Which was just one reason he put the notion firmly from his mind.
He was in a better mood than he’d been in a while, a better mood than he’d have thought possible considering the morning’s inauspicious start. It was as close to content as he hoped to get, and he was in no hurry for it to end.
There was also the matter of the damn birds. Because of them, he was more or less at her mercy…as his reluctant presence this morning demonstrated. A smart man knows when to keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself.
For several moments they drove in silence, across the bridge from the mainland to the tiny island of Jamestown. On the other side, another bridge connected Jamestown to Aquidneck Island—home to several towns, of which Newport was the most famous—and yet another, the Mount Hope Bridge, completed the circle. Rhode Islanders were geographically indisposed to driving long distances, and the trio of bridges helped to bring the entire state within their thirty-minute limit.
The water was calm and blue, the fresh air and the hum of tires on pavement was lulling. The view of Rose’s long, suntanned legs was a bonus. He couldn’t recall when he’d seen someone work a clutch so captivatingly. He also realized that he had a real weakness for faded denim coveralls hacked off above the knee.
He helped himself to another muffin from the napkin-lined basket on the seat between them. “Devora used to make blueberry pancakes for breakfast every Saturday morning,” he remarked, surprising himself by voicing the thought even as it drifted through his head.
Rose smiled as she downshifted and changed lanes.
“It’s one of the things I remember best about summers here. It was almost a ritual. On Friday we got the berries, either picking them ourselves or walking to that little market down on Haverly. The fruit was piled on round tables out front with big canvas umbrellas for shade— Is that place still there?” he interrupted himself to ask.
Rose nodded. “Umbrellas and all.”
He smiled, oddly pleased. “It was my job to wash the berries and pick off the stems, while she made the batter. I remember she had this special bowl, tan with two blue stripes. And she always wore the same apron,” he went on, gazing out at the sailboats on the bay, seeing instead the past as it unfolded inside him, one fragment of memory at a time.
“It was black, with bunches of blueberries and green leaves all over it. It matched the Saturday morning place mats.” He gave a short laugh. “I can still see them, with her white everyday china plates on top, and in the center of the table was this special pitcher for the syrup. Damn, I haven’t thought of any of this in years.”
He wasn’t quite sure why he was permitting himself to think about it now, much less share it with someone else. If Rose had spoken or pressed him in even the most innocent way, he would have shut down instantly. But she didn’t, and her easy, tranquil silence was difficult to resist.
“It was only as big as my hand,” he recalled, “and shaped like a bunch of grapes, with a stem for a handle. But for a kid, grapes looked enough like blueberries to add to the occasion. It was a great little pitcher.”
“Majolica,” she said quietly.
“Pardon me?”
“I know which pitcher you’re talking about. It’s Majolica, a type of very colorful ceramic with a special glaze.”
“Is it as overpriced as the Meissen stuff?”
“Not quite.”
“Good.” He turned to look out the window once more before adding, “Because one Saturday morning I dropped it and the handle broke.”
They passed meandering stone walls and wild roses and a field of grazing cows.
“I ran,” he said. “As soon as I saw that broken handle, I took off and ran all the way down to the water, to a little opening between two rocks where I knew no one else could fit. I didn’t wait around to hear her scream at me for being such a klutz.”
“It’s hard to imagine Devora screaming,” she observed, stopping the truck to toss a token into the toll basket at the head of the Newport Bridge.
“She didn’t. She simply followed me and stood at the edge of the rocks, her apron whipping in the breeze, and said, ‘Come along, Hollis. All this exercise has made me hungry, and I abhor cold, soggy pancakes.’”
“What did you do?”
“I went along, of course. This was my aunt Devora, remember.”
Rose laughed and nodded.
“When we got back to the house, the broken pitcher was on the counter. I took one