Lady Luck
Page 57
Then I wandered down the steps to the pantry. I pulled out a thick, brown paper bag that had a red stamp on the side with some lasso-style ropes around Old West-style words that said “Carnal Country Store”. I took it to the island, set the picture and my mug down and dug stuff out of the bag that I bought in town yesterday after I had my job interview.
Carnal Country Store was a gift slash souvenir shop. They had a multi-theme going. Old West slash Colorado Mountains slash Bikers slash Country. It was wild but it worked. There was a lot of wood. A lot of antlers. A lot of feathers. A lot of buffalo. Being Carnal, which was definitely a biker haven and not the pedal kind, it also had a bunch of biker stuff. This was intermingled with an abundance of full on country wares that were mostly really cute but not my style (or Ty’s) and some local artisan stuff which included some seriously kickass pottery. And, luckily, for those with a discerning eye and because it was the only gift shop in Carnal (except the florist who had a few frames, vases and knick knacks – not having a job and with time on my hands I’d definitely spent time perusing what Carnal had to offer, so much I had it down pat), they had some nicer stuff too.
And I said this was “luckily” because, although Ty was born in that county, he was not a feathers, antlers, buffalo, biker or country wares kind of guy.
So I got the stuff I got and it was pricey but since Ty paid for nearly everything, I had most of the wad of cash Shift gave me to finance my journey, so I went a little crazy thinking some Shift in an alternate universe would want to give Ty and I a wedding present (or, as it turned out, several). I also went a little crazy because it was “nice shit” so it would fit.
I pulled out a beautiful, wide-edged, beveled silver frame, took off the back and then put our wedding picture in it. I turned it around after I secured the back and there we were. My dress. My bouquet. Ty in his suit. Me smiling bright and big. Ty looking hot.
I studied it thinking, at the time that photo was taken, I would never have guessed two weeks later I’d spend that much money on the perfect frame for that picture because that picture needed the perfect frame.
But I did because that picture needed the perfect frame.
I smiled at it then I walked it to the living room and put it on the sleek, polished wood mantel set into the stone hearth above the fireplace. It was the only thing there.
Still, it looked good.
Then I went back to the bag and yanked out the thick folder that held the photos I processed at the kiosk in the grocery store. I also pulled another frame out of the bag, this one six by eight with a simple but thick, matte black edge. Then I flipped through the photos I developed to find the one I knew I wanted. Ty and me and Moab, shot from waist up, my cheek to his chest, my arms around his middle, his arm around my shoulders, our shades directed at the lens, an infinitesimal section of Moab our stunning backdrop. I framed it and put it in the deep sill at the window over the kitchen sink.
I went back to the island, sipped more coffee then again hit the pantry, pulling out the two, bigger bags. I took them to the island and unearthed from bunches of tissue the three charcoal gray matte pitchers with their spindly handles in black gloss, rim, lip and inside that same gloss. Three of them, one huge. One not as huge. One a little less than not as huge. I arranged them in a circle in the middle of the island. Out next came the wide, flat bowl of the same. I grabbed the bananas and dug in the fridge for the apples and oranges, assembled them in the bowl and put them on the short side counter between the stove and the fridge. I cleared away the bags and tissue and set the pictures on a side counter to show Ty later.
Then I went to the cupboard, found the sugar bowl and creamer and set those at an angle opposite the frame in the windowsill. I looked from bowl and creamer to pitchers to big-ass, kickass fruit bowl and was relieved to find I was right. They complimented each other perfectly.
Then I grabbed my mug and took a sip, my head moving in a slow swivel to take in the entirety of my handiwork.
Something was missing.
I knew what it was, put my mug down and dashed up the stairs, digging in the back of my lingerie drawer; I pulled it out and jogged back down the stairs.
Then I set the Treasure Island snow globe in the middle of the deep sill over the kitchen sink where the picture was angled in a corner and the sugar and creamer in the other. I’d see it every time I did the dishes. And I liked that.
I moved to my mug, picked it up, backed up until my h*ps hit counter and then surveyed the scene.
It wasn’t much of a stamp but it was something.
And every bit was perfect.
Even the snow globe.
I grinned to myself and walked my coffee upstairs to get dressed.
I had a house to clean then groceries to buy and then I had to find a craft shop.
* * * * *
That afternoon, I drove into the mechanics, my eyes moving between the three large bays at the same time searching for a parking space.
I’d driven by the garage many times since I hit Carnal but had never been there. The tarmac outside was huge. A little office up some cement steps to the side of the bays. A plethora of bikes and cars all around. Garage sounds coming at me through my open windows.
I found my spot at the very end in front of the office, parked, shut her down, got out and rounded the trunk, eyes to the bays.
Then he came out, light gray-blue coveralls unbuttoned to the waist, the top of them hanging down making it look like he had an upside down shirt hanging from his hips. He had on a white wife-beater that must have been in his workout bag because he left in jeans and a tee. He looked hot even in that getup, what with the muscles and tats on display, but he could probably wear a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up and look hot (though I hoped he never did).
He had black grease stains on his wife-beater, all over his hands and up his forearms.
And I didn’t care.
I also didn’t care that I had on strappy, super-high, platform wedges. I still ran flat out across the wide expanse toward him and didn’t stop even as I noticed he saw I wasn’t going to. So he did and he braced right before I took a flying leap into his arms.
Those arms closed around me, mine closed around his neck and I was suspended several inches off the ground as my hand curled over his short-cropped hair and I pulled his mouth to mine.
Then I laid a hot, wet one on him.
After I did that, I tore my mouth from his, kept my arms tight and asked excitedly, “Guess what?”
“Lex, got grease all over me. What the f**k?” was his taking-all-the-fun-out-of-it response.
My arms gave him a squeeze and I repeated, “Ty! Guess what?”
Carnal Country Store was a gift slash souvenir shop. They had a multi-theme going. Old West slash Colorado Mountains slash Bikers slash Country. It was wild but it worked. There was a lot of wood. A lot of antlers. A lot of feathers. A lot of buffalo. Being Carnal, which was definitely a biker haven and not the pedal kind, it also had a bunch of biker stuff. This was intermingled with an abundance of full on country wares that were mostly really cute but not my style (or Ty’s) and some local artisan stuff which included some seriously kickass pottery. And, luckily, for those with a discerning eye and because it was the only gift shop in Carnal (except the florist who had a few frames, vases and knick knacks – not having a job and with time on my hands I’d definitely spent time perusing what Carnal had to offer, so much I had it down pat), they had some nicer stuff too.
And I said this was “luckily” because, although Ty was born in that county, he was not a feathers, antlers, buffalo, biker or country wares kind of guy.
So I got the stuff I got and it was pricey but since Ty paid for nearly everything, I had most of the wad of cash Shift gave me to finance my journey, so I went a little crazy thinking some Shift in an alternate universe would want to give Ty and I a wedding present (or, as it turned out, several). I also went a little crazy because it was “nice shit” so it would fit.
I pulled out a beautiful, wide-edged, beveled silver frame, took off the back and then put our wedding picture in it. I turned it around after I secured the back and there we were. My dress. My bouquet. Ty in his suit. Me smiling bright and big. Ty looking hot.
I studied it thinking, at the time that photo was taken, I would never have guessed two weeks later I’d spend that much money on the perfect frame for that picture because that picture needed the perfect frame.
But I did because that picture needed the perfect frame.
I smiled at it then I walked it to the living room and put it on the sleek, polished wood mantel set into the stone hearth above the fireplace. It was the only thing there.
Still, it looked good.
Then I went back to the bag and yanked out the thick folder that held the photos I processed at the kiosk in the grocery store. I also pulled another frame out of the bag, this one six by eight with a simple but thick, matte black edge. Then I flipped through the photos I developed to find the one I knew I wanted. Ty and me and Moab, shot from waist up, my cheek to his chest, my arms around his middle, his arm around my shoulders, our shades directed at the lens, an infinitesimal section of Moab our stunning backdrop. I framed it and put it in the deep sill at the window over the kitchen sink.
I went back to the island, sipped more coffee then again hit the pantry, pulling out the two, bigger bags. I took them to the island and unearthed from bunches of tissue the three charcoal gray matte pitchers with their spindly handles in black gloss, rim, lip and inside that same gloss. Three of them, one huge. One not as huge. One a little less than not as huge. I arranged them in a circle in the middle of the island. Out next came the wide, flat bowl of the same. I grabbed the bananas and dug in the fridge for the apples and oranges, assembled them in the bowl and put them on the short side counter between the stove and the fridge. I cleared away the bags and tissue and set the pictures on a side counter to show Ty later.
Then I went to the cupboard, found the sugar bowl and creamer and set those at an angle opposite the frame in the windowsill. I looked from bowl and creamer to pitchers to big-ass, kickass fruit bowl and was relieved to find I was right. They complimented each other perfectly.
Then I grabbed my mug and took a sip, my head moving in a slow swivel to take in the entirety of my handiwork.
Something was missing.
I knew what it was, put my mug down and dashed up the stairs, digging in the back of my lingerie drawer; I pulled it out and jogged back down the stairs.
Then I set the Treasure Island snow globe in the middle of the deep sill over the kitchen sink where the picture was angled in a corner and the sugar and creamer in the other. I’d see it every time I did the dishes. And I liked that.
I moved to my mug, picked it up, backed up until my h*ps hit counter and then surveyed the scene.
It wasn’t much of a stamp but it was something.
And every bit was perfect.
Even the snow globe.
I grinned to myself and walked my coffee upstairs to get dressed.
I had a house to clean then groceries to buy and then I had to find a craft shop.
* * * * *
That afternoon, I drove into the mechanics, my eyes moving between the three large bays at the same time searching for a parking space.
I’d driven by the garage many times since I hit Carnal but had never been there. The tarmac outside was huge. A little office up some cement steps to the side of the bays. A plethora of bikes and cars all around. Garage sounds coming at me through my open windows.
I found my spot at the very end in front of the office, parked, shut her down, got out and rounded the trunk, eyes to the bays.
Then he came out, light gray-blue coveralls unbuttoned to the waist, the top of them hanging down making it look like he had an upside down shirt hanging from his hips. He had on a white wife-beater that must have been in his workout bag because he left in jeans and a tee. He looked hot even in that getup, what with the muscles and tats on display, but he could probably wear a pink polo shirt with the collar turned up and look hot (though I hoped he never did).
He had black grease stains on his wife-beater, all over his hands and up his forearms.
And I didn’t care.
I also didn’t care that I had on strappy, super-high, platform wedges. I still ran flat out across the wide expanse toward him and didn’t stop even as I noticed he saw I wasn’t going to. So he did and he braced right before I took a flying leap into his arms.
Those arms closed around me, mine closed around his neck and I was suspended several inches off the ground as my hand curled over his short-cropped hair and I pulled his mouth to mine.
Then I laid a hot, wet one on him.
After I did that, I tore my mouth from his, kept my arms tight and asked excitedly, “Guess what?”
“Lex, got grease all over me. What the f**k?” was his taking-all-the-fun-out-of-it response.
My arms gave him a squeeze and I repeated, “Ty! Guess what?”
