As strange as it sounds, I almost felt as if the house and I were buddies, friends. In my own bizarre imagination, I needed this house as much as it needed me. Just as I would be saving this old, dilapidated home and bringing it back to its former glory, it would also be saving me—by keeping me from focusing on my failed marriage. It would save me from wondering, in my heart of hearts, if I’d made a mistake in leaving Jonathon. As much as I knew the decision to get divorced was the only one that could be made, it didn’t silence that nagging voice in the back of my head that doubted most of my moves, as well as most every decision I made.
The behemoth undertaking that renovating this nineteenth-century mansion would prove to be wouldn’t allow that frustrating voice to speak. I only hoped that this incredible adventure would allow me to reunite with myself, the person who’d been mute for the last five years. My plan was to center myself and truly discover just who I was, and more importantly, who I wanted to be. Peyton Graves, wife, was dead and gone; but rising from her ashes, complete with her newly reacquired maiden name, was Peyton Clark. And I couldn’t help but think this house was the key to finding myself, since the house represented a past I knew nothing about but a past that was still very much a part of me.
“You’se divorced?” Hank asked, still spearing me with that beady-eyed expression. I simply nodded. “Ain’t you gotta ’nother fella ta help you?” he continued, shaking his head in what I perceived to be disappointment combined with disapproval.
“Nope,” I shook my head more fervently than he had. My entire being rebelled at the mere thought of a “fella” in my life. “And that’s exactly the way I want it.”
He laughed, making the sound of someone who’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes for far too long. “You ain’t gonna be off the market for long, missy,” he said with a wide smile that revealed missing teeth on both sides of his worn-down canines. “Attractive woman like yerself is gonna find herself pretty much in demand.”
I could feel my cheeks blushing as I dropped my attention to my hands. I suddenly wished I were better at accepting compliments. ’Course, I wasn’t exactly well acquainted with them. In the five years I was married to Jonathon, I could have counted the rare moments he complimented me on one hand.
“Yep, just gotta stand up straight an’ give ’em a view of that dazzlin’ smile, and them warm brown eyes an’ I reckon any feller’ll be yours.”
I laughed, even as I realized Hank had a point about me standing up straight. ’Course, when you’re five-foot-ten, and you tower over most people you come into contact with, it almost seems natural to want to hunch over. But Hank was right—I needed to be comfortable with myself even if I sometimes found it difficult. The truth was that I wasn’t even really sure what I wanted the new “me” to look like. Aside from the obvious things that I couldn’t change (well, without surgery anyway) like my bone structure, the color of my eyes, and the shape of my nose, I’d already subjected the easily changed aspects of myself to a complete makeover.
Yep, as soon as my divorce was legal and I’d received my settlement, I’d promptly attempted to erase everything that reminded me of the married me, the me who’d tried so hard to be everything Jonathon wanted me to be, even at the cost of self-betrayal. As soon as I’d received that glorious announcement that I was no longer connected to Jonathon, I’d thrown out my entire wardrobe. It had been an easy task to accomplish because it wasn’t like my closet was full of fun, flirty pieces. Nope, instead it amounted to an array of blah slacks, knee-length skirts (yawn), blasé silk blouses, and blazers in earth tones, black, white, and the full spectrum of gray.
Well, not any longer.
In just the course of a week, I’d managed to replace my wardrobe with myriad miniskirts, hip-hugging jeans, spring dresses, plunging blouses, and bikinis. And Betsey Johnson would have been proud of the bouquet of colors that now bloomed in my closet.
But my wardrobe hadn’t been the only area that was in need of an overhaul. I’d also hacked off my elbow-length, mousy-brown hair in favor of a chin-length bob. Then I’d bleached it the exact same shade of platinum blond it was in my twenties. Even better, I’d encouraged the makeup artist at the NARS counter to use my face as his own personal canvas. The result? A Peyton that felt much more like the old Peyton, the girl who loved to party like a rock star and looked the part. With my new wardrobe, haircut, and overall ensemble, it was almost like I’d rewound time and returned to the woman I’d been before Jonathon had crossed my path.
At thirty-one years old, I was finally learning how to be me.
“Thanks, Hank,” I started, remembering the conversation. “But I’m definitely not looking to date anytime soon.” I took a deep breath as he offered me a confused expression. “I just really need some me time,” I finished.
“Just don’t let yer life pass ya by,” he answered with another shake of his head that told me he didn’t understand independent women. He turned around and faced the barbarian that was my new (but very much pre-owned) vehicle behind him. It was a 1980 International Scout II with a burnt-orange paint job. It looked like it was right out of the seventies, complete with a rainbow stripe of brown, yellow, and white that ran the length of the entire truck. The Scout reminded me of a giant box on wheels, something between a Ford Explorer and a Hummer—and I do mean the authentic type of Hummer, the army-issue Hummer, not the one you see yuppies driving on the freeway.
The Scout was worlds away from the black Mercedes SLK Roadster I’d been driving only weeks earlier. But, strangely enough, I didn’t miss the Mercedes for a minute, not even a split second.
“So she’s all good to go?” I asked Hank, stealing another glance at my new ride while grinning like a teenager just receiving her first set of car keys.
“Yep, new tires, new brakes, and basically a new engine. She’ll run you good for a long time, Miss Peyton.”
“Thanks, Hank,” I said, smiling because he refused to call me by just my first name. Instead, he insisted on adding “Miss” to it. “What do I owe you?”
“I ain’t done the math yet, honey,” he said with a chuckle, running his hand across the hood of the Scout as if he would miss it, or did already. Hank had not only sold me the Scout, but he’d fixed it up as well. And since the Scout was older than I was, and Hank was a mechanic, I figured he and I would be seeing a lot of each other…
“So…” I started.
“So I’ll just call ya when I got it all figured out.” He patted the top of the Scout as if it were a loyal dog, before wedging his hands into his oil-stained coveralls. Then he offered me another gap-toothed smile. “That is, if you gotta phone hooked up somewhere in that museum of yours?”
I laughed, ignoring the jab because truthfully, I didn’t have a home phone. Not that the house wasn’t set up for phone connectivity, I just figured since I had my cell phone, why bother with a house phone? “Believe it or not, that ‘museum’ even has electricity and running water.”
“Well, consider me surprised,” he said with another throaty smoker chuckle as he walked over to a Ford truck that was so covered in rust, it appeared brown. I glimpsed traces of white paint peeking through the coppery oxidation. He glanced back at me and shook his head. “Almost as surprised as I am ta find that ol’ biddy Myra actually had her some family.”
“How well did you know her?” I asked.
He shook his head and kicked at the ground with a boot that looked as if it had survived World War II, which it very well might have. “Not too good,” he said and shook his head. “She kept ta herself mostly, holed up in that there house. I think I seen her…” He scratched his head. “Ah, maybe three times in the thirty years I been comin’ ta these parts.”