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There was not a sound in the deli.
Okay, then. Marnie saved the program to a disk which she ejected and handed to Barry.
He looked relieved. “Thanks, Marnie. You’re a pal.”
“Yeah, that’s me. A real pal.” She closed her laptop.
Barry gave her a look. “I’m telling you, you’d hate Tarantella. It’s not your style.”
Marnie gave him a look right back. “It could be.” He wanted vibes? She’d show him vibes. One of the guys? Not anymore. Attitude? Just wait. She was going to show him so much attitude he’d beg her to let him take her to Tarantella. She’d make all of them take her to Tarantella.
Barry squinted at her before shaking his head. “I’m just not seeing it. Better take me up on the beer.” He cuffed her on the shoulder. “What kind do you want?”
NOT THE GIRLFRIEND TYPE. Vibeless. One of the guys. A pal.
Barry had all but called her sexless. Or maybe he had. He’d definitely made it clear that she held no feminine appeal for him and, while he was at it, included the entire male gender. Even worse, the other guys hadn’t contradicted him.
At this moment, Marnie wasn’t too pleased with the entire male gender.
It was true that she’d prided herself on being a team player and that the guys included her in their downtime. Working with them was comfortable. She hadn’t realized that it was because they’d forgotten she was a woman.
So, she’d just figure out a way to remind them.
One of the guys. Not girlfriend material.
On her way home, Marnie mentally chewed on Barry’s words as she got off the bus and walked toward the 24th Street Mission BART station where she’d spend the next hour or so riding the train to Pleasant Hill, where, yes, she lived with her mother. Her mom was a great roommate—even if she weren’t Marnie’s mom. She did more than her share of the housework and cooking and didn’t bug Marnie too much about where she was going at night…mostly because by the time Marnie got home, she was in for the evening. How exciting was that?
Yeah, now that she thought about it, that sounded like a vibeless existence. The thing was, she’d never expected that she’d end up single and still living with her mother at the age of twenty-eight. What person thinks as a kid, “I want to live at home when I grow up?” When she was young, she’d had this image of what her future would be. She couldn’t exactly remember what it was, but living with her mother and sleeping in the same bedroom she’d had all her life wasn’t it.
Marnie was ready to settle down, as they say. But unfortunately, she hadn’t found anybody to settle with. Or even settle for.
When was the last time she’d been anybody’s girlfriend?
Marnie stopped walking right in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a trendy boutique, one of a string of them in this block.
There had been Darren, but that hadn’t lasted long and it had been the same kind of cheapie meal and occasional movie relationship she’d always had with guys. That had been fine when they were all starting out, but lately Marnie wanted more.
And, darn it, she was going to get it. Somehow.
She’d been gazing into the distance, but now she focused on the display window of the boutique. Skirts. Skimpy sweaters. Purses too tiny to be useful. Girlfriend clothes.
Marnie wore jeans and sweaters or T-shirts just like everyone else in her department. How stupid would she look if she started wearing clothes like that to work? And why should she have to change the way she dressed and fool around with her hair and makeup? She used to wear makeup, but she liked the extra sleeping time. Anyway, San Francisco’s windy weather made her eyes water and the stupid mascara run, so she’d get to work and have to do everything over again. Waste of time.
And did it matter? Were men really that shallow?
Of course they were.
Grumbling to herself, Marnie rounded the corner and headed down Twenty-Third Street, her favorite part of the walk to and from the station. Her route took her past a row of Painted Ladies, the San Francisco Victorian houses. Their defiantly gaudy colors and ornate trim appealed to Marnie. Why, she didn’t know. She was more of a neutral, sleek, chrome and clean lines kind of person, when she thought about decor at all. These houses were about as far from that as something could be.
This had been her route for nearly six years, uneventful until recently. First, several days ago, Marnie had noticed a sign in one of the pretty town houses—the pink-and-green one with the cream trim and darling gingerbread balcony—offering two-day rentals.
She’d memorized the sign: Two-Day Sublet. Inquire Within. There was additional writing beneath. It is not up to me to supply reasons why you might need an apartment for two days a week. If you do, let’s talk. If you do not, please walk.
Marnie had been thinking about it—she’d even met the doorman who had insisted that she take a flyer and had talked a blue streak at her until she’d given him a politely noncommittal platitude just to get away from him. Still, it would be wonderful to avoid the tedious commute for a couple of days a week.
The other thing that had happened was that construction had begun on one of the more tawdry of the ladies across the street. The house was being completely renovated and would no doubt rent or sell to a gazillionaire, if it hadn’t already.
At some point during the years since the town houses had been built in the late 1800s, they’d been updated by having their gingerbread trim torn off and new facades built over the old so that they’d lost all their personality. Now they’d get it back.
Marnie slowed to check on the progress—okay, and to see if the hunky construction foreman was around. In her current mood, Marnie could use a good construction foreman sighting.
Oh, goody. His truck was there. The blue-and-white Bronco bearing the name Renfro Restoration was parked off the sidewalk in the patch of grass by the front steps, just where it had been this morning when she’d walked by.
The guy had been solely responsible for Marnie acquiring a very expensive coffee habit. Every morning, she passed by about the time he arrived on site.
He’d lean against his Bronco and sip coffee from a familiar tall paper cup with a brown cuff around it. Though it was nearly May, the mornings were still cool and he’d wrap both hands around the cup. She could practically taste the coffee he gingerly brought to his lips. She’d think about it all the way into work and then have to stop in at the Starbucks next to the Carnahan building.
Early this morning, the two-man construction crew had been stripping the house to the insulation. Now they were cleaning up for the day. A large flatbed truck was parked on the street and the men threw the old wood and debris in it. Marnie stopped and watched them work. Actually, she watched one of them work because the foreman was right in there with them. His denim jacket and clipboard were on the hood of the Bronco and only a T-shirt was between him and the cooling evening.
A nicely filled out T-shirt. And jeans. Mustn’t overlook the jeans that emphasized a flat, taut stomach that clearly didn’t have a cold meatball sub sitting in it.
A broken two-by-four hit the side of the truck, bounced off and landed near Marnie. Startled, she jumped.
“Watch it!” The foreman approached her and Marnie’s eyes widened.
He was so much…more up close. Muscles and sinews worked in perfect rhythm as he strode toward her. Sawdust and other bits of old house dusted his shoulders and clung to his hair. Testosterone clouded the air. Everything about him shouted I am man and I do manly things. And the subtext which was, of course, I demand a woman who does womanly things.
Marnie doubted writing computer code counted as a womanly thing, but was willing to try to convince him.
He came to a stop in front of her, his shortish sun-kissed hair ruffling attractively in the wind. He wore gloves and swiped the back of his wrist over his forehead before resting his hands at his waist. His stance indicated that he was used to being in charge.
Marnie sighed a little. He could be in charge of her any time.
“You okay?” he asked.
She managed to nod. This was a lot of man and she wasn’t exactly sure what to do.
Apparently she didn’t have to do anything. He picked up the board and tossed it into the truck bed. “It’s dangerous to stand this close.” Then he walked back to the pile and picked up more wood. He raised his eyebrows until Marnie realized he was waiting for her to move on.
Way to go, Marnie. Talk about vibeless.
Couldn’t she have managed to come up with something to say? One measly conversational opener? She worked with men all day long and she couldn’t figure out an approach?
Talk about seriously rusty. The fact that he was a completely different type for her was no excuse. So his in-your-face masculinity had rendered her mute. Clearly, she needed help.
Disgusted with herself, she hunched into her ski parka and buried her nose in her woolen scarf as the wind picked up. Where was spring already?
She crossed the street, which brought her right by the Victorian with the two-day rent sign in the window. But she wasn’t looking at the sign—she was using the window’s reflection to watch the construction guy some more.
That was one serious hunk of man.
And she hadn’t even pinged his radar.
But to be fair, guys like that had never pinged her radar, either. She’d always gone for cerebral types, and the foreman was more the “hunka hunka burnin’ luv” type.
As Marnie stood there thinking that maybe the cerebral types she knew could use a testosterone transfusion, the door to the Victorian opened and two tiny, long-haired dogs—the kind that barked in annoying little yips—led a tall, thin man down the steps. The doorman.
“Slow down or you’ll strangle yourselves, you irritating little twits.”
The dogs ignored him and struggled to descend the stairs. Once down on the sidewalk, they sniffed at Marnie’s shoes.
The doorman pulled at the leash. “I’d say heel, but they’d only think I was suggesting another part of your foot.” He looked up at her. “Oh, it’s you. Have you decided about the apartment?”
“Uh…” Marnie stepped back and the dogs yipped in protest. “I was just…” She trailed off.
Wait a minute. She was just having a pity party because Barry had rejected her and she’d been thrown for a loop by the construction guy.
She needed to make some changes and here was an opportunity being handed to her. Just because it was attached to a couple of high-strung dogs shouldn’t distract her.
The bottom line was that she wanted a boyfriend. A serious boyfriend. A potential husband boyfriend. There was even a technical name for that—fiancé. With her commute, it was hard to date either in the city or in Pleasant Hill. Renting this apartment would give her a temporary base in the city.
She’d just about decided when the sound of gears grinding announced the imminent departure of the flatbed truck. The construction foreman was still there sweeping leftover debris off the sidewalk.
Oh, yes. And as an added perk, she’d wake up to him outside her window.
Marnie looked back at the doorman, who’d been remarkably patient when she sensed that he wasn’t the patient type.
“Yes, I’d like to rent the apartment for two days a week.” It was the first impulsive thing she’d ever done.
He pulled on the dogs’ leashes. “Monday and Tuesday is all that I have left.”
Those weren’t date nights. “Monday and Tuesday will be fine.” She’d make them date nights.
“Fabulous! But as you see, I am otherwise engaged. When can you come by to do the paperwork?”
“Tomorrow morning?” Marnie still couldn’t believe what she’d done.
“How do you take your coffee?”
Marnie blinked at the question. “Large and strong.” Kinda like the construction guy. She almost giggled.
“Understood. Until tomorrow then. Onward, dogs!” The doorman proceeded up the street, fortunately in the opposite direction.
Okay. She’d done it. Now how was she going to tell her mother that she’d rented an apartment in the city for two days a week? Marnie started walking when a whistle pierced the air. Not from the man with the dogs, but from the crew in the truck.
Instinctively, Marnie knew it was a different whistle than the ones the construction workers used to signal each other. Glancing across the street, she saw two women walking, heads bowed against the wind just as hers was when she walked.
That was the only similarity. Where Marnie was dressed in clunky hiking boots, jeans and appropriately warm clothing for a San Francisco spring evening, these stupid females were wearing heels and skirts which blew every which way as their long blond hair whipped about their faces.
What was this? Blonde Day? And why were they all dressed alike?
The wind carried the murmur of appreciative males. The construction workers, clearly unrepentant, had whistled at the women and now watched as they walked past the truck. Ah yes, the call of the male hominus jerkus.
They hadn’t whistled at her, not that she’d ever had a construction worker whistle at her or wanted one to. Or was supposed to want one to.
And yet, and yet… No. If that was what she had to wear to get whistled at, then forget it.
She stood and watched the men watching the women.
“Hey! Haul that stuff off to the dump!” The foreman glanced at the women then tossed a bag of sweepings into the back of the truck. It drove away and the foreman walked into the yard where he set up two sawhorses and a work light clipped to the open door of the Bronco.
He was still in his T-shirt, impervious to the cold. The muscles in his back stretched, the muscles in his arms bunched and his torso was probably a work of art.
Marnie sighed. If she were going to have a man whistle at her, that was the one she wanted doing the whistling.
But he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence.
She should get going or she’d miss her usual train. Except something drew her to the man in the yard. Marnie stepped off the curb and crossed the street. What would she do if he did notice her?
Put out some vibes, that’s what.
The whine of an electric saw shrieked into the evening. Marnie made the brilliant deduction that he was cutting a piece of wood. He wore safety goggles and looked solid and competent and was concentrating as fiercely on the movements of the saw as Marnie usually did staring at a computer screen. Of course if Marnie made a mistake, she wasn’t likely to lose a finger.
A man at work was a thing of beauty. If that wasn’t a famous quote, it should be. Yeah, if nothing else, seeing more of this guy made renting the apartment worth it.
Knowing that he couldn’t hear her, Marnie shouted, “You’re a thing of beauty! And I just rented the apartment across the street. What do you think of that?”
The saw reached the end of the board. The whine stopped and a chunk of wood fell to the ground. Setting the saw aside, the man picked up the part he’d cut and held it to the light. As he examined his work and blew bits of shaving and sawdust off the design, a huge smile creased his face.
ZACH RENFRO liked nothing more than restoring San Francisco’s grand Victorians. He did excellent work, if he did say so himself. No one could afford him, but since he didn’t charge what he was worth, it all evened out.
People lacked patience these days. People like the actor type who lived in the Victorian across the street. The day Zach and his crew had started ripping off the disgusting dress this pretty lady had worn for the past seventy-five years, the guy had swished across the street to complain about the noise. He’d blathered on about a script and how Zach was committing auditory assault.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Zach had climbed down a ladder to talk with the guy and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.
“I have work to do. How can I concentrate with all this commotion?”
“Earplugs?”
“I, Franco Rossi, should not have to wear earplugs in the privacy of my own home.” He gave Zach a haughty look.
Great. One of those. “Well, Frank.” Zach couldn’t believe anyone would admit to being named Franco and shortened it out of courtesy. “This is my work.”
“But my work is art.”
Zach gestured to the house. “So is mine. Once upon a time, my lady, here, was just as pretty as your house. But she wasn’t treated right and now I’m going to give her a little nip and tuck, get her a new dress and make her a pretty necklace.” Zach reached into the front seat of his truck and grabbed the piece of wood that he planned to use as a pattern to cut gingerbread trim. “Now look at that. It’s a custom design and I’m going to cut it out by hand. Are you going to tell me that’s not art?”
Franco stared at the wood, then raised one well-shaped—probably plucked—eyebrow. “My apologies for not recognizing a fellow artiste.” He bowed. Bowed. Zach glanced around to see if his crew noticed.
