Home for the Haunting(54)

Graham was tall and handsome and inexplicably patient with me and my moods. He was also a darned good “green” contractor who was making something of a name for himself among the rich and environmentally aware. This meant he worked in Marin County a lot, the local haven for liberal folks who drove hybrids and ate organic and spent the equivalent of a small nation’s gross national product on making their homes as environmentally and technically advanced as possible.

My father loved Graham. Stan loved Graham. Caleb loved Graham. Graham was good to my dog and nice to old people. There wasn’t a darned thing wrong with him, which made me very nervous. I mean, really, this was San Francisco. You didn’t run across unmarried, un-gay, un-crazy men very often. One who was also attractive and employed?

A man like Graham was so rare Luz referred to him as my “San Francisco unicorn.”

There must be something seriously wrong with him. I just hadn’t figured it out yet.

And now Cookie was in town. And I had to figure out how to dress so I looked alluring but not like I got dressed up for him, which would give him the wrong impression. Didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

Speaking of trying too hard: If I parked and met him inside at security, it would seem overeager. But pulling up to the curb meant going up against the ever-vigilant airport curbside parking Nazis, who seemed to imagine anyone slowing to more than a rolling stop was trying to blow the place up. So if he wasn’t there when I drove by, I’d have to circle, which meant he’d come out and I wouldn’t be there, and then what would he think?

These were the thoughts that had kept me up half the night. I was pretty sure I was sublimating, fretting over details like these because I was actually worried about my relationship with Graham. Not that there was a relationship. Not really.

I finally decided on a short peacock blue shift with waves of spangles, but I drew a plain, thigh-length cream-colored sweater on over it. I did my regular makeup routine, but more carefully than usual, and took extra time putting up my hair in a carefully casual chignon.

Down in the kitchen, Cookie was chatting with Dad and Stan. All the years she lived here, she slept in until all hours. Now she was an early bird. I used to think it was because Dad and I were in construction that we awoke so early, but maybe it ran in the genes.

“Hey there, babe,” said Dad as he handed me a cup of coffee, eyes flicking over my outfit but saying nothing, as was his wont. He didn’t get my style, but he let it pass because I had threatened to walk away from the business if he didn’t stop making comments.

“Mornin’, gorgeous,” said Stan.

“Well, don’t you look pretty?” Cookie said. “You know, I like how you wear what you want, no matter that you carry a few extra pounds. I really admire that.”

My sister, queen of the backhanded compliment.

“I see you made it home from scary BART in one piece,” I said in a snide sibling voice. I really was fourteen.

“It turns out the BART train is lovely,” said Cookie. “And the sweetest young fellow helped me find my stop.”

“Isn’t Graham flying in today?” asked Dad.

I coughed on a swallow of coffee. Hacking over the sink, I nonetheless saw Cookie and Dad exchange a significant look.

“What?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” said Cookie, wide-eyed.

I looked at Stan, who just shrugged.

“Is he coming to dinner?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll let you know,” I said, filling my commuter mug. “Dad, I’m going to leave Dog home with you today.”

“How come you insisted on taking him yesterday, when I was in the car with you?” Cookie whined.

“All right, all right, I’ll take him.” On second thought, I could use his distraction when I picked up Graham. “Come on, Dog.”

I spent the rest of the morning working with a single-mindedness born of nervousness, then headed to SFO. I decided to play my luck with the curbside pickup, and lo and behold, Graham was walking out of the double doors right as I was pulling up. Like we’d planned it.

Graham had the tall, athletic build of a man who knew his way around a construction site. He had dark hair, deep, searching eyes, and enough ruggedness and scars to speak to an interesting life.

He threw his small bag in the back, then climbed into the passenger seat. I inhaled deeply. Graham also managed to smell really, really good . . . even when stepping off an airplane from the East Coast.

I started to pull back into traffic, but he stopped me with a hand on my arm and a smile so warm it lit up the car.

“Hey. How about a welcome-home kiss?”

I glanced out the window, where the cop was walking toward us.