All I Ever Wanted (19 page)

“Yes,” I answered, my fists clenching. “I
do
know that. And I just spent three and a half days coming up with two new campaigns, pulling the art department off everything else, just to replace a perfectly good ad campaign because your girlfriend wants to play creative director.”

Good for you,
Mrs. Obama cheered. I didn't feel so triumphant. Christ, what if he fired me right now? I never talked like this! I never had to.

Mark stepped closer to me. Unlike the rest of us, he didn't have glass walls. My heart rate kicked up, and I felt my cheeks prickle with heat. “You're right,” he said softly. “And I'm sorry. About a lot of things, Callie.”

My throat tightened in helpless anger…and other things. Sorrow. Heartache. Memories of feeling so stupid for so long.
Don't cave now,
the First Lady urged.
You're doing great.

“Look at me, Callie,” Mark said softly.

Ah, shit,
Michelle sighed.
Here we go again.

Mark's eyes were ridiculously appealing. Dark, dark brown with thick, long lashes. It wasn't fair. I totally understood the old expression,
damn your eyes.
As if reading my mind, Mark smiled, just a little bit, and that was what broke me. For a flash, it felt like we were back in that closet in Gwen Hardy's basement, and a hot wave of longing surged over me. It just wasn't fair.

“No one can replace you, Callie,” he said quietly. “No one.”

I took a shaky breath. Confusion and anger and, yes, hope—dopey, immortal hope—churned around in my heart. “I appreciate that,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “But I'm not sure this is going to work for me, Mark.”

“Don't you even think about it,” Mark said, taking my hands. “Trust me. Things will settle down. Muriel will find her place. Be patient, okay? Please?” His thumbs rubbed the backs of my hands—gently, slowly, before he let go. “Now I've made my best girl cry,” he murmured, going over to his desk. “Let me find you a tissue or something.”

He's using you,
Michelle told me.

The thing was, I already knew.

 

M
ARK AND
M
URIEL LEFT FOR
their meeting with Hammill Farms at 9:00 on Friday morning. Damien went, too, to help set up the presentation and take notes. The morning seemed to last forever. I fussed, I did busywork, I
e-mailed clients and subcontractors, I deleted old files. I could barely sit still.

Finally, around two, they returned. The rest of us fell silent, waiting for the verdict while pretending to work. Our first indicator was Muriel, who stomped down the hall in her tight black skirt and slammed the door to her office. She didn't spare me a glance. Mark and Damien came along next and went straight to Mark's office, closing the door behind them.

A half hour later, Damien crept out of Mark's office. A few minutes later, he sent me an e-mail.
Callie shoots, Callie scores. Hammill went with your original idea.
Damien.

A
FTER WORK THAT DAY
,
I dragged Damien to the Whoop & Holler, ye olde Vermont townie bar. “I'm not sitting there,” he said, giving our booth a disdainful once-over. “I'll get crabs.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “We couldn't go to Elements, because Dave works there, and since you guys are still broken up…” Damien sighed, and I continued. “Besides, I'm meeting someone here later.” Another attempt at eCommitment's offerings. “And,” I continued craftily, before he could insult me over my anemic love life, “they have the best apricot sours ever.”

Damien's perfectly groomed eyebrows bounced up at the mention of his favorite drink. “Okay. For you. On this day of days,” he said, sitting down gingerly.

“Two apricot sours, Jim!” I called, doing a double take when I saw my brother at the bar. “And don't serve Freddie! He's underage!”

“You little shit,” Jim said, cuffing Freddie. “How dare you come in with a fake ID!”

“I turned twenty-one in April!” my brother yelped. “My own sister might not remember, but it's still true!”

I paused and did the math. “Oh, that's right, Jim. Sorry!”

Freddie gave me the finger and grinned.

When our drinks came, Damien took a sip and then,
mollified by the yumminess, told the whole story, with plenty of embellishment and snark, just as I'd hoped.

First, John Hammill had been surprised not to see me, as he was under the (correct) impression that I was the genius of the operation. Secondly, he'd been confused and slightly disturbed by Muriel's idea.

“It was a cartoon, Callie,” Damien said, slurping more apricot sour. “Of a squirrel, okay? So her little squirrel, which is apparently named Squeaky the Squirrel, climbs up on a barrel of syrup, jumps in and starts lapping it up. And then comes this scary little high-pitched voice, and I'm pretty fucking sure it was Muriel…‘So good even a squirrel will eat it!'”

“What does that even mean?” I asked, covering my mouth in horror.

“Who the fuck knows?” he said, laughing so hard he practically choked. I couldn't help joining in. “So John says, ‘I'm really uncomfortable with this…who'd want to buy syrup when a rodent's been swimming around in it? What are you gonna do next? Rats?' And M&M, they give each other these looks, like they can't fucking believe he took a pass.”

“So what happened after that?” I asked, sucking up the last of my girly-girl drink through a straw.

“So Mark said something like, ‘Well, we do have another idea,' and shows yours, and John practically wets himself, he loves it so much. Came out of his chair when he heard that you already got Terry fucking Francona to agree.”

I sat back against the booth. “That's great. I'm so glad John liked it. He's such a good guy,” I said, pleased beyond words. Still, the fact didn't escape me that I'd just spent the past three days frantically working, all on a Muriel whim. That was not cool. Not at all.

“So. You win, Callie,” Damien said, slurping down the rest of his drink. “What next?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don't know, Damien,” I admitted. “Do you…” I hesitated. “Do you think Muriel's going to…last? With Mark, I mean?”

Damien sighed. “I don't know,” he said. “She's not the one I'd pick for him, that's for sure.”

I didn't say anything else. Annie had just come in, and she'd skin me if she knew I was talking about Mark's love life. She was here to eavesdrop on my meeting with Ron, my latest attempt at finding The One. I wasn't
always
sitting around mooning after my boss, my vet and other emotionally unavailable men.

Damien glanced at his watch. “Well. Must run. I have much better plans than hanging out here with you and these townies. No offense, of course. Toodles!”

“You're going to get beat up if you don't stop saying that,” I advised. “And I'll be leading the mob, carrying a pipe.”

To my surprise, he kissed my cheek. “Thanks for the drink, Callie. And well done. Oh!” He looked over at the door. “Is that the someone you're meeting? He's looking around, has a desperate, furtive, rat-like demeanor…”

“Shut it, Damien,” I muttered. I looked over and waved. As if electrified, Annie hurtled over, followed closely by Freddie.

“Hi,” she said. “Is that him? The guy you waved to? Is he cute? He's not bad. At least he's tall.”

“Go sit where you can eavesdrop,” I instructed. Annie took the booth directly behind me. “Come, Fred,” she ordered. “Sit. Stay.”

“He looks unwashed,” Damien murmured. “Must flee. Tra-la!”

My date began making his way over. The Whoop & Holler was a dark and cavernous space, excellent for alcoholics and clandestine hookups. As he got closer, my heart sank.
No, no, don't do that,
I told the pesky organ.
He's got…hidden depths? He might, anyway…

“This is gonna be great,” Freddie said in a stage whisper.

“Fred, don't you dare…” Ah, there was no point. Little brothers were created to mock, torment and steal from their sisters, and Fred was a shining example. Besides, Ron was here.

Damien was right. He wasn't quite…clean. Not that he was filthy, mind you. But here I was, in a wicked cute dress, a green-and-white pattern with flattering belt and, yes, darling orange suede high-heeled shoes for that pop of color. I'm just saying. And Ron… Ron wore faded and stained blue work pants, matching shirt. “Callie?” he asked, frowning fiercely.

“Yes! Hi, Ron! It's so nice to meet you!” I chirruped, hoping that this would soon be true. He had an earthy, not exactly unpleasant smell about him. “Have a seat.”

He obeyed. Ron was a large, solid guy in that reassuring manly man way. We'd done the whole tennis volley of e-mails, and he'd actually seemed pretty nice. Friendly. Asked questions, gave answers. Our knees bumped, and I quickly shifted so as to avoid any unintended signals or dirt.

“Sorry, I'm late,” he muttered. “It was my night to milk.”

“Oh! Milk the, um…cows?”
No, Callie. The monkeys.
I heard the telltale wheeze of my brother's laughter already, Annie's little snort. Super. “I mean, you said you were a farmer. I guess a dairy farmer, right?”

He nodded.

“That's great. I love cows,” I said. It was true. I did. Especially the kind on the side of the Ben & Jerry's truck.

Ron's eyes dropped to my chest. Damn! My adorable dress was quite low-cut…not slutty low, but low enough. If one has a great rack, one must use it to distract from food babies and the like. Or so I'd thought before now. Ron looked very…assessing, as if calculating my own potential in the dairy department.

“You don't happen to supply Ben & Jerry's, do you?” I asked. It could never hurt to have an in…

“No.”

“Cabot's? I love their cheese.”

“No.”

Freddie squeaked.

“So, anyway,” I said, determined to charm. “It's nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

Ron said nothing.

“Want to order something? A drink? Nachos?” I asked.

He glanced over to Jim, who called out, “What can I get you, pal?”

“Beer,” Ron answered.

“What kind? We have Coors, Coors Light, Bud, Bud Light, Amstel, Amstel Light, Miller, Miller Light…”

“Bud.” Ron looked back at me. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Dropped his eyes to the girls again.

“So, Ron, tell me about yourself,” I said, tipping my head so my shiny hair might distract him from my bosom.

“I'm a farmer,” he said, not looking up.

“Yes! We covered that, I think. Have you been a farmer long?”

“Yup.”

This guy made Ian look like Joy Behar in the chat department. The peanut gallery was having fun, anyway. I reminded myself to remember this at Christmas and not buy them so many presents.

“That's great.” Tick. Tick. Tick. “And…uh, you said you were divorced?”

“Yup.”

Nothing more. The Betty Boop in my head rubbed her hands together.
He's a challenge, that's all. We are not going to admit defeat here. He will like us. We are adorable, let's not forget!

I glanced around. Above the bar, the Sox were on. Poifect. Man-talk. I could fake baseball chatter with the best of them.

“Ron, do you watch sports?” I asked. He was still staring at my chest. I
did
wear this dress, so I couldn't exactly be irritated. “Ron? Up here, pal.” I snapped my fingers. Ah. Finally. Eye contact. I smiled to show I understood. “Do you like baseball? How 'bout them Sox, huh? Second place. That's not bad. Those damn Yankees, right?” I smiled ruefully. I often checked the sports page for just this sort of chatty tidbit. He still said nothing. Maybe he was diabetic or something, having a blood sugar crash. I often felt the same way when I went too long without cake batter. “Ron? Do you like baseball?”

“Nope,” he said. His eyes dropped back to my chest.

“Everything okay, Ron? You feeling all right?” I asked.

“I'm fine.”

Freddie wheezed behind me. Could I smack him from this angle? Alas, no.

Well, clearly Ron wasn't going to stop looking at my
chest unless I made him, so I picked up the little napkin that had come with my drink, unfolded it and held it in front of the girls. “Ron? What's the deal?” I asked. “You were very nice in your e-mails…can we please have a conversation here?”

He shrugged. “Well…the e-mails…” His voice trailed off.

“What?” I asked.

He scratched his head vigorously. “My aunt wrote them.”

Behind me, Annie and my brother sputtered and choked. “I see. Well. Tell your aunt she seems very nice. Maybe she'd like to go out with me, hmm?”

Nothing. No reaction.

“I think we're probably done here, Ron,” I said gently.

“Great,” he answered. “Want to go back to my place and watch porn?”

Holy Lord in heaven! “I…I…I'm gonna have to pass on that one, Ron,” I finally managed. “You take care.”

Thirty seconds later, when Ron was a memory (though the smell of manure still hung in the air), Fred and Annie staggered to my booth and collapsed across from me. “I hope you're gonna marry him.” My brother sighed.

“You really should let me screen them,” Annie said, wiping her eyes.

“You picked the human hair guy!” I reminded her.

“At least he was clean,” she said.

“Ish,” I corrected. I sighed. “Fred, buy your best girls drinks, what do you say?”

“Sure, Calorie,” he said amiably. “Jim! Another one of those candy-ass drinks for my sister, okay? Annie, what do you want?”

“I have to go,” she said regretfully. “Tonight's Family Fun Night. We're playing mini golf.”

“Rub it in, O happily married woman and mother of perfect child,” I said. She smiled modestly. “I don't get it, guys,” I continued. “I'd want to date me. Why is it so hard for me? I'm wicked fun, I dress nicely, I'm friendly… I'd
love
to date me. Wouldn't you?”

“The whole incest-sister thing aside?” Fred asked. I nodded. “Sure,” he said.

“I'd date you,” Annie agreed. “If I was gay, I would. Definitely.”

“Thank you,” I said. She smiled and gave me a quick hug, then went off to Perfectville.

Freddie and I ordered nachos and talked about work as we ate—my work, his lack thereof, and what he might do with his life. “You could always be a lawyer,” I suggested. “You do love the sound of your own voice.”

“True, true. Not that the universe needs another lawyer,” he said. “Hey, completely meaning to change the subject, I guess the next stop on the Tour of Whores is coming.”

“So much fun,” I murmured. “Poor Dad. All this for nothing.”

“Oh, I don't know. I think they'll make it,” Fred said, draining his beer.

“Who?” I asked. “Mom and Dad? Really?”

“Yeah. They're gonna make it. I could be wrong, of course. There's always a first time.”

I rolled my eyes. “You and that little ego of yours,” I murmured. My voice trailed off.

Mark and Muriel had just come into the bar.

In the olden days, Mark used to take the gang to Whoop & Holler after a particularly successful pitch or
a long week. Muriel hadn't changed from the black skirt, white shirt and killer heels she'd worn to Hammill Farms today. Mark's hand was on her back as he guided her to a table on the other side of the dimly lit bar. As she sat down, she looked up at him and laughed at whatever he was saying.

They looked…happy. My Hammill Farms presentation had kicked Muriel's in the butt, and she was laughing, and gorgeous, and on a date. With Mark.

My heart rolled over like a dead turtle, then sank to the pit of my stomach. Whatever triumph and pleasure I'd felt over work today faded.
I'm going to slap you,
Michelle said.
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. So snap out of it.

Easy for you to say,
I told her.
Are you the one who was just invited to watch porn at a dairy farm? Huh, First Lady who lives at the White House? And stop stealing Mrs. Roosevelt's lines.

“Callie? Wake up,” my brother said. “You're muttering to yourself.” He turned around to look where I was staring. “Why, it's Mark! The guy you've been mooning over half your life! Want to give me a piggyback ride to show how cute we are?”

“Shh!” I hissed, kicking his shin.

See, way back when I was a teen and in fact mooning over Mark, I would often take Freddie on my rounds. I thought it would make me look adorable, loving and mature, that pretty Callie Grey and her sweet little brother whom she so obviously loved. Of course, I
did
love Freddie (much of the time, anyway) and he was always thrilled when I took him out of the funeral home for a spin on my bike or yes, a piggyback ride. One day, I made the mistake of informing my prop that I loved a certain boy. “That one,”
I whispered when we actually caught a glimpse of Mark at a soccer game. The little shit never forgot.