All I Ever Wanted (20 page)

“I'm going to the ladies' room,” I said. “Back in a flash.”

“Oh, desperation. So ugly,” Freddie said, grinning.

The mirror over the bathroom sink showed that my cheeks were flushed. My hands were shaking. My heart seemed to be shaking, too.

For some reason, I thought—with absolutely no evidence, of course… Well. It had crossed my mind that after the little speech in Mark's office about how irreplaceable I was…combined with the reinforcement of my creative talent…that Mark would…that things would…

Oh, God. Michelle Obama was right. I was an idiot. “Idiot!” I said to my reflection.

“Excuse me?” said a woman coming out of the stall.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” I said. “Just talking to myself.” I gave her a quick look. “I
love
your bag. Kate Spade?”

She smiled. “Yes, actually. Isn't the color cheery? Hey, is it my imagination, or are those Jeffrey Campbell shoes? Absolutely gorgeous!”

I smiled back. “They are.”

Ah, accessories. Always good for a bonding moment.

She was very pretty…no. She was beautiful. Short, honey-blond hair, big smile, green eyes, Michelle Pfeiffer beautiful. She was also vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her face.

“So who's the idiot?” she asked in a friendly tone, washing her hands.

“I am. Or he is. I don't quite know. Maybe we both are.”

She smiled and pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser. “It's him, I'm sure of it.”

I grinned. “Thank you. You're clearly brilliant.”

She laughed and tossed the paper towels into the trash.

“So what brings you to our fair city?” I asked, knowing she wasn't from around here.

“Oh, I was driving through. Dropped in on a friend, but he wasn't home.” She fished her car keys out of her adorable purse.

Booty call gone wrong, I thought. “Well, have a safe ride home.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Nice talking to you.”

“You, too.” I felt a warm and fuzzy glow in my heart. People were just the best. I
loved
people. Most people, anyway.

Taking a deep breath and smiling determinedly at my reflection, I left the ladies' room. Whoop & Holler was crammed tonight, and of course I knew nine-tenths of the people there. The River Rats were packed around the bar, as they saw it as their sacred duty to support both alcohol-serving institutions in town. Shaunee Cole was fending off a pass from Harmon Carruthers; Harmon was sweet-talking her, undeterred. Jim O'Byrne had fallen asleep, his forehead resting on a shot glass.

“Callie! How's your grandfather?” Robbie Neal asked. He was this year's River Rat president, a nice enough guy who was married to my eighth-grade gym teacher. “Is he coming to the regatta? It's the weekend before Halloween, don't forget.”

“I'll work on him,” I said, waving to a few other Rats.

“We'd be honored to have him,” Robbie said. “Do you think he'd donate a kayak for a raffle we're doing?”

“Is it a good cause? Because if it's for your booze fund, then probably not.” Noah had been known to give a canoe or kayak to various fundraisers over the years,
though he pretended to be disgruntled when asked. Five years ago, he donated a beautiful cedar rowboat with caned seats to a children's hospital fundraiser. It sold for more than twenty grand. Noah had been equal parts proud and disgusted.

“Sorry to say, Joey Christmas was just diagnosed with cancer,” Robbie said. “No insurance.”

“Count Noah in, then,” I said instantly. Sure, I'd have to whine and plead for an hour, despite the fact that Noah and I both knew he'd give in…it was just tradition. “I'll give something, too, if you want.”

Robbie winked. “How about ten minutes alone with you? We'd get a lot of bids on that one,” he said, dropping his gaze to my chest and sighing appreciatively.

“Ten minutes, Robbie? Is that all you'd need? How disappointing.” He smiled. “So how's Joey doing?”

“You know. You can't kill a guy that mean. Want a drink, Callie?”

I noted that Shaunee had let Harmon's hand stay on her ass. They'd been pretending not to date for years. “No, thanks, Robbie,” I said. “I have to go sprinkle fairy dust.” He nodded as if that made perfect sense. “Don't let Jim try to drive home,” I added. “Or walk, for that matter. He'll fall in the river and drown.”

“You bet, Callie. Tell Noah we said hi.”

“Sure.”

I wound my way through the sea of tables toward my destination. Muriel was facing away from me, and Mark's face was serious as he leaned forward. They were holding hands.
Fairy dust,
I reminded myself. As I approached, Muriel's voice cut through the crowd. “It's just that she's so smug.”

My footsteps halted.

“No, Mure, she's really not,” Mark said. “She's just more experienced. You'll get there.”

“Then why does she have to gloat? I mean—”

Gloat? I didn't gloat! Not one bit (which had taken some serious self-control, let me tell you!). “Hey, guys! How are you?” I said, lurching back into action.

Mark's face lit up. “Callie! What are you doing here?”

“I had a drink with a friend,” I said. “Hi, Muriel.”

Two spots of red burned on her white, white cheeks, practically melting them.

“Do you want to join us?” Mark said easily.

“Sure. Just for a sec.” I pulled up a chair and sat. “Heard it was a little tricky at Hammill today.” I may have heard Muriel hiss, and I turned to her magnanimously. “I thought the squirrel idea was pretty cute. Not bad for the first time out.”

“Gee. Thanks,” she replied, acid practically dripping from her mouth.

“If you ever want to bounce some ideas off me, my door's always open,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes to glittering slits. “Thank you.”

I took a deep breath.
You're behaving very well,
Michelle affirmed. “Well, I'll leave you two alone. Have a great night.”

“Thanks, Callie,” Mark said, his eyes warm. “See?” I heard him say as I walked away. “She's not out to get you, sweetpea.”

The last word hit me like a poison dart, and I had to force myself to keep going.
Sweetpea.
Mark had called me that once. In Santa Fe, in front of an antique jewelry store, when I'd paused to admire a charm bracelet.
Come on, sweetpea. We have better things to do than shop.
A hundred points for guessing what those better things
were, but here's a hint. Hotel. Bed. Two consenting adults.

So. Muriel was sweetpea now.

Freddie and I hung out for another couple hours, as neither of us had other plans. We ordered burgers, I switched to water, Freddie guzzled beer and we watched the Red Sox lose to the Angels in the tenth. M&M left in the sixth, I noted. They were crap fans. Didn't even care about the Sox. Not that I really did, either, but still.

“I'll drive you home, pal,” I said, as my newly legal brother was tipsy.

“I'll walk,” he slurred.

“Nah. I'll drive you. But I won't tuck you in. You're on your own from the driveway on.”

“'Kay. Thanks, sissy.”

Five minutes later, my brother had made it through the front door of the funeral home, and my forced good cheer dropped with a thud. The street was quiet; it was nearly midnight, and Georgebury wasn't exactly known for its nightlife. For a few minutes, I just sat in my silent Prius and breathed.

Sweetpea.

Then, my heart both stony and sore, I put Lancelot into reverse and headed out again. But not toward home. Silencing my inner First Lady, I headed down Main Street, past Georgebury Academy. Took a left onto Camden Street and just before the hill veered steeply downward, came to a stop. Turned off my headlights and sat there.

Lights were on downstairs, warm and mellow. I rolled down my window. There was a chill in the air…autumn came fast to Vermont. Despite what the calendar said, summer had already left us. The slight breeze carried a
snatch of music toward me… I couldn't quite make it out, but it sounded…sophisticated. Jazz, maybe.

Then someone turned off a light in the kitchen, where, one time, I'd cooked dinner for Mark. A person passed by the living room window. Mark. He stopped, turned and looked back. Then Muriel's wraith-like figure passed by the window. She pushed back some hair, then leaned over and clicked off a light, enshrouding the downstairs in darkness. A few seconds later, an upstairs light went on. Mark's bedroom.

Their bedroom.

My throat was thick with tears, and self-disgust churned in my stomach. Why did I still love him? After the hell he'd put me through this week, I just shouldn't. Why couldn't I get over him? What had been lacking between us? Santa Fe had been the happiest time of my life. Why wasn't it enough for Mark? What did he see in Muriel deVeers, who had all the warmth of one of the bodies in my mother's basement, that he hadn't seen in me? If I was so irreplaceable, if he was still using that velvet voice on me, why wasn't I the one in that house right now?

Callie, get a grip. You are parked on his street, alone, while he's upstairs with another woman. Is this who you want to be?
a voice asked. And this time, she didn't even sound like Michelle Obama.

She sounded a lot like me.

“E
ASY THERE, GIRL
,
we're not in this for exercise,” I warned Annie as she paddled vigorously.

“We're not?” Annie asked.

“Nope. This is scenery appreciation only. Oh, look! A loon! Hi, loon!”

It was Saturday morning, a week after my little spying gig, which had left a bad taste in my mouth for quite a few days. A paddle on a lake was just the sort of soul cleansing I needed, so when Annie called this morning, begging me to get her out of the house before she (in her words) “slaughtered every living thing,” I suggested kayaking. Then, of course, when I zipped over there, I had to pry her off her child as she covered Seamus's ridiculously cute face with kisses, then made out with her husband in the front hall. “You people disgust me,” I said, finally dragging her off.

“Bye, Callie,” Jack called.

“Don't you have a twin?” I'd asked. “No? Then save it, bub.”

Alas, Annie was a jock…as opposed to my lackadaisical paddle, she was quite the little engine that could, propelling us along at a good clip and expecting me to keep up.

“It's nice to have human company,” I said, turning my head a bit so Annie, who was in the back, could hear me.

“Bowie's not jealous?” she asked.

“Of course he is. I had to give him three chew sticks and a pancake.”

Kayaking…at least,
this
type of kayaking, was just breathtaking. The let's-see-if-these-rapids-will-kill-me type…not for me. But Annie and I were just circling Granite Lake, following the shore, where small waves slapped at the rocks in a rhythmic, soothing beat. A snapping turtle broke the surface a few feet away, then ducked back under the water with barely a ripple.

Today, the air was soft, the sky gray and gentle. It had been chilly at first, but now that we'd been at it a while, we were warmer. The lake was spring-fed and so clear I could see to the bottom, which was lined with the rocks that gave the lake its name. Surrounding us was a nearly unbroken wall of green—pines and hemlocks, maples and oaks. Overnight, the leaves would start to turn…the few tinges of yellow and red that had been flirting with us since August would suddenly engulf the foliage in fiery, heart-stopping color that would light up our countryside, a shock of beauty so intense it dazzled the eyes and made you wonder how you'd last another year without it.

“So how are your parents?” Annie asked.

“Um…hmm,” I said, taking yet another opportunity to stop paddling and turn to talk to my friend. “How to answer that. Let's see. The Tour of Whores made its second stop, apparently. I wasn't there this time—thank you, Jesus—but according to Hester, this particular home wrecker was blind, and when Mom saw the white cane and guide dog, she just lost heart. Left the table and had Dad buy the woman a drink.”

“Figured she'd been punished enough? God struck her blind, that sort of thing?” Annie asked.

“Well, apparently she's always been blind,” I said. “Which makes me wonder a little.”

“About what?”

“Well, the first woman was a widow. This one was blind. What's the next one gonna be? A refugee from a war-torn country? Maybe my dad was—”

“Don't say it,” Annie warned.

“Say what? How do you know what I'm thinking?”

“Because we've been friends for a thousand years, and you're always Polly Sunshine when it comes to people—”

“A positive quality, some would say,” I interrupted.

“—especially when it comes to men, and especially,
especially
when it comes to your father, and you were about to say something along the lines of ‘My dad was performing a public service,' am I right?”

“No! I'm well aware that he broke my mother's heart. But, Annie, you have to admit…”

“I should slap you.”

“You and Michelle Obama,” I muttered, then, in a normal voice, said, “The thing is, Mom's just torturing him. She's like a shark who just…I don't know…just ate a walrus, sees a baby seal and eats that, too. Not because she's hungry…just because she can.”

“She has a right to be mad, Callie.”

“Twenty-two years of being mad?”

“I don't know,” Annie said, huffing away behind me. “If Jack even thought of cheating on me, I'd slice him up good.”

I grinned. “I love when you talk all tough like that, you gangsta, you.”

“Get paddling,” she retorted. “Or I'll slice you up, too.”

I turned back around and obeyed. A thumb-size mosquito whined near my face, taunting me before coming in for the pint or so of blood it would take. The
water sluiced gently against the bow of my kayak. Our speed was pretty good…certainly much better than when Bowie and I went out, since the stubborn beast refused to help.

“Oh, look!” Annie said, nudging me with her paddle. “A man!” She pointed into the distance. Sure enough, a human figure was visible on a dock about a hundred yards away.

“Let's kidnap him and force him to marry me,” I suggested.

“Okay!” Annie laughed. “Ooh. I think he's drawing! That's so hot, don't you think?”

“Only if I'm naked and wearing the Heart of the Ocean and Jack Dawson is intently sketching me mere hours before his hypothermic death in the North Atlantic,” I said with a happy sigh.

“You've got to stop watching those sappy movies.”

“I will not! And don't get sanctimonious on me, young lady! Didn't your own husband use the phrase
You complete me
during his marriage proposal? Hmm?”

“I still regret telling you that,” she murmured. “Let's go check him out.”

As we drew near, we could see the figure more clearly. It was indeed a man. And not just any man. It was Ian, sitting cross-legged on an old wooden dock, Angie at his side. And yes, he was drawing, a sketchpad on his lap. He looked up as we approached.

“Hi!” Annie chirped.

“Hi, Ian,” I seconded.

“Hello.” He watched as we pulled up to the dock, our intentions clear—to interrupt his lovely morning.

“Ian, this is my friend, Annie Doyle. Annie, the new vet, Ian McFarland.”

“Hi there,” she said, making me blush furiously,
because Annie had this voice, you know? The voice she used when a particularly good meal was served…that
oh, God, yes, yes, come to me, fettuccine Alfredo
type of voice. “It's…
really
nice to meet you.” I considered smacking her with my paddle.

“Are you drawing, Ian?” I asked.

Ian glanced down at his pad, the pencil that he held in his hand, then back at me.
Wow. Those are some powers of deduction.
“Yes.” Angie's tail wagged.

“Can we dock here for a sec? I could really use a good stretch,” Annie said, subtle as a charging wildebeest.

Ian hesitated a second. “Sure.”

We paddled up to the dock. Ian came down to steady the kayak as we twisted and lunged our way out.

“So!” Annie said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you live around here, Ian?”

“Yes. Over there.”

He pointed to the woods. A little path twisted through the pines and over the granite rocks. I could make out a clearing, but not a house. “Is this your dock?” Annie asked. It would probably be easier if she just asked for a financial statement. Knowing her, that would be next.

“Yes. It's mine.” Ian's eyes flicked over to me.

“So Callie tells me she's doing a little work for you, Ian,” Annie said, nodding approvingly. “She's the best. So talented. You're very lucky to have her. She's great.”

“That's enough, Annie,” I said. “I didn't know you drew, Ian.” I could've put that on the Web site.
Hobbies include painting, drawing and being too polite to get rid of intrusive visitors.
“That painting in your office…your work?”

He looked at me, mildly surprised that I guessed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I love that picture,” I said. “Nice and juicy with all that squishy paint.”

“She doubles as an art critic,” Annie said with mock seriousness. Ian smiled. My uterus twitched in response. Dang. To cover my blush, I knelt down to pet Angie, who wagged politely.

“You know what?” Annie said abruptly. “I have a soccer game! Actually, Seamus—my son, Ian—he has a soccer game. But I have to go to it! I forgot! So I'm just gonna call Jack and he can come and get me! Okay?”

“I thought Seamus and Jack were going to the movies,” I said.

“No, he has a soccer game,” Annie ground out, widening her eyes at me as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Hi, Jack, sweetie, can you pick me up? No, I'm fine. I just remembered the game. The
game.
Never mind. I'm at…what's your address, Ian?”

“75 Bitter Creek Road,” he answered, glancing at me. “Will you be able to get back alone?” he asked, looking down at the kayak.

“Sure,” I said, resigned. Annie was matchmaking, a disastrous hobby of hers that had resulted thus far in zero happy couples and two estranged cousins.

“Shall I just scamper down this path and wait for my husband at your house, Ian?” Annie asked, snapping her phone shut.

“Please. No scampering,” I said.

Ian didn't seem to know what to say. “Uh… Sure. I'll show you the way.”

Annie beamed and started off. “So, Ian, tell me about yourself,” she said merrily, then proceeded to fill him in
on the wonder that was me. “Callie and I have been friends since we moved here when I was in fourth grade. She came right up and said hi, and the rest is history!”

The path from the lake was lovely, just wide enough for two people. The clouds had blown off, but the pines were so thick here the sunlight only broke through in patches, spilling gold on the forest floor. Ian's dog padded silently beside me. “How are you, Angie?” I asked, petting the dog's silky head. “Are you a beautiful girl?” She wagged her tail in confirmation that yes, indeed she was. “‘Angie… Aaaangie. Ain't it good to be ali-i-i-ive?'” I sang in a whisper. It was, after all, our tradition.

Ahead of me, Annie was yakking away. Ian rubbed his neck with one hand, trying to answer Annie's prying questions, such as…

“So, Ian, are you married?” My friend blinked up at him.

“I'm divorced,” he said, glancing back at me as if in a plea for help.

“How sad!” Annie sang. “How long has it been?”

“Two years.”

Annie turned and pulled a gruesome face meant to indicate joy and hope. “Well, I'm sure you'll find a special some—”

“Look! A deer!” I barked. The deer fled, white tail flashing as it leaped neatly into the woods. I took the opportunity to trot up to Annie and pinch her. Hard. “Stop it,” I mouthed.

“What are you talking about?” she mouthed back, then said aloud, “Is this your place? It's beautiful!”

Ah. We were here. I stopped in my tracks.

The woods thinned out to a backyard. The grass had
recently been cut, the fresh, sweet scent filling the air. The house was a green two-story farmhouse with a beautiful gray slate roof…a classic New England design, but, if I wasn't mistaken, recently overhauled. New windows, I thought. Fresh paint.

“This is very pretty, Ian,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Um…would you like to come in?” It was clear he didn't know how to avoid asking us.

“Sure! I'd love some coffee,” Annie said, shooting me another joyful look.

We walked around the side yard, which had a bank of mature lilac trees along one side. I could only imagine the smell in the springtime. Then we came to the front, and once again, I stopped short.

We were on the edge of a large field thick with goldenrod and late-blooming black-eyed Susans. Dragonflies dipped and skimmed, and finches flew in and out of the long grass. A stone wall ran along one side…a real stone wall, the Robert Frost variety, uneven and sincere. The gravel driveway led out to the unseen road—it would be hell to plow come winter, but who cared? About two hundred yards off was a large stand of maples, already topped in red. Ian would be in for quite a show in a few more weeks.

“Come on in,” Ian said. Did I mention he was wearing faded Levis? I suppressed a lustful sigh and followed him onto the porch, then turned to take in the view (of the natural scenery, not his ass, though both were compelling). The wide porch wrapped around on the western side. Perfect for sunsets. No railing, just an unobscured view of the field. A person could spend all day sitting on a porch like this, listening to the birds and the wind in the grass, the smell of pines rich and sharp in the air…

“You coming, Callie?” Annie chirped.

“Sure,” I said distantly, tearing my eyes off the view.

“This place is gorgeous!” she hissed. “And he's not so bad himself! Oh, my God, those eyes!”

“Can you keep it down, please?” I asked. Ian was already inside.

“I wish I wasn't married,” she murmured. “I'm serious. I'm leaving Jack.”

“Super. I've always had a thing for him. Now's my chance,” I said, stepping into the house.

The interior of the house was pretty damn impressive, too. Clearly, an architect had done this, because it had that sleek, perfect feeling…smooth, shiny hardwood floors, streamlined bookcases, funky steel light fixtures. The overall effect was very modern, and maybe a little stark. And beautiful, because it was that, too. Expensive-looking furniture was well placed throughout, reinforcing the slightly chilly tone—I didn't see a place where slumping and flopping could be executed too well, a far cry from the sofa I'd brought to Noah's, which was aging leather and deliciously broken-in, a piece that seemed to invite a running start. But the house was beautiful.

And it was clean. Immaculate, even. I was a fair housekeeper myself, but not like this.