All I Ever Wanted (21 page)

Off the great room was the kitchen, which had more steel light fixtures and slate countertops. Ian was already there, measuring out coffee beans.

“How long have you lived here?” Annie asked, gesturing me to heel.

“Not that long,” he answered, not looking at her. “Four months.”

“How old is the house?” she asked. Honestly, I was
surprised she didn't whip out her phone and start taking pictures.

“It was built in 1932,” Ian answered. “My uncle bought it in the sixties, and after he died, I bought it from the bank. Had it redone when I bought the practice.”

Dropping her hand so that Ian couldn't see (and making sure that I could), Annie rubbed her fingers against her thumb.
Money.
She nodded at me and smiled. I sighed.

Angie's ears pricked up as a car slowly came down the driveway, the gravel crunching under the wheels.

“Oh, drat, Jack's here,” Annie said. “Well, great meeting you! Have to run!”

“What about your coffee?” Ian asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Your husband's welco—”

“See you soon!” she said, then hurtled out the door and ran toward Jack's car.

“I thought she wanted coffee,” Ian said, staring out the window as Jack turned the car around and headed back down the driveway.

“She has psychological problems. Sorry about that.” I looked around the room again. “This is a very nice place, Ian.”

“Thanks,” he said, opening a cupboard. Inside looked like a Pottery Barn display—rows of neatly arranged mugs, all the same color and style, unlike my own motley collection, which ranged from the thick and uneven mug Josephine made me in preschool to an antique porcelain cup my gran had used each day for tea. Nope, Ian had only a row of mugs, six in all, pale green, very pleasing. Glasses, all the same model, six of each size, three sizes in all, stood like obedient soldiers.

The same thought that had been niggling away at me
all week popped into my brain. “I heard you and Fleur had coffee the other day,” I said.

He looked up. “Who's Fleur?”

Say no more, Ian. Question answered.
“Um…my coworker? Tony Blair's mommy? The one who took you on the hike?”

“Right. I think I saw her in town.” He returned his attention to measuring the coffee.

“Can I look around a little?” I asked.

“Sure.” He may have sighed.

I wandered into the great room. On the walls were three large prints, all the same size, all matted in white and framed in black, a series of photographs of leaves…maple, fern, oak, close-up studies in sharp detail.

“Did you take these?” I asked. “They're really nice.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said in that formal way of his. It was starting to grow on me. The coffeepot gurgled.

So Ian McFarland had an artistic streak. That was kind of nice. Quite nice, really.

The bookcase held mostly science-related tomes…here was a page-turner—
Flynn's Parasites of Laboratory Animals.
Blick!
Small Animal Medical Differential Diagnosis.
Along with the textbooks were scattered a few manly novels…
Call of the Wild, The Old Man and the Sea.
And aw! He had
All Creatures Great and Small
by James Herriot, the charming story of the English vet.

“I loved this book when I was little!” I exclaimed, taking it out.

He looked up and almost smiled. “Me, too.”

I replaced the book and continued my perusal, coming to a picture of Ian, an older woman…attractive, lean,
very blue eyes…and a
gorgeous
man. Hello! Might this be
Alejandro?
Lord, I got a little turned-on just thinking his name. “Your family?” I asked, picking up the photo.

“Yes.”

“Is your brother married?”

“Yes.”

Figured. There was another picture of his mother…with a face I quite recognized. “Is this
Bono?
” I yelped, snatching the photo off the shelf.

“Yes,” Ian said, smiling. “They met at a fundraiser in Africa… Nigeria, I think.”

“Wow. I always thought we'd end up together, Bono and I.”

“He's also married,” Ian said.

“Rub it in,” I said. A few of the books were not in English. “So you speak Spanish?” I asked, wandering back over to the kitchen area.

Ian reached into another cabinet, which showed the same ruthless organization as the first. He took out a small pitcher in the same shade as the mugs, as well as a matching sugar bowl.

“Yes,” he answered. “I moved to Latin America when I was eight, spent a few years there, a couple in Chile, three in Africa. I speak passable French, too. I knew a little Swahili, but I've forgotten most of it.”

“That is so cool!” I exclaimed. He didn't answer. “Or not,” I added. He gave a grudging smile, then got out some spoons. I was beginning to feel like I was at a Japanese tea ceremony…everything so precise. I had some cute pitchers and sugar bowls, too, though they were of the “high on a shelf, covered in dust” variety. My own formalities usually ended at sniffing the half-and-half to make sure it wasn't sour. Ian opened the fridge—
Good Lord, it was as anal retentive as the rest of the house, neatly wrapped foil packages lined up in a row. “Do you like to cook, Ian?” I asked.

“I don't really have the time,” he answered. “I get most of my meals from Kitty's Catering.”

“I'm having you over for a home-cooked meal, then. One of these days.”

He made a noncommittal sound, glancing up at me, almost meeting my eyes.

“So did you like moving around, living in so many parts of the world?” I asked.

The coffeepot beeped, and Ian seemed glad to have something to do while he answered. “I appreciate it now,” he said carefully. “It was a little hard back then.” He handed me a mug and took a sip of his own coffee. I noted that he took his coffee black. All that cream and sugar prep, just for me. It was rather flattering.

“Thanks, Ian. Sorry about intruding like this.”

“It's fine. It's nice to have company,” he replied.

“I think you're lying.” I smiled as I said it.

“Only a little,” he answered, and my smile grew. Ian McFarland, making a joke! Angie seemed to approve, because she chuffed softly next to him. “Have a seat,” he said, and we moved to the living room area. Ian sat in a sleek white chair (white? With an Irish setter? Clearly she wasn't the leg-humping, lap-sitting variety of dog, like my own beloved fur ball). I chose the couch, which was pale green, taking care not to slosh any coffee.

Outside, a chickadee sang repeatedly. Angie lay down next to Ian's chair and put her head on his foot.

“You should have a party here,” I observed. “Have you had your staff over?”

“No,” Ian answered.

“You should. Dr. Kumar used to. And your staff is so great. I've known Earl and Carmella for ages.” No comment from my host. “My own boss has us over every now and again. It would be part of your warm and fuzzy campaign.” I smiled and took a sip of the joe, which was dark and nutty. Maybe his mom sent it from Colombia or something.

Ian set his cup down. “I'm not sure if you've noticed, Callie,” he said slowly, not looking at me, “but I'm not exactly warm and fuzzy.” He straightened the coaster so it was exactly aligned with the edge of the coffee table.

“Well, sure, I've noticed, Ian,” I answered. “You're kind of…formal. But that's okay. We're not trying to lie. Just make people like you more.”

“I don't really care if people like me more, Callie. I just want to maintain my customer base.” His jaw was getting a little clenched.

“Which you can do by being a little warmer and fuzzier,” I said, smiling to show this would not be at all painful.

“You're good at that, aren't you?” he said after a beat.

“Good at what?”

“Working people over.”

I blinked. “Ouch, Ian!”

“What?” He gazed at me impassively, unaware that he'd just stuck a knife in my heart.

My mouth opened and closed before I could actually form words. “Well, if you mean I'm good at talking to people in a polite and interested way, Ian, then yes, I
am
good at it. Perhaps you can learn by my example. And thank you for the compliment.”

“It wasn't a compliment,” he said. “It's an observation.”

“Why are you being mean to me?”

“I'm not being mean, Callie. I'm just…being honest. You try very hard to make everyone like you, and not everyone needs that kind of…affirmation. I don't.”

“No, of course not. You're perfect in every way.”

He rolled his eyes. “That's not what I'm saying at all.”

“Well, what are you saying?” My voice was getting a little loud, and my face felt hot.

“Just…you seem to try very hard at something that maybe you shouldn't.”

“And how would you know anything about me?” I asked tightly.

He shrugged. “I've seen you in action. That older woman in line in the Department of Motor Vehicles. The guy who made things out of hair. All those people at Elements. The older man on the hike that day. You work people.”

I slapped my cup down on the coffee table, getting a gratifying twitch from my host as the coffee sloshed nearly over the rim of my cup. “I do not
work
people, Ian. I'm nice. I'm cheerful. I'm smart and I'm cute. People like me because those are likable qualities. Much more so than, oh, I don't know, frosty and anal retentive, wouldn't you say?”

He just looked at me, unblinking, and I couldn't tell if he was mad or amused or just unfeeling. Unexpectedly, a lump rose in my throat.

“I think I should head back,” I said, standing up. “Thanks for the coffee. It was delicious. And your house is beautiful.”

“There you go again,” he murmured.

“I'm just being polite, Ian! It's how my mother raised me! I'm sorry if you think I'm some insincere phony!”

He stood up quickly, took a step toward me and then stopped, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I don't,
Callie. I don't think that.” He gave his head a little shake. “I don't know how we got into this conversation.”

“Me, neither,” I muttered.

“Look, Callie,” he said quietly, “I didn't mean to insult you, but it's clear I did. I meant only that…” His gaze drifted to his dog, then to the bookcase. “You don't have to try so hard.” He paused, then met my eyes with some difficulty. “Not with me, anyway.”

Oh.
Oh.

Suddenly aware that my mouth was open, I shut it. What should I say? Thank you? Bite me? I don't mean to try so hard, it's just ingrained?
Why don't you just kiss him?
Betty Boop suggested.

“I'll walk you back to your kayak,” Ian offered.

“Okay,” I said faintly.

The walk back to the dock didn't seem nearly as long as the walk in had. We didn't talk. I was still trying to sort out what Ian had said, if there had been…something. He was not the easiest man to read.

The clouds were back, though a few shafts of gold pierced the lake. Rain was about an hour off, if I interpreted the signs correctly. Not that I ever did.

“Well. See you soon,” I said, looking at my kayak.

“Okay,” Ian said. “Need a hand?”

Ah, blushing. Ever reliable, those cheeks o' mine. “Sure,” I said. He held out his hand, and I took it, and it sure did feel safer, that warm, strong hand holding mine. Alas, the second I was in the kayak, he let go.

“Next weekend's the pet fair,” I reminded him. He stood on the rocks with his hands in his back pockets.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I'll…I'll call you, but everything's pretty much in place,” I said.

“I'm sure it is,” he said, looking at me with those disconcerting blue, blue eyes.
Say something,
I urged him silently.

“Do you need a push?”

Not what I was hoping for. “Okay.”

And with that, he gave the boat a strong shove, sending me out past his dock.

“Thanks, Ian,” I called, giving him a wave.

“Nice seeing you,” he said, then turned and walked down the path, disappearing almost at once into the woods. I took a deep breath and started paddling uncharacteristically hard, both glad and relieved to be away from him.

You don't have to try so hard. Not with me, anyway.

If it meant what I wanted it to mean, it was the nicest thing a man had said to me in a long, long time.

Then again, I was excellent at misinterpretation.

I
N A VERY RARE MANEUVER
,
my sister came over one night. “Hi,” I said, opening the door as Bowie leaped and crooned. “Did someone die?”

“No,” she answered. “Why? Did someone die here?”

“No.” I shook my head. “It's just…you never come over.”

“Does that mean you're thrilled to see me and want to pour me a glass of wine?”

“Yes! Yes, it does, Hes.”

“Keep it down!” Noah bellowed from the living room.

“We have company!” I yelled back.

“I don't know how you live with him,” Hester said. “Dog, get off my leg or I'll castrate you so fast you won't know what hit you.”

“I'm trying to watch
America's Next Top Model!
” our dear grandfather shouted. “Go upstairs, you two!”

“He's very dedicated,” I told Hester, grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge. “He thinks Tenisha's going to win, but her pictures last week…train wreck.”

Hester sighed. “Callie, I need advice,” she said.

I paused as I reached for the glasses. This was new. “Um…okay. Sure. Let's go up to my room.”

“Finally,” Noah muttered as we passed his chair. “Hello, Hester.”

“Hi, Grumpy,” she said.

“Takes one to know one,” he returned.

Upstairs, Hester sat on my bed, well aware of the ban on the Morelock chair, and poured herself a glass of wine 'til it hit the brim. “How are you?” she asked, then chugged half the glass.

“Um, I'm good,” I said. “And you?”

“Great. Just great,” she said.

“So what can I advise you on, Hes?” I asked, sitting in my office chair.

“Bronte's been having a rough time lately.”

I nodded. “More than just adolescence?”

“Well,” Hester said, “she says she feels like a misfit up here…adopted, mixed race, single mother, funeral home in the family.”

“Right,” I said.

“So this morning she comes down to breakfast and gives me a list of all the reasons she doesn't fit in, from her skin color to that wonky toenail on her left foot.”

I smiled. “It's always freaked me out, I'll be honest.”

Hester smiled back a little, and then, abruptly, her eyes filled with tears. “So she said if there was one thing on the list that she could actually change, it would be having a single mother.”

“What?” I breathed. “She wants to be put back in foster care?”

“No, idiot. She wants me to marry someone.”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, that makes more sense.” Or not. “Wow, Hes.”

“I've tried so hard, Callie,” she wept. “You know. Don't end up like Mom, avoid men, adopt a child who needs a home, be stable and normal and strict and loving, and here she shoots me right in my Achilles' heel!”

“That's what kids do, I guess,” I murmured, handing my sister a box of tissues.

“Exactly. All my life I haven't needed a man. Never wanted to, because look how it fucked up Mom, right? Now my kid needs a father, and it just sucks!”

“Well, just tell her it's not for you. Tell her how much you love her and all that—”

“I already have!” Hester said, wiping her eyes. She blew her nose so loudly Bowie jumped up and barked. “Bronte said she had to make a huge adjustment to become my daughter, and the least I can do is try to make one for her.”

“She's good,” I murmured.

“I know,” Hester said.

Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her, living with her fourth foster family in Queens, New York. She hadn't wanted to leave the city; it took her months to sleep through the night. She'd barely spoken that first year.

“So,” Hester said, flopping down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “Can you help me find a boyfriend? I was thinking of that vet guy.”

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Um, Hes, I kind of…like him.”

“Okay. Do you know anyone else?” Obviously, my sister didn't care who it was.

“Do you really want a boyfriend, Hester?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I'll give it a shot.” She glanced at me. “It's what you do when you have kids. And then, when Bronte sees what a clusterfuck dating is, she'll drop it, I'll take her to get her hair straightened, and maybe that will be the end of it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good plan, in a freakish, insincere way.”

“Exactly. So? Any names? You know everyone in town.”

“Do they have to be good-looking and employed and normal?”

“Nah,” Hester said. “Just single.”

“Okay, then. Yes, I know lots of men,” I said. “I'll make a list. I have a guy who makes macramé out of human hair, a farmer who doesn't talk or bathe, Jake Pelletier and his three ex-wives…” I looked up at my sister. “Plenty to choose from.”

“Perfect. That'll set Bronte straight. Thanks, Callie,” my sister said sincerely. “I knew I could count on you.”

 

T
HE MORNING OF THE PET
fair dawned bright and beautiful, a perfect fall day, the air crisp, the sun warm, the leaves abruptly unbelievable. Honestly, the trees glowed as if lit from within, Nature's personal cathedral.

“Do you want to go see Dr. Ian? Do you?” I asked Bowie, who leaped onto his feet at the very thought. Then again, he tended to leap to his feet for anything.

I got dressed…no skirt or dress today, alas, but still, I wanted to look good, as I was sort of running this thing. And I'd be busy: There was the dog agility course, face painting, refreshments. Josephine and the Brownies would be dressed like cats or dogs, collecting for the Vermont Humane Society. The Senior Center had a choir—the Merryatrics (I thought of the name, thank you very much…they'd been high on my chocolate chip cookies that day and had nearly voted in favor of One Foot in the Grave) would be performing animal-related songs, such as “Barracuda” and “Eye of the Tiger” (they were a frisky lot). I'd confirmed with Sergeant Davis of the state police K-9 unit yesterday. Bethanne, the pet psychic who also worked as a nurse in Hester's office, was thrilled at the chance to use her sixth sense. I had
even—and this had been the hardest sell of all—I had even convinced Noah to come and whittle little cats and dogs to sell, the proceeds of which would go to the local animal shelter. Ian's three-person staff would all be there to help as well.

If the advertising career didn't work out, I could always do event planning, I thought as I surveyed myself in the mirror. “You're very cute,” I said aloud. Smiled to prove it. Remembered what Ian had said about not needing to try so hard. Sighed.

Going into the bedroom, I glanced at my rocking chair. The sunlight poured through my window, illuminating the honeyed tiger maple. I ran a finger over the back, gave it a little push to see it rock, its smooth, gentle movement never failing to charm me. It was waiting, I thought. Waiting to be used for more than the occasional comfort session. But the time wasn't right. Not yet.

“Let's go, Bowie!” I said, earning a high yip and three whirling-dervish circles from my beloved.

Noah was waiting in the kitchen, scowling, a sweater vest over his flannel shirt—his version of dressed up.

“You look very nice, Grampy,” I said.

“What do you know?” he retorted. Then he recalled that he loved me and pinched my chin. “So do you, sweetheart. So do you.”

“You haven't been hitting the sauce, have you?” I asked.

“That's what I get for being nice,” he said, limping for the door. “Get in the damn truck. I'm driving.”

When we pulled up to the vet practice, there were already people milling about, a few Brownies and Scouts, the DJ, Bethanne, the pet psychic. Hester was there, sitting under a tent, booming into her phone. “No, it's
completely normal, it's the injections. Just tell your husband to lock up any weapons, okay? Let's be on the safe side.” She jerked her chin our way.

Fred, whom I'd bribed and blackmailed into being my helper, was running an extension cord to the PA system. He waved. “Hey, idiot!” I called, grinning.

“Hi, dumb-ass!” he returned.

“Have you seen Ian?”

“He's inside,” Freddie answered.

Indeed he was. Gnawing on his thumbnail, staring out the window as if watching Mongol hordes descend. He was wearing a suit.

“Come on, Ian,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. I grabbed his arm and towed him down the hall to his office.

“Take off the suit,” I ordered.

“This is unexpected,” he said.

“Very funny. A suit, Ian?”

“Well, I thought it would—”

“Take off your tie,” I said, jerking the knot loose, “and get rid of the jacket.” I shoved it off his shoulders. His broad, manly shoulders. My movements slowed. Ian smelled good. Really, really good. Like rain, somehow, sharp and clean. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, slow and sure. Felt the heat from his body, which was just a fraction from mine. Those unexpected eyelashes, so blond and somehow sweet, softened his severe looks. There was a little smile in his eyes, and his mouth was very near. If I stood on tiptoe…

“Doc?” Earl, my old vet tech buddy, appeared in the doorway. “Oh. Sorry.”

Suddenly aware that I was basically undressing my client in his office, I jumped back a foot or so, maybe three, and cleared my throat loudly.

“What do you need, Earl?” Ian asked.

“The police officer was wondering if you could float him some etogesic,” Earl said.

“Sure. I'll be right out,” Ian answered.

“Sorry again,” Earl said.

“No, no!” I chirped. “Just a little…wardrobe malfunction.”

“Whatever you say,” Earl said, winking. With that, he left.

“Sorry, Ian,” I muttered, my legs still a little weak. “I just…you know. A suit is not quite the look we're going for. Dockers would've been perfect, a nice blue oxford to match your eyes…”

I was blushing. Big surprise.

“Being male, I generally don't think about matching my eyes,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Well. You should. You have gorgeous eyes,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “Bowie has an eye the same color as yours, very clear blue, like the sky. But his other eye is brown. Like mine. Funny. One like yours, one like mine. Not that I mean anything by that. Okay. I'm gonna stop talking now.”

Ian laughed, and the sound caught me right in the reproductive organs. Resisting the urge to pull a Bowie and flop on my back and offer myself up, I slapped my gaze out the window. Lust twisted hot and hard in my stomach. That was some laugh. Wow. Low and seductive and completely unexpected, that laugh.

“How's this?” Ian asked.

I looked back at him. Swallowed. “Very nice. Much better,” I said. He'd taken off his tie and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves a few times, unbuttoned his shirt a couple. Would it be inappropriate to lick his neck? It
probably would be. I cleared my throat. “Well, you'd better get out there,” I said. “It starts in ten minutes.”

 

A
FEW HOURS LATER, IT
was clear that the pet fair was a huge success.

Dogs of all kinds bounded in the area Freddie and I had designated as Dog Land. The obstacle course hadn't worked so well, as none of the dogs seemed to get the concept and wanted only to mark their territory, but the Brownies had taken it over for their own purposes… Tess McIntyre had the best time thus far. The Merryatrics gave a rousing version of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Bethanne's readings confirmed just how much everyone's pets loved their owners. Noah carved animals, which Jody Bingham took upon herself to hand-sell. Kids ran around with their faces painted like tigers or dogs or Scottish warriors (that would've been Seamus, my dear godson, who wanted to look like William Wallace from
Braveheart
rather than Tigger). The drug-sniffing dog had found Freddie a “person of interest,” but Freddie made a compelling catnip argument, and the cop let Freddie pass after a quick lecture on the continued illegality of marijuana. Bronte had been in charge of Cause for Paws, which rescued cats. By telling people that she herself had found a new and wonderful life thanks to the wonders of adoption, she'd managed to pawn off fourteen felines thus far.

And Ian had been great. Honest. A little stiff, sure, but he'd really tried. Shook hands, admired pets, fielded questions from Elmira Butkes, who was concerned that her twenty-two-year-old cat, Mr. Fluffers, wasn't feeling “perky.” When Ian brought up the average lifespan of housecats (it's thirteen), I gave him a sharp elbow to the
ribs, and he changed his tune a little, saying maybe some B12 would do the trick. He even took the mike for a painful moment and thanked everyone for coming, encouraged them to have fun, not to forget to give what they could to the Humane Society. A little brief, a little formal, but quite…nice.

“So how are you?” Annie asked, coming up beside me to survey the fair.

“I'm feeling…ruttish,” I answered. She snorted appreciatively.

“Who wouldn't?” she said. “He's hot. All dangerous and growly.”

“Like a Russian assassin,” I murmured.

“Exactly,” she nodded. “I'll bet he could kill you with one finger.” We were best friends for a reason.

“Hey,” I said, tearing my eyes off Ian, who was admiring a little girl's newly adopted kitten, “Damien wants it floated to Dave that he's ready to reconcile, okay? So consider it floated.” Damien had cornered me in my office yesterday with the aforementioned information, tired of being single after all of two months.

“Roger that,” Annie said. “How many well-dressed gay men live up here, anyway? They have to be together. It's just a numbers thing.”

“Calliope, you look absolutely edible,” came that silken voice from behind me. I jumped. Sure enough, it was Louis, looking pale and damp and smug, like Gollum smiling over the sleeping Frodo Baggins.