Down on Love (24 page)

Suddenly Lester looked pretty darn happy. “Can I buy you girls another round?”

“No thanks, Lester. I think we’re good for now,” George said, glancing past him. Sure enough, people were looking their way.

Over in a corner, Mrs. Preston waved to her merrily, then beckoned her over.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. Celia grabbed her arm and gave her a panicked look. George whispered, “You don’t have to marry the guy. You don’t even have to let him buy you a drink. Just make small talk. I’ll only be a minute, I swear.”

Ignoring Celia’s wide eyes and Lester’s leaning-in leer, she hopped off the bar stool and made her way to Mrs. Preston’s table.

“George, sweetie,” she said. “I don’t mean to interrupt your evening—are you here with Celia Marshall?”

“Yep. We decided to have a girls’ night out. It’s been fun.”

“Well! That
is
a surprise.”

“Why?” George asked innocently, this time giving in to a little eyelash batting. “Did you think we wouldn’t get along for some reason?”

Mrs. P blushed and changed the subject. “I just wanted to introduce you to my gentleman friend, Harvey Nostrand.”

The elderly man across the table from Mrs. P half-rose from his chair and shook George’s hand. “I remember you, George. But it’s been a long time. How’s your dad?”

“Just fine, Mr. Nostrand. My parents are out seeing the world through the windshield of a big ol’ RV.”

“I heard. Good for them.”

“Harvey’s a woodworker,” Mrs. P said proudly.

I’ll bet he is,
George said to herself, checking the woman’s expression. She seemed pretty pleased with herself. She thought back to the letter from Not Getting Any Younger, which she’d answered with the advice to have a frank discussion about what her beau expected of their relationship. Knowing Mrs. P, she would have gotten right to the point—all she needed was someone’s permission to do it—and Harvey would have had to put up or shut up.

So did this mean Mrs. P
was
Not Getting Any Younger? Had George helped out another Marsden resident?

Then Mrs. P said, “It was so nice to run into you here, dear. Normally we don’t spend evenings out—Harvey always tended to make an early night of it—but he’s turned over a new leaf lately, and we’re just having a grand old time!”

“I’m happy to hear you’re enjoying yourselves.”

“Oh, there’s no reason not to. We’re . . . not getting any younger, after all.”

That was confirmation enough for George. She smiled at the older woman and her date, then made her excuses to get back to Celia and Lester.

And not a moment too soon, it seemed. Evidently Lester had decided whichever woman was still within striking distance was the new love of his life, and George could see, even from across the room, he was scaring Celia half to death with his . . .
enthusiastic
pickup technique. He had one arm across the back of her bar stool and was leaning in while Celia was leaning away. She noticed Charlie Junior was keeping a wary eye on the situation, ready to jump in if Lester got overzealous, but she decided to take care of things instead.

She plopped back onto her bar stool next to Celia. “So. What are we talking about?”

Lester looked put off his game for a minute, but he recovered quickly. “I was just telling Celia here she should come by the farm. I’d give her a private tour of the milking sheds.”

“Wow. That is some offer, Lester. Celia, what do you think?”

Cow-eyed herself, Celia just stammered, “Um . . .”

George turned back to Lester. “You know, I’m not sure Celia’s really feelin’ it, Lester.”

“Too bad. How about you?”

“Me?”

“Sure. Or, you know, both of you. I’ve got a lot to offer a woman. Or, you know, two women.”

George glanced over at Celia, who was looking sort of green. George fought back a laugh. “A lot to offer?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Are we talking lifelong companionship, here, Lester? Commitment of the highest order? A forever kind of thing?”

“What? Uh, you know . . . ,” he stammered, uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken.

George rested her elbow on the bar and her temple on the heel of her hand. She regarded the suddenly sweaty guy with feigned interest. “Mm, that is quite an offer. I just can’t tell who’s doing the talking—the person who happens to have a penis attached, or the penis who happens to have a person attached. I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, though.”

“. . . What?”

“Right. Les, it’s been a blast, but we’ve got to get going.”

“Aw, but—”

“Celia, I think our work here is done. Unless you want to spend some more time with Lester here.”

Celia was off her bar stool like a shot. “You know, I’m beat. It’s been a long day. Let’s go.”

“Good enough. See you around, Lester.”

Once they were outside the bar, Celia rounded on George. “What in the
world
was that all about? Why did you sic Lester on me?”

George was unperturbed. “Okay, Lester wasn’t
actually
part of the plan. We just needed more people to see us hanging out together, being friendly, so they’d lay off the Team George, Team Celia thing. It’s what we agreed on—a united front, right? So now Charlie Junior, and Mrs. Charlie for that matter, saw us, not to mention Mrs. P. That’ll take care of it. Lester was just gravy.”

“I don’t like what just happened.”

“Aw, don’t worry. No harm done. Lester’ll have ‘a couple six’ more beers and forget all about it.” Seeing Celia’s still-stricken look, she softened her tone as she opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for Lester to freak you out.”

“I told you I wasn’t ready to date,” Celia protested, also getting into the Pink Lady.

“And I wasn’t trying to get you a date. You should have more fun with stuff like that. Lester wasn’t serious and you shouldn’t have been, either.”

Celia looked over at her in the dark. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Just . . . I don’t know . . . the whole men thing. Shrug it all off, not take it seriously.”

George laughed ruefully. “I don’t know how to handle men, if that’s what you mean. All I know is, if I’m deadly serious, I end up with guys like my ex before I know what hit me. But if I make sure I
don’t
take them seriously, I end up in charge. I don’t get backed into a corner. And after everything I’ve been through in my relationships, I’d rather not be serious with any guy.”

“But . . . ,” Celia hesitated, then said, “didn’t you say not to get stuck in the ‘taking a break’ zone? I mean, don’t you worry? About being alone?”

“You mean all that stuff like, when you’re around twenty-nine or thirty, and you think your life is over if you’re not married?” Celia nodded. George gave her a look. “What is this, the fifties? I aged out of it. And lived. And it turned out not to matter in the slightest.”

“I wish I could be so calm about it.”

“You should. You did the marriage thing, and it didn’t work. You said you wanted some ‘me time,’ and you’re absolutely right. Don’t let guys define you. If Lester asks you out, it doesn’t mean you have to go—on a tour of the milking sheds or anywhere else.”

Finally Celia snickered. “You’re right. No milking sheds.”

“You think that was a euphemism, or was he being literal?”

“Either way, it was a scary thought.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Celia was quiet the entire five minutes of the drive. (It would have taken two, but George ended up behind Burt Womack again, this time all the way down Main Street. She wondered where in the world he was going all the time.) George pulled up outside Celia’s little house, but Celia made no move to get out of the car.

Finally, she stammered, “It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“What happened at Beers just now was kind of . . . depressing. Talking to Lester just reminded me how few really good guys there are in the world. Lord knows my ex wasn’t one, either.”

“But Casey is.”

Celia gave her a small, shy smile. “Yeah, he is.”

George smiled back and worked hard to ignore the chill feeling that settled in her gut.

“So how was your date?”

“Very funny. What’s she doing up? It’s almost midnight.”

Sera jogged Amelia in her arms as she stood in the middle of the living room. “Won’t sleep.”

“That’s kinda obvious.”

“She went down at the usual time, but—boing—bounced back up a few hours later. And here we are.”

Amelia lifted her drowsy head from Sera’s shoulder and reached over to George.

“What’s up with that?” Sera snapped. “What have you done to my daughter? Now she just wants you.”

George tossed her bag on the couch and took the droopy bundle of niece from her sister.

“What’s your secret?” Sera demanded.

“Some people actually find me quite lovable. I know you’d find that hard to believe, but it’s true.” She patted Amelia’s back gently. “For the hundred-and-first time: Have you considered the cry-it-out approach?”

“Answer one hundred and one: Yes, we have. Stubborn little thing wailed until her nose bled. We caved, and Jaz won’t ever try it again. Breaks her heart, she says.”

“Well, it proves Amelia’s a Down. She won’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. Go to bed; I’ll take care of her.”

“Oh, and within a couple of months you’re the authority on how to get my child to sleep?”

“I have my ways.”

“Which are?”

“I read to her from my blog.”

“That I believe.”

“Go to bed, pain in my butt.”

“Not until I find out how your girls’ night went.”

George bobbed up and down slightly, swinging from side to side at the same time, to hypnotize her niece into sleeping. It never worked, but it just seemed like the thing to do, so she did it anyway. “It was fine,” she said in a low voice. “Celia’s really nice. Just like she was in school.”

“But . . . ?”

“No buts.”

George sighed. “She’s sort of . . . boring. Just like she was in school.”

“Boring? I have never heard anyone call Celia boring. A little bland, maybe . . .”

“Yeah, that. And a little timid.”

“So that makes her a bad person?”

“Not at all. I’m just having second thoughts about foisting her on Casey.”

“Ah
hah!
”

“Ssh!”

In a heated whisper, Sera hissed, “I
knew
you were looking for an excuse.”

“I am
not!
”

“Okay.”

The smirk on Sera’s face really irritated George.

“I just think he needs somebody more . . . lively.”

“Why don’t you let the boy choose for himself?”

“He needs guidance.”

“He needs you to get off his case.”

“Go to bed, Sera. I’ve got this.”

“Fine. But only because I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”

“Oh, really? Who with?”

“Gallery. For an exhibition.”

“Nice.” And George was sincere. She truly was glad Sera was getting some exposure. “What gallery?”

“Um . . . the one at Casey’s farm.”

“Oh . . . ! He mentioned that a while back—converting one of the barns, right? Well, good!” she enthused, ignoring the lurch in her stomach at the mention of Casey’s name.

“So you approve?”

“You don’t need my approval.”

“Still, it’d be nice to have it.”

George smiled at her sister. “You have it, I swear.”

“You’re not going to freak out when he comes over, are you?”

“He what?” George burst out before she could stop herself. “I mean . . . wouldn’t it make more sense for you to go there? See the space and everything?”

“It’s not ready yet. Nothing to see. Do you have a problem with him coming here?”

“Nope.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Not at all. But don’t be surprised if I stay out of your way.”

Sera snickered. “Chicken.”

“Go to bed, bee-yotch.”

When Sera was gone, George snuck a furtive glance at Amelia, hoping the baby would be fast asleep by now. Instead, huge blue eyes stared back at her. George heaved a sigh.

“You really are a stubborn kid, aren’t you?” she whispered. Amelia grinned back, around the two fingers she stuck in her mouth. “Fine. You asked for it.” She settled on the couch, her niece still on her shoulder, and opened her laptop with one hand. “Let’s see what’s in the ol’ inbox, shall we?” Amelia touched George’s lips with her drooly fingers. “Thanks for that. Okay, new messages, new messages . . . let’s try this one.

“‘Dear George,’” she read softly, as though reading Amelia her favorite fairytale, “‘I have a relationship problem.’ Well, you’ve come to the right place, honey. ‘When I was a teenager, I went out with the greatest guy in the world. The only problem was I didn’t know he was the greatest guy in the world at the time.’ Okay, par for the course. So what’s your problem? ‘I was young, I was stupid.’ Weren’t we all? ‘When he broke up with me, I let him. We’ve stayed friends, but we’re not close. Still, our mutual friends keep me informed of what he’s up to. I’ve heard he’s thinking of getting super serious with someone—and our friends say he’s so crazy about her he’d even marry her someday. When I found out, all these feelings came to the surface. I just can’t let him go any further with this new woman without telling him how I feel. Should I contact him and confess my feelings? I hope you say yes. Love and stuff, Desperately Doubting.’”

George turned to her niece. “Well. What do you think of that?” She was glad to see Amelia’s eyelids had drooped lower; they were almost closed. She sat back silently, waiting for the baby to nod off all the way, and started prepping her answer in her head. She knew exactly what she’d say, and she recited it quietly; she knew a few more seconds of soothing murmurs would knock Amelia all the way out. In a dippy, sing-songy voice that matched the message not at all, she murmured, “‘Dear Desperate Dunce, Please watch
My Best Friend’s Wedding
. Then watch it again, from the beginning, immediately. After you’ve watched it all the way through two times in a row, have a drink and examine how you feel. If you’re convinced your ex will leave the woman he now loves—enough to marry, don’t forget—and go back to your crazy ass, then you deserve everything you get if you contact him. Good luck with that. George.’”

Once Amelia was completely asleep, George placed her carefully in her crib, then fetched her laptop from the living room, settled into bed, and started the new DoLlies in Need post. She copied and pasted the message from Desperate into the text box and reread it. It sure sounded familiar. George was pretty sure it wasn’t really Celia. She wasn’t the type of person who would write to her, even anonymously, to share her deepest feelings (she’d probably be too afraid she’d be found out). But what was interesting was her own reaction. She honestly didn’t care whether it was someone she knew or not—she was going to answer the same way. And it wasn’t going to be the reply she’d come up with while she had been waiting for Amelia to fall asleep. She just couldn’t be that flippant, because now she was always keenly aware that there was a real person behind those pixels, with real feelings that could be hurt, with a real life that she could destroy if they took her advice to heart.

“Stupid neighbors,” she muttered to herself. “Cramping my style.” She heaved a sigh and typed a new response.

As she scanned her post for typos and general readability, she refrained from sticking her finger down her throat. How saccharine. How . . . freaking compassionate. Cramping her style, indeed. What had happened to her? And would she ever be able to bring the snark again?

George published the DoLlies in Need entry and went back to her inbox. Despite the fact that it was nearly one in the morning, she wasn’t the least bit tired. Of course, this would bite her in the ass tomorrow morning, when Amelia would be up and raring to go at the crack of dawn, and George would be clutching her pillow and begging for five more minutes of oblivion, but she didn’t care at the moment. She had work to do and the silence in which to do it; she’d be crazy not to take advantage of the moment.

She scanned a few more messages that were candidates for future DoLlies in Need and Tales of Woe posts, then she came across a different sort of message.

George’s eyes bugged. Now, this—
this
was exciting. She’d heard of the Beanies, of course, but she never dreamed she’d win one. Recognition for a blog that had started out as a heaping helping of self-therapy meant for her eyes alone. Somewhere along the way it had boomed, and she’d been excited to see it grow, but she hadn’t thought about other people who were watching that growth.

An awards ceremony—now that was a big deal.

She could finally wear that damned gown to an actual event besides a deer whacking.

She . . . needed to go back to Boston.

George was stunned at the mix of emotions that suddenly engulfed her. She thought she’d be elated to have an excuse to go back. Just elated. But no—she actually felt pretty weird about it. Now the thought of going back there, knowing nobody, not having a job or a place to live, wasn’t all that enticing. She actually didn’t like the thought of leaving Marsden. She loved Amelia and Jaz and, God help her, even Sera, and it would hurt to be far away from them now. She had friends here, she knew the place, she had a warm and fuzzy feeling about the weird little town, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in . . . well, ever, to be honest.

It had happened, just like Casey said it had happened to him. Marsden had gotten its hooks in her, and now she wanted to stay. Good grief.

And . . . Casey. That was another matter altogether. She couldn’t stay here and expect to move on from him. And she needed him to move on from her—she allowed herself that little egotistical thought just because of how adamant Casey had been about her. He wanted to be with her, he was clear about that. But she couldn’t allow it. It was better for them to be apart—far apart. This was her chance to move on. So move on she would.

But before she could go anywhere, she had things to tidy up here. And there was no time like the present. She grabbed Celia’s memory stick from her nightstand, plugged it into her computer, and started downloading photos of Bowen Farms.

 

Morning—and Amelia’s familiar fretful snurfling noises through the bedroom wall—came all too soon. George groaned and covered her head with her pillow. Maybe today was the day Amelia finally self-settled, and she—and, consequently, George—would sleep till nine o’clock. Maybe monkeys would fly out of George’s butt.

She checked the clock; she’d slept for only a few hours. Her head thick with fatigue, she steeled herself to get up and go into Amelia’s room when she heard heavy steps on the stairs, footsteps in the hall, then whispering in the baby’s room. Amelia stopped whimpering and started gurgling. George’s tight shoulders relaxed. Sera or Jaz had her. That was a nice change. She heard the rocking chair beside the crib creak, and she started to drift off, lulled by the rhythmic sounds.

George almost let herself doze off again, but she shook herself awake. Amelia was her responsibility, at least for a little while longer. At that thought, she felt a pang of sadness. She really was leaving, wasn’t she? But not yet. She should still get in there and relieve whichever mommy had her. Even though Jaz was almost healed, she shouldn’t push herself, and didn’t Sera say she had an early meeting with Casey?

She slid out of bed, threw on a sweatshirt over her thin tank top, shuffled into the next room—and froze in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” she yelped.

Casey casually put a finger to his lips as Amelia stirred a little bit, her face planted in the crook of his neck.

She brought it down to a whisper. “What—what are you—”

But she couldn’t form the words she wanted. Come to think of it, what were words, again? Every logical thought deserted her in the split second she saw Casey Bowen, lounging in a wash of brilliant, early morning white-gold sunlight, smiling at her while her niece snoozed against his shoulder, looking for all the world like she belonged there.