Книга - Rom-Com Collection

Rom-Com Collection
Kristan Higgins








Rom-Com Collection (Part 2)

All I Ever Wanted

Fools Rush In

My One and Only

Just One of the Guys

Kristan

Higgins

















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


KRISTAN HIGGINS divides her time between home in Connecticut and summers on Cape Cod. She is the mother of two lovely kids, the wife of a brave firefighter, and a devoted Ben & Jerry’s fan. Previously a copywriter, Kristan began writing fiction when her children graced her life with simultaneous naps … so much more satisfying than folding laundry. She holds a BA in English, which enables her to identify dangling participles and quote many great novels. She loves to connect with readers on her website www.kristanhiggins.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks



All I Ever Wanted


Hello!

I hope you’ll enjoy All I Ever Wanted! I think like a lot of us, Callie feels that if she just does everything right, she’ll get the results—and the man—she wants. She tries so hard, but life seems to have other plans. Her challenge now: get over the guy who doesn’t want her, even though she thought they were pretty perfect together.

One of the things I love best about this book is how the hero and heroine meet. We’ve all had moments where we’ve seen people at their worst, not to mention those moments in our own personal histories we wish we could erase! But Ian and Callie see something in each other that no one else does and, in some ways, that’s the essence of a romance novel. It was awfully fun to write two characters with such different personalities, and I love the way Callie and Ian bump up against each other again and again. She wants to help him out so much! And he thinks he’s just fine on his own. But sometimes in life, what we want is not really what we need, don’t you think?

As always, you’ll find a quirky family (I especially like Noah), a great dog and a beautiful little town, this time in the form of Georgebury, Vermont. I visited the Northeast Kingdom part of the state last year, was especially fond of the Cabot’s Dairy tour, the rushing rivers and the faint smell of syrup that tinged the air.

Hope you’ll have a lot of laughs and a few deeply satisfying tears with All I Ever Wanted. And of course, I’d love to hear from you! Visit my website at www.kristanhiggins.com.

Happy reading!

Kristan


This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to

Carol Robinson, who has been my great friend since

I was a just a little kid. Love you, Nana.




Acknowledgements


Thanks as always to Maria Carvainis, my brilliant agent, as well as to Keyren Gerlach, my wonderful editor, and everyone else at HQN for their overwhelming support and enthusiasm.

Many thanks to my incredibly nice vet, Sudesh Kumar, DVM, MS, PhD, for answering a hundred questions, and to Nick Schade, owner of Guillemot Kayaks and boat builder to the gods. Visit www.guillemot-kayaks.com for a peek at his breathtaking craftsmanship. For the use of their names, thanks to Annie, Jack and Seamus Doyle; Jody Bingham; Shaunee Cole; and my lovely friends, Hayley and Tess McIntyre. Adiaris Flores helped me with a few Spanish phrases … gracias, sweetheart! Thanks also to Lane Garrison Gerard for inspiring Josephine’s somewhat dubious taste in music.

I have been blessed with the support and friendship of many fellow writers, and though I can’t name them all, here are a few: Cindy Gerard, Susan Mallery, Deeanne Gist, Cathy Maxwell, Susan Andersen, Allison Kent, Sherry Thomas, and Monica McInerney. Thank you. Truly.

And lastly, all my love to my husband and kids. You three are everything to me.




CHAPTER ONE


AS THE MAN I LOVED approached my office, the image of a deer being hit by a truck came to mind. I was the deer, metaphorically speaking, and Mark Rousseau was the pickup truck of doom.

But here’s the thing. The deer always freezes, as we all know, hence the expression like a deer caught in the headlights. The deer and I (Callie Grey, age thirty as of 9:34 this very morning) are well aware that the pickup truck is going to hit us. But we just stand there, waiting for the inevitable, whether it’s a pickup truck (in the deer’s case) or a man walking athletically toward me (in mine), perpetual smile in place, his brown hair carelessly curling, those gorgeous, dancing dark eyes. I waited, doe-eyed. It was all really too bad, because outside of Mark’s influence, I was not at all a deer about to be run down. I was much more of an adorable, perky hedgehog or something.

“Hey.” Mark grinned.

Bam! We have impact. The sunlight streamed through the windows of the old brick office building in which Mark and I worked, illuminating him so that he looked like something painted by Michelangelo. To make him even more appealing, he was wearing an old sweater vest his mom knitted for him years ago, shapeless and faded but something he just couldn’t part with. A good son and a sex god.

It was as if there were two Callies … the smarter, more sensible self (I pictured her as Michelle Obama), and the dopey, in love part … Betty Boop. Would that Michelle could give Betty Boop a brisk slap, followed by some vigorous shaking. Alas, Betty just sat there, enthralled, as the First Lady snorted in disgust.

“Hi,” I said, feeling my face warm. You’d think that four years of seeing him almost daily would have built up some tolerance in me, but no. My chest prickled with longing and love, my throat turned Saharan, my feet and fingers tingled. Though I was trying hard for Intelligent Coworker, my expression was probably somewhere around Pathetic Adoration.

Mark leaned against my desk, which meant his crotch was, oh, let’s see, about a foot and a half from my face, since I was seated. Not that I noticed, of course. “Happy birthday,” he said, making it sound like the most intimate, most suggestive phrase in the world.

Face: nuclear. Heart: racing. Callie: half inch from orgasm. “Thanks.”

“I got you a present, of course,” he murmured in that voice … God, that voice. Low and soft and velvety … the same voice he used in the bedroom, as I well knew. Yes, Mark and I had been together. For five weeks. Five wonderful weeks. Almost five and a half, if you really analyzed it. Which I had.

From his back pocket, he withdrew a small, rectangular package. My heart flopped as my brain raced with contradictory thoughts. Jewelry? Betty squealed. That means something. That’s romantic. So romantic! Oh! My! God! On the other hand, Michelle advised caution. Calm down, Callie. Let’s just see how this plays out.

“Oh, Mark! Thank you! You didn’t have to,” I said, my voice breathy.

On the other side of the glass-bricked wall that separated our offices, Fleur Eames slammed a drawer. The wall only went up ten feet; the ceilings were twelve, perfect for eavesdropping, and I guessed she was trying to snap me out of my daze. Fleur, a copywriter here at the firm, knew about my crush. Everyone did.

Clearing my throat, I reached for the package in Mark’s hand. He held onto it for a minute, grinning before he let go. It was wrapped in cheerful yellow paper. Yellow is my favorite color. Did I tell him that once? Had he filed away that little fact the same way I filed away everything he ever told me? I mean, really, it could hardly be coincidence, right? He smiled down at me, and my racing heart stuttered, stalled, then revved into overdrive. Oh, God. Could it be? Did he finally want to get back together?

I’d worked at Mark’s firm for the past four years. We were the only advertising and public relations agency in northeastern Vermont. Our staff was small—just Mark and me; Fleur; the office manager, Karen; and the two pale computer geeks in the art department, Pete and Leila. Oh, and Damien, Mark’s personal assistant/receptionist/willing slave.

I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, at least that’s what Mark had said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when it comes to being with the man they love. No. It had been Mark’s timing that wasn’t right.

But now … now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was right? Maybe now, on the very day that my thirties began and I entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be mauled by a grizzly bear than get married … maybe today really was the start of a new age.

“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box. Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged and gave me that heart-stopping smile once more. “It’s not every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.

“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien appearing in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to me.

“Hi, Damien,” I said.

“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of contempt … Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s on line two.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe. Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The company made outdoorwear from a combination of plastic grocery bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San Diego, where Bags to Riches was based. As part of the package, Charles had asked Muriel to come to Vermont and work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to him keeping tabs on things. And, since Charles was paying us gobs of money, Mark had said yes.

Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”

“So let her wait some more,” Mark answered, tossing me a wink. “This is important. Open the damn box, Callie.” Damien sighed with the heavy drama that only a gay man can pull off and hustled down the hall.

Cheeks burning, I opened the velvet box. It was a bracelet, delicate silver strands that twisted and turned like ivy. “Oh, Mark, I love it,” I whispered, running my finger over the intricate lines. I bit my lip, my eyes already misting with happy tears. “Thank you.”

His expression was soft. “You’re welcome. You mean a lot to me. You know that, Callie.” He bent down and kissed my cheek, and every detail was immediately seared into my brain—his smooth, warm lips, the smell of his Hugo Boss cologne, the heat of his skin.

Hope, which had been lying in ashes for the past ten months, twitched hard.

“Think you’ll make it to my party later on?” I asked, striving for perky and fun, not lustful and ruttish. My parents were throwing me a little bash at Elements, the nicest restaurant around, and I’d invited all my coworkers. No use pretending: I was turning thirty; might as well get some presents.

Mark straightened, then moved a pile of papers from the small couch in my office and sat down. “Um … Listen, I need to tell you something. You met Muriel, right?”

“Well, just that once. She seems … very …” Hmm. She’d worn a killer black suit, had great shoes … kind of intense. “Very focused.”

“Yeah. She is. Callie …” Mark hesitated. “Muriel and I are seeing each other.”

It took a few seconds for that to register. Once again, I was that stupid deer, watching mutely as the pickup truck hurtled down the road. My heart slammed to a halt. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Michelle Obama stood by, shaking her head sadly, her fabulous arms crossed in regret. I realized my mouth was open. Closed it. “Oh,” I heard myself say.

Mark looked at the floor. “I hope that doesn’t cause you any … discomfort. Given our past involvement.”

There was a white, rushing sound, like a river engorged with snowmelt and hidden debris. He was seeing someone? How could that be? If the timing was okay for Muriel … why not … Oh, crap.

“Callie?” he said.

Here’s the thing about being hit by a truck. Sometimes those deer keep running. They just bound into the woods, sort of like they’re saying, Whoo-hoo! That was close! Good thing I’m okay. Um … I am okay, right? Actually, you know what? I’m feeling a little strange. Think I’ll lie down for a bit. And then they wake up dead.

Mark’s voice lowered. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

Say something, the First Lady commanded. “No, no!” I chirruped. “It’s … just … no worries, Mark. Don’t worry.” I seemed to be smiling. Smiling and nodding. Yes. I was nodding. “So how long have you been … together?”

“A couple of months,” Mark answered. “It’s … it’s fairly serious.” He reached out and took the bracelet out of the box, then put it on my wrist, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there, making me want to jerk away.

In the many years I’d known Mark, he’d never dated anyone for a couple of months. A couple of weeks, sure. I thought five was a record, quite honestly.

Ah. My body was catching on to the fact that I’d just been slammed. My throat tightened, my joints buzzed with the flight response to danger, and a sharp pain lanced through my chest. “Right. Well. You know what? I have to get my license renewed! I almost forgot! You know … birthday. License. Renewal.” Breathe, Callie. “Okay if I zip out for lunch a little early?” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat again, studiously avoiding Mark’s dark and now sorrowful eyes.

“Sure, Callie. Take all the time you need.”

The kindness in his voice made me feel abruptly murderous. “I won’t be long,” I chirped. “Thanks for the bracelet! See you in a bit!”

With that, I grabbed my oversize pink hobo bag and stood up, excruciatingly careful not to brush against Mark, who still sat on my couch, staring straight in front of him. “Callie, I’m sorry,” he said.

“No! Nothing to apologize for!” I sang. “Gotta run. They close at noon today. See ya later!”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I stood in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the effects of being emotionally run down by the man I loved—and now hated—but still loved—were catching up with me. Michelle Obama had abandoned me, regretfully acknowledging that I was beyond help, and Betty Boop was clamping her lips together and blinking back tears. Trying to keep the choo-choo train of despair at bay, I glanced around. Gray, grimy tile floors. Dingy white walls. I stood in the middle of a line of about ten people, all of us listless and lifeless and loveless … or so it seemed.

The whole scene was like something out of some French existentialist play … Hell is not other people. Hell is the DMV. Robotic clerks shuffled behind the counter, clearly hating their lot in life and contemplating the easiest form of hari-kari or embezzlement so they could leave this grim place. The clock on the wall seemed to taunt me. Time’s a’wastin’, kid. Your life is passing you by. Happy fucking birthday.

My breathing started to quicken, my knees felt like a hive of angry bees. Tears burned in my eyes, and on my wrist, my stupid birthday present tickled. I should just rip it off. Melt it down into a bullet and kill Mark. Or myself. Or just swallow the bracelet whole and let it get tangled in my intestines and require emergency surgery and then have Mark come to the hospital and realize just how much he really loved me after all. Not that I would have him now. (Yeah, sure, Callie, said Mrs. Obama, making a reappearance. You’d eat a baby if it meant having him.)

Well. Maybe not a baby. But the idea that Mark was with someone … for a couple of months, fairly serious … ah, shit! Panic loomed like the jaws of a great white shark, terrifying and unexpected. Stupid Muriel with her black hair and white skin, like some vampire in fabulous shoes … when the hell had they started dating? When, dammit?

Oh, crap. Should I go? No. I had to get my license renewed. Today was the last day I could do it without incurring a fine. I’d picked out this wicked cute outfit, too—red-and-white printed blouse, short red skirt, big gold hoops, and my hair was perfect today, all shiny and swingy … Besides, what could I do? Sit in my car and wail? Kick a tree? Strangle a moose? I really wasn’t the type. The only idea that held any appeal was that of sitting in my rocking chair and eating cake batter.

A dry sob raked my throat. Shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.

“Next,” called one of the DMV drones, and we all shuffled forward six inches. The man behind me heaved an audible sigh.

Without another thought, I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. Where was it? Where was it, dammit? Tampon … no. Book on CD … no. Picture of Josephine and Bronte, my nieces … even their beautiful faces failed to cheer me. Where was the phone? Ah. Here. I scrolled down to Annie Doyle. Damn! I got her voice mail. Somehow, it felt like a personal insult. How could my best friend be unavailable in my time of need? Didn’t she love me anymore?

Clearly the choo-choo was chugging faster now, so I scrolled down for backup. My mom? God, no … this would just be confirmation that the Y chromosome should be erased from humanity. My sister? Not much better. Still, it was someone. Mercifully, Hester answered, even though I knew she was at work.

“Hester? Got a minute?”

“Hey, birthday girl! What’s up?” My sister’s voice, always on the loud side, boomed out of my phone, and I held it away from my ear.

“Hester,” I bleated, “he’s seeing someone! He gave me a beautiful bracelet and kissed me and then he told me he’s seeing someone! For a couple of months and it’s fairly serious, but I still love him!”

“Jesus, lady, get a grip,” muttered the man behind me. Without thinking, I whirled around and glared. He raised a contemptuous eyebrow—jerk—but okay, yes, heads were starting to turn. Miraculously, no one I knew was here today … the DMV was in Kettering, the town next to Georgebury, so at least there was that.

“Is this Mark we’re talking about?” Hester asked, as if I’d discussed any other man for the past year. Or two. Or four. Ah, shit!

“Yes! Mark is dating Muriel from California! Muriel, the daughter of our biggest client! Isn’t that lovely?”

The man behind me cleared his throat in a very phony and noticeable way.

“Well, I always thought Mark was a smug bastard,” Hester said.

“You’re not helping!” I bit out. Why hadn’t Annie answered her phone? She was so much better at this sort of thing. She was normal, not like Hester.

“Well, what should I say? He’s a prince? Where are you, anyway?” Hester asked.

“At the DMV. In Kettering.”

“Why are you at the DMV?”

“Because my license is about to expire! It was on my calendar—renew license. And I had to get out of there … I just didn’t know what else to do.” A sob caught in my throat. “Hester … I always thought …” I took a shuddering breath and tried to lower my voice. “He said it was just timing. He’s never been serious with anyone before. And they’ve been together for months.” The betrayal, the shock of those words made my chest actually hurt, and I pressed one hand against my swollen heart, feeling hot tears slice down my face.

The woman in front of me turned around. She had the leathery, lined face and broad shoulders of a dairy farmer. “You a’right, theah, deah?” she asked, her Vermont accent as thick as overboiled maple syrup.

“I’m fine,” I answered in a shaky and rather unconvincing voice, attempting a brave smile.

“I ovahheard you, you poah thing,” she said. “Men can be such ahssholes. My husband, Nahman we’re talkin’ about, he sits down to dinnah one day and says he wants a d’vorce on account a’ he’s been banging the secretary down at the creamery. And this when we’ve been married fahty-two yeahs.”

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to hold her hand. She was right. Men were assholes. Mark was an asshole. I shouldn’t be heartbroken over him. Except I loved the rat bastard. Oh, blerk!

“Hello? I’m still here, Callie,” my sister reminded me sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, Hes … What do you think I should do?” I asked.

“Step outside?” suggested the man behind me.

“Damned if I know, Callie,” she sighed. “The longest relationship I’ve ever had lasted thirty-six hours. Which you know,” she said, her voice turning thoughtful, “has worked really well for me.”

“Hes,” I said wetly, “I’ll be seeing them together every day.” The notion made my heart clench.

“That’s probably gonna suck,” my sister agreed.

“You poah deah,” said the older woman, squeezing my hand.

Work would never be the same. Green Mountain Media, the company that I helped build, would now be home to Muriel. Muriel. That was such a mean name! A rich girl’s name! A cold and condemning name! Not like Callie, which was so bleeping friendly and cute!

A sob squeaked out, and Mr. Intolerant behind me grumbled. That was it. I whirled around. “Look, mister, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I’m having a really shitty day, okay? Is that okay with you? My heart is breaking, okay, pal?”

“By all means,” he said coolly. “Please continue with your emotional diarrhea.”

Ooh. The bastard! He looked like the stick-up-the-butt type … dressed in a suit (and you know, please—this is Vermont). He had a boring military-style haircut, cold blue eyes and disdainful Slavic cheekbones. I turned back around. Clearly he didn’t understand what love felt like. Love gone bad. Love rejected. My tender and loyal heart, broken.

That being said, maybe he had a point.

“I’d better go,” I whispered to my sister. “I’ll call you later, Hes.”

“Okay. Sucks that it’s your birthday today. But listen, if it’s having babies you’re worried about, don’t bother. I can get you pregnant in a New York minute. I know all the best sperm donors.”

“I don’t want you to get me pregnant,” I blurted.

“For God’s sake,” muttered Mr. Slavic Cheekbones. The older woman who’d been cuckolded looked questioningly at me.

“My sister’s a fertility doctor,” I explained. I closed my phone and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s very successful.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” my dairy farmer friend replied. “My daughter did in vitro. She’s gawt twins now. Foah yeahs old.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said wetly.

“Next,” droned the robot. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. The man behind me sighed again.

Images of Mark flooded my mind—our first kiss when I was only fourteen. Years later at work, him bending over my computer, his hand companionably on my shoulder. Getting nearly drunk on maple syrup just last week at a farm we were pitching. Our first kiss. The fateful airplane ride to Santa Fe. Did I mention our first kiss?

Hot tears leaked out of my eyes, and I sucked in a shuddering breath.

Suddenly, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared at the side of my head. I turned. Mr. Intolerance of the Cruel Cheekbones was offering me his handkerchief. “Here,” he said, and I took it. It was ironed. It may have been starched. Who did that anymore? I blew my nose heartily, then looked at him again.

“Keep it,” he suggested, looking over my head.

“Thank you,” I squeaked.

“Next,” one of the drones called from behind the counter. We shuffled forward once more.

An eternity later, I finally had a new license. Insult to injury … for however many years, I would look like an escaped lunatic … mascara puddled, face blotchy, smile wobbly and insincere. So much for my spiffy outfit.

As I fished my keys out of my bag, I saw the older woman standing near the exit, putting on those vast black sunglasses old folks wear after cataract surgery. My heart went out to her … at least my husband didn’t cheat on me. Leave me after forty-two years. Crikey.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Who, me?” she asked. “No, sweethaht, I’ve gawt work to do. Good luck with everything, though.”

On impulse, I gave her a hug. “Norman’s an idiot,” I told her.

“I think you’re one smaht cookie,” she said, patting my back. “That boyfriend of yaws doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”

“Thanks,” I answered, tears threatening again. My new friend gave me a wave and went out to her car.

My phone bleated. Mom. Great. “Happy birthday, Calliope!” she sang.

“Hi, Mom,” I answered, wondering if she’d pick up anything from my leaden tone. She didn’t.

“Listen, I have news. Dave just called. Elements burst a pipe and flooded.”

Being housed in a 150-year-old industrial building, Elements was somewhat prone to this type of thing. “That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood anyway.” At least I wouldn’t have to endure a birthday party. I could just go home and eat cake batter.

“Don’t be silly,” Mom trilled. “I’ve already called everyone. We’re having your party here.”

My heart sank. “Here? Where do you mean, here?”

“At the funeral home, honey. Where else?”




CHAPTER TWO


“HARD TO BELIEVE you’re thirty,” my mother said that evening, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Mr. Paulson’s family is receiving visitors in the Tranquility Room,” she added as a well-dressed couple halted in confusion upon seeing my birthday balloons.

“How can our little girl be thirty, Eleanor, when you don’t look a day over twenty-five?” my father murmured from my other side, giving me a bear hug and nearly causing me to spill my second cosmo. Mom ignored him, as was her custom lo these many years since their divorce. Dad took it like a man. “Callie, I fell in love with you at first sight. You were such a beautiful baby! Still are! So beautiful!”

“Has … your father … been drinking, Callie?” my mother asked, not deigning to look at dear old Dad. “If so, please ask him to leave.” In this house, your father was synonymous with that shithead.

“Have you been drinking, Dad?” I asked amiably.

“Not too much,” he answered with equanimity. “Not enough, I should say,” he added in a lower voice.

“Hear, hear,” I murmured, taking a slug of my pink cocktail. Given that (A) the man I loved, etc., etc.; (B) Verdi’s Requiem was playing in the background, and (C) my party was being held at a funeral home, I’d decided to (D) ring in my special day in the company of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.

Irritated that she’d failed to insult my dad, Mom shot me an evil look. I snapped to attention. “This party is lovely, Mom,” I lied, giving her a big smile.

Mollified, she gave me a little smile. “I’ve always thought this was the most beautiful building in town,” she said. “Well, better go check on Mr. Paulson.” With that, she bustled off to check on the wake in the next room.

Misinski’s Funeral Home was an impressive building, a large Victorian with the first floor serving as the business end, the second and third floors as living quarters for Mom and, recently, my brother, Freddie. I’d grown up here. The basement, of course, was where all the yucky work was done. To my mother, there was absolutely nothing odd about having a birthday party next door to a wake; this funeral home had been in her family for three generations, and the whole death is a part of life philosophy was indelibly tattooed on her soul. So what if at age three, Freddie wouldn’t take his nap anywhere but in a casket? So what if Mom used to store the Thanksgiving turkey in the same fridge that kept the clients fresh?

Outside, the sun was shining, as Vermont was enjoying her two weeks of summer. The sky was rich and blue, the air fresh with the scent of pine. In here … not so much. The funeral home was like a time bubble in which nothing ever changed. The smell of lilies, the sounds of sad, classical music, the sight of the heavy, dark furniture … the caskets … the dead people. I sighed.

“So how’s my pretty girl?” Dad asked. “You got my check, right?”

“I did, Dad. Thank you so much! And I’m doing great.” It was always my habit to be cheerful around my parents, even when that meant lying through my pearly whites.

“Can I tell you a secret, Poodle?” Dad asked, waving at someone on the far side of the Serenity Room.

“Sure, Daddy,” I answered, putting my head on his shoulder.

“Now that I’ve retired, I’m going to get your mother back,” he said.

“Get her back for what?” I asked, assuming this was a revenge thing.

“Get her back as in woo her. Court her. Seduce her.”

I straightened abruptly. “Oh. Yeah, um … no. In case you forgot, she … uh … she hates you, Dad.”

“No!” He grinned. “Well, she might think she does. But your mother is the only woman I ever loved.” He gave me the wink that served him so well. Dad was a good-looking guy, silvery hair, dark eyes, dimples. I looked a lot like him, minus the gray. (Which is just around the corner! Betty Boop sobbed. And Mark’s with someone else!)

“That’s not a good idea, Daddy,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.

“Why isn’t it a good idea?” Dad asked, unsettled by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Maybe because you cheated on her when she was pregnant with Freddie. I’m just throwing that out there, of course.”

He nodded. “Not my best moment, I’ll admit. The cheating, I mean.” He paused and finished off his drink. “But you understand, Callie, sweetheart. It was a mistake, I’ve spent twenty-two years paying for it, and it’s all water under the bridge. She’ll forgive me. Hopefully.”

“You really still love her, Dad?”

“Of course I do! I never stopped.” He gave me a squeeze. “You’ll help me, right?”

“Ooh. Not sure about that. The wrath of Mom … you know.” Having Mom mad at you was the emotional equivalent of standing in the path of a category five tornado … lots of big things flying around ripping great chunks out of you.

“Oh, come on, Poodle,” Dad cajoled. “I thought we were the same. We’re romantics, aren’t we? God knows I can’t ask Hester.”

“True, true.” After all, Dad’s bad example was the reason my sister specialized in getting women pregnant without benefit of the physical presence of a man. “But, Dad … really? Do you really think you can get past all that … stuff?”

For a second, the expression on my father’s eternally smiling face flickered. “If I could do it all again,” he said quietly, looking at his drink, “things would be so different, Callie. We were happy once, and I … well.” His eyes went dark, like a light was turned off.

“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered, unable to stanch the sympathy that swelled in my heart. I was eight when my parents divorced, aware only that my world was falling apart. Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father … but he’d already been punished for so long. Hester had barely spoken to him for years, and my mother kept the emotional knives sharpened, as was her right. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t in me to hate my father. His infidelity was a mystery best left unexplored. To the best of my knowledge, and despite his Cary Grant charm and crinkly eyes, Dad had been alone ever since he left my mother. Certainly, I had never met a girlfriend or heard a tale of even a dinner companion. Indeed, it seemed as if Dad had been atoning since before Freddie was even born.

“She loved me once,” Dad said quietly, almost to himself. “I can make her remember why.”

Yes. Squirreled away, separated from the memories of Mom sobbing on the couch or spewing curses at my father as my infant brother screamed his way through five months of colic, were a few little gems. Mom sitting on Dad’s lap. The two of them dancing in the living room without benefit of music when Dad returned from a long business trip. The sound of their laughter drifting out from behind their bedroom door, as comforting as the smell of vanilla cake, fresh from the oven.

“Will you help me, Poodle?” Dad asked. “Please, baby?”

I took a deep breath. “You know what? Sure. It’ll be an uphill battle, but sure.”

Dad’s expression changed, and he once again became a sparkly George Clooney. “That’s my girl! You’ll see. I’ll get her back.” He smooched my cheek, and I couldn’t help smiling. Twenty-two years should be enough time served, right? Dad deserved another chance at love.

And so did I. Dammit, so did I! Betty Boop stopped crying and seemed to look up at me. Really? Honest and true?

“Want another drink?” my father asked, and without waiting for an answer, trotted to the makeshift bar in the back.

Suddenly, I felt better. My father was going to try again to reclaim the love of his life. I should try, too. Mark had chosen me once … maybe I’d been too … sappy or clingy or whatever during those five weeks. I’d been mooning after him ever since Santa Fe. Maybe, just by going back to myself, that cheerful, smart, likable person I was, Mark would see that I was the one for him, not Muriel. And if he saw me with someone else, maybe that would be the kick in the butt he needed.

The—what had the man at the DMV called it?—ah, yes, the emotional diarrhea had been purifying. Life was good, as the T-shirts said. Or it could become good, right? I could find someone else. Even if Mark didn’t want me—I winced, but kept going—if that was true, then I’d find someone else who did. I would! No more Debbie Downer, no more Bitter Betty. I was Callie Grey, after all. Former prom queen, I’ll have you know. Everyone liked me. They really did.

“Doesn’t it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.

“So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.

The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”

The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot’s!).

“Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”

“Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).

Louis Pinser was my mother’s mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she’d had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I’d overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I’m so sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me very attractive. All the weird ones did.

“I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

“Ah. Well. That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I’m so … it’s been a crazy … you know. Work. Stuff. What’s that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer, where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

“No, you can’t straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

Bronte turned to me. “Don’t you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

“Um … Mother knows best?” I suggested.

“You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer’s muse. No sympathy on the name.”

“And I was named after the slut in The Scarlet Letter,” Hester said. “At least you have a cool author’s name. Which, once again, I didn’t even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could’ve had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she’d adopted both her children. Bronte’s biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she’d hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

“Well, I’m changing my name to Sheniqua when I’m sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

“I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

“Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We’d love to stay …”

“… but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.

“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”

Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.

“Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a fucking funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.

The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.

“Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”

Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”

Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.

The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.

“So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.

“Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.

“You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”

I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.

“He’s really not,” Fleur echoed.

“Callie, I’m sorry. I hate him. He dumped you, made up some bullshit line about timing, and now he’s seeing another woman! Ass. Wipe.” She glared at Fleur and me over her gold-rimmed glasses.

“Okay, you have a point,” I conceded. “But those are just the details. Mark’s … he’s …” I sighed. “Kind of perfect.”

“Christly, you’re defending him,” Annie muttered. “You’re pathetic.”

“You sound like my grandfather,” I said.

“Right, well, not everyone gets to marry their little Prince Charming from third grade, yeah?” Fleur said to Annie. “For the rest of us, there’s a limited pool. Mark’s pretty great compared to what-all else is out there. And if he’s the love of Callie’s life, I say go for it, Callie. Take no prisoners.”

“Well, I think you can do much better,” Annie said loyally. “And Fleur, I forget. How long did you live in England?”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “A good bit of time,” she said tightly.

“You just have to get out there, Callie. Find someone else,” Annie said.

“Or better yet,” Fleur said, “win him back. Remind him of how fab you are. Find some man, make Mark screamingly jealous and bam! You’re back in.”

Though I’d thought the same thing earlier, I said nothing.

“Nope. Leave him in the dust, Callie,” Annie countered. “You deserve better. Write that down and tape it to your mirror. ‘I deserve better than the ass-wipe formerly known as Mark.’”

“You need to get laid, Calorie?” my brother asked, appearing at the back door. “My buddies back at school think you’re hot. You could be a cougar, how’s that?”

“I’m too young to be a cougar,” I said. “I’m only thirty! Besides, I want someone who doesn’t live with his mom.” I turned to my friends. “Is Gerard Butler single?”

“Setting your sights a bit high,” Fleur murmured. Hmmph.

“How about Kevin Youkilis?” Freddie suggested, joining us. “Then we could get Sox tickets.”

“Nah,” Annie said. “He has a lightbulb head. Consider your nieces and nephews, Freddie. Oh! How about the center-fielder, the cute one. Ellsbury? Now he’s hot!”

As my friends and brother suggested increasingly ridiculous choices for my new boyfriend, my brain was busy. Annie was right. I had to get over Mark. For months now, a stone had been sitting on my heart. I’d shed a lot of tears over Mark Rousseau, lost a lot of sleep, eaten a lot of cake batter. Somehow, I had to move on. Work would be hell if I didn’t shake loose from the grip he had on my heart. I most definitely didn’t want to keep feeling this way, alone in a love affair meant for two.

Even if he’d felt like The One. Even if I’d always thought we’d end up together. Even if he still had a choke chain on my heart.





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