Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 17

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we arrived at Noah’s Arks. Ian pulled in next to me, then got out of his car, looked at the sign and gave me a questioning look. “This is my grandfather’s place,” I explained as I fumbled for my purse. “I live with him. Come on in. You can meet him.”

Bowie greeted me with the type of joy usually reserved for parents and children separated by war, singing in joy, yipping, head butting me so that my jeans turned into a sea of fur.

“Hello, Bowie!” I said in my special dog voice. “Hello, my boy! Did you miss Mommy? You did? Do you remember Dr. Ian? You do?” Bowie demonstrated that he did indeed remember, mounting Ian’s leg, his yipping growing more soulful.

“Off, Bowie,” Ian said. “Off.” My dog took this as a sign that yes, Ian would rub his stomach for the next year or so and quite possibly give him a Quarter Pounder, so he collapsed on his back, revealing his … gladness. His tail waved furiously, swishing across the floor as clumps of his undercoat drifted on the breeze he created.

“Huskies need to be brushed at least once a day,” Ian said.

“I do brush him every day! Do you know Eva Potts?”

Ian shook his head. “She’s a knitter. She spins his fur into yarn.”

“Ah,” Ian murmured.

“I have a sweater made from my own dog. I don’t wear it, granted, because that’s a little incestuous, even for me, but still. Neat idea, I guess.” The memory of Mr. Human Hair flitted through my mind, and I suppressed a shudder. “All that shedding is the price you pay for the best dog in the world? Right, Bowie? You’re the best, aren’t you? Miss Angie’s out in the car, did you know that, Bowie? Can you smell her?” I bent to rub his exposed tummy, earning two yips and some crooning, as well as a wink from Bowie’s brown eye. I winked back. “Mommy loves you!”

“Do you always talk to him in that voice?” Ian asked, a trace of amusement in his own.

I straightened up. “Yes, I do,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “That way he knows I’m talking to him. Why? Do you speak French to Four D Angel’s Mayonnaise out there? Mandarin Chinese?”

Ian grinned.

Oh. Oh, yes … That was nice. My girl parts suddenly felt tight and … lively. One smile, and I was fluttery. But it was some smile. Ian looked a little … I don’t know … goofy when he smiled. A nice goofy. He had these unexpected laugh lines, and his cold Russian assassin looks suddenly morphed into utter likability, and he went from … I don’t know, my brain was getting mushy here, but suddenly, the image of waking up with Ian and seeing that smile … waking up naked with Ian, oh, yeah, now there was a visual I could spend some time examining, a smiling, unclothed, warm, strong, manly—”

“Callie, thank the Christ you’re home, because this fuckin’ leg just won’t fit and I’ll be goddamned before I … Who are you?”

My dear, cuddly grampy hopped into the great room, wielding a prosthesis in one hand like a club. “Noah, this is Ian McFarland,” I said. “Ian, meet my grandfather, the legendary boat builder Noah Grey.”

“It’s an honor, sir,” Ian said. Aw.

“What’s an honor?” Noah spat. “And what are you doing with my granddaughter here? You’re not sleeping with her, are you?”

“Gosh, you’re adorable, Noah,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“No, sir,” Ian answered.

“Think you can win me over with nice manners, young man?” Noah asked, ignoring me and glaring at Ian.

“No, sir,” Ian said again. He looked over at me, his eyes smiling.

“Ian’s the new vet, Noah. I’m doing some work for him,” I said, “so get your panties out of a twist and give me your leg.” He handed it over, still glaring at Ian. “Okay, Noah, where’s the sleeve?” I asked, referring to the silicone sock that helped hold the prosthetic in place.

“Fuck if I know,” he grumbled. “I knew I forgot something.”

“It’s a lot more comfortable if you use it,” I said.

“How do you know? Did you cut off your leg to test it out?”

“No, but I may cut off your other one if you don’t stop growling, Grampy dear,” I said. “Ian, come upstairs with me, or Noah will eat you alive.”

Ian followed me up the stairs. A mistake. Ladies, never have a man follow you upstairs, as there’s just no way to hide the junk in the trunk, if you will. I raced up so as to minimize Ian’s view. “My grandfather is only that irritable if he’s in pain,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

“No apology needed,” he answered.

Ian waited on the catwalk as I went into Noah’s room to find another silicone sock. Then I zipped down the hall into my own room to get my laptop and, let’s be honest, check my hair. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.

My heart was beating a little fast, and not just because I’d hurtled up the stairs. Also, my cheeks were hot. I was … hmm. A little horny. Yanking off my fur-covered jeans, I opened my crowded closet and surveyed the contents. A skirt, definitely. I had fab legs. But not too flirty, because yes, I was working. Choosing a darling little pink and green plaid A-line with fun pleats at the bottom, I pulled it on, topped it with a sleeveless green silk tank, grabbed a matching cardigan, then dug out my bottle-green suede peep-toe shoes with three-inch heels.

“I’ll be right out,” I called to Ian as I kicked some laundry under the bed. Not, of course, that Ian would come in here. But it was strange to have him there, right outside my bedroom. Thrilling, even. They say that men think of sex every ten seconds or something. Maybe Ian was having thoughts about me … naughty thoughts. Dirty thoughts. Long, hot, steamy thoughts of tumbling onto my big, comfortable bed, kissing my neck, moving lower, his hand working its way …

Hellooo? Anyone home? Michelle Obama said. Right! I was doing a freelance job. Still, I went over to my laptop and typed a quick message to Annie. Am going out to dinner with vet. Business only, but am having sex thoughts. I figured she’d be proud. Then closed the cover, stuffed the laptop into its case, dashed on a little MAC lip gloss, fluffed my hair, then went to the door and opened it.

“All set,” I said.

Ian looked up, his eyes most definitely checking out my legs. Great choice, that cute little skirt! Indeed, he was staring.

“Is that a Morelock chair?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling modestly. “I ran track in … what?”

“Your rocking chair. Do you know who made it?”

It was perhaps the first time I hadn’t been thrilled to discuss my beloved rocking chair. “Um … yes. It’s a Morelock chair.” I paused. “Good eye, Ian.”

“Can I see it?”

I blushed. He was coming into my bedroom! Betty Boop squealed and fluttered her eyelashes. To admire the furniture, the First Lady said pointedly. “Sure,” I mumbled.

He came in, not even glancing at my inviting bed. Hmmph. Well. The chair was special, and for some reason, I was glad Ian recognized that. It was, after all, my prize possession, the first thing I’d try to save in case of fire, right after Bowie and Noah (though Noah was pushing it these days).

“Where’d you find it?” he asked, not touching the chair and, bless him, not asking to sit in it.

“Actually,” I murmured, staring at the chair myself, “Mr. Morelock gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”

Ian looked at me in surprise. “You knew him?”

“I only met him once, but Noah knew him,” I said. “In fact, this is the last chair he ever made.”

Ian nodded once. “Well,” I said. “We should go, I guess, before it gets too late.” I paused. “We can walk, if you want. It’s not far.”

“Sure,” Ian said.

“Do you want Angie to come in? Noah won’t mind. He loves dogs.”

“Thank you. That would be great.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER, we were walking down the twisting street. The sun was setting, and birds sang in the trees. Ten yards away, the Trout River rushed past, shushing and murmuring its river song. It was almost romantic, save for the fact that my laptop banged into my hip every other step and Ian didn’t say a word the whole way there. Luckily, Elements wasn’t far, which was good, because these shoes, while adorable, were also vices of death.

“Callie Grey!” a masculine voice purred the minute I opened the door. “My God, look at your legs, they’re proof of a loving God.”

Ian looked confused. I beamed and kissed the owner of the voice.

Annie’s brother, Dave, was part owner and manager of Elements, and of course I loved him madly. He looked like an Alaskan crab fisherman, rough and unshaven and so, so alpha, but unlike my crushes in Deadliest Catch, he knew how to dress.

“So who’s this?” Dave asked, scanning Ian up and down and putting a proprietary arm around my shoulders. “I’m Dave, Callie’s friend and protector, half owner of this fine establishment.” Dave stuck out his hand, which Ian shook.

“Hello,” he said.

“Ian, this is my friend, Dave. Dave, Ian McFarland, our town’s new vet. I’m helping him out on a project, so can we have a booth? I have my laptop.”

“Of course! Right this way.” Dave led us through Elements, which, like Noah’s place, had once been part of the mill industry, meaning it had uneven floors, brick walls and lots of character.

Various River Rats were assembled in the bar (big surprise there), and a chorus arose as we passed. “Callie! Hey, girl! How’s Noah?”

I waved and grinned. “Hi, gang! Can’t talk now, don’t want to, have better company than you bozos!”

“Attagirl!”

“Take me with you,” Shaunee Cole called, lifting her martini glass.

“Marry me, Callie!” boomed Jake Pelletier, who’d actually made the trip to the altar three times thus far … he was only forty, so we figured he had six or seven marriages left in him.

“Come on, Prom Queen,” Dave urged, rolling his eyes. “Ian, she’s still the most popular girl in school.” He waved us to our booth, which was not far from the bar and right under the large copper wall hanging (i.e., the best seat in the house) and proceeded to hand out the endless stream of menus … daily specials, wine list, martini choices, food. “And how is that ill-tempered little coworker of yours?” Dave asked. His reunion with Damien was, inevitably, just around the corner, but to mention this would undercut the drama, so …

“He’s sulky, miserable and bitter,” I said.

“You’re just saying that to make me happy.” Dave winked. Such a shame that he batted for the other team … we would’ve made beautiful babies. “Well, I’ll let you two get to work. Enjoy your dinner! Nice to meet you, Ian.” Dave took my hand, kissed it, then wandered off to find someone else to schmooze.

“You know a lot of people,” Ian commented, shaking out his napkin and putting it in his lap.

“You will, too,” I said, taking a sip of water. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. And you should join the River Rats. They’re a …” I made quotation marks with my fingers … “rowing club.”

“Yeah, join up, hottie!” Shaunee called. “We’ll corrupt you!”

“Yes, they’re great,” I said loudly, “if you like lazy, drunken revelers with no purpose in life other than trying to drown themselves.”

“Yeah!” my compadres cheered, toasting each other and high-fiving. I smiled. “Callie, we’re going over to Whoop & Holler,” Mitch Jenkins called. “Drop by later if you get a chance.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. I watched fondly as the eight or nine Rats jostled their way out of the bar, then glanced over at Ian, who was watching as well. “They’re really a fun bunch,” I said.

“Rowing club?” he asked.

“Drinking club, more like it, but yes. They go whitewater kayaking a few times a month, go drinking a few times a week. In October, they hold this funny little regatta.” I took a sip of water. “They love my grandfather. It’s a little cultish, actually.” Mark was a member of the River Rats, though in name only. I wondered if Muriel would join. I sure hoped not.

Ian nodded, then picked up one of the leather-bound menus. Not much of a talker, this guy. We perused our menus in silence, though I kept darting looks across the table. The whole grumpy Russian thing was really starting to grow on me.

“So, Ian, why don’t we get started?” I said once we’d ordered. “I figured we’d do a Web site, and there’d be a section called ‘About Dr. McFarland,’ which is pretty standard. So.” I slid my laptop out of its case and popped it open. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I went to New York University for undergrad, Tufts for veterinary school,” he said.

“Yes, I read your diplomas. What else?”

“I did research on joint degeneration and taught at UVM before taking over for Dr. Kumar.”

I typed a few lines. “Okay, well, how about some personal stuff?”

His eyes grew wary. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, why did you move to our fair state?”

He looked at his place setting, then adjusted his fork a millimeter. “I liked New England. And Laura was from Boston.”

Ah, Laura. I was deeply interested in Laura. “Did you guys live in Vermont when you were married?” I asked. Do you still talk? Do you still love her? Did she break your heart?

“Yes. Burlington.” He took a breath—clearly, this was not how he’d choose to spend an evening—but he forged onward. “But I spent one summer in Georgebury when I was a kid.”

“Really?” The idea that Ian had been nearby was utterly thrilling.

He nodded. “I stayed with my uncle.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Maybe I know him.”

“Carl Villny. My mother’s brother. He died about ten years ago.”

Villny. A Russian name, if I wasn’t mistaken. Suppressing a smile (Was your uncle a Soviet mole, perchance?), I shook my head. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” I paused. “So you liked it up here, and after your divorce, you moved back?”

He nodded.

I waited for more. Smiled firmly. It worked.

“Right,” he said. “Um … I moved a lot when I was a kid, as I told you. My, um … my mother is a doctor, and she works in a lot of third world countries.” He paused. “I think we moved fifteen, twenty times. I lived all over.”

“Holy guacamole,” I said. “Now that is an unconventional childhood!”

“Yes.” He adjusted his cutlery again. “Don’t put that on the Web site.”

“Why?”

“It’s not relevant.” His jaw looked a little knotty.

“Well, here’s the thing, Ian,” I said. “If people feel they know you a little, they’ll trust you more.”

He shifted. “Right. But don’t put that on the Web site.”

I shrugged. “All right. Well, why do you love animals?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of a vapid question, don’t you think?”

I gritted my teeth. “Not to your clients, Dr. McFarland! Can you please scrape up an answer?”

He sighed. Looked at the table. Looked back at me. “They’re loyal. Next question?”

My turn to heave a sigh. “Here. Why don’t I just put my laptop away and you can pretend I’m your sister and we’re just having a chat, okay?”

“No.”

“Why?” I demanded. “If you want me to do this for you, you’re going to have to help.”

“I can’t pretend you’re my sister.”

It might’ve been a cute line, if, for example, it had been said by someone else. But in Ian’s case, the meaning was quite literal. Rolling my eyes, I put the laptop away and gave up for the moment.

Our server brought us dinner—trout almondine for me, with this little stack of green beans and a risotto that smelled like heaven; grilled salmon and mashed potatoes for Ian. We ate in silence for a moment or two.

“Here’s what we can do,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk about yourself that much, we’ll just say you spent a summer here as a kid, fell in love with Vermont, were so excited when the chance came to move here permanently. We’ll put up a really great picture of you and Angie, the smokin’ hottie vet and his best girl.” This got a small smile. Hello! That little flash was quite … delicious. However, I was in professional mode and barely noticed (snort). “And then we’ll ask for pictures of your clients and their pets. We’ll have to get releases, but that won’t be a problem. We’ll have a section called ‘Ask Dr. McFarland,’ where people can write in asking why Rover chews Mommy’s best shoes, and you can answer in a friendly and approachable tone.” I paused, took another bite of the delicious trout. “With me so far?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I also think you should hold a pet fair,” I said, warming to my subject.

“What’s a pet fair?” he asked.

“It’ll be like an open house at your practice. People bring their pets, you give away dog and cat and gerbil treats, maybe have a trainer there to give out tips.”

“That sounds good,” he said.

“And one of those agility courses. Bowie would rock that,” I said. “Maybe Noah could rig up a little cart, and Bowie could pull … nah, insurance issues, forget that. Oh! You could have a pet psychic, too!”

“I don’t believe in pet psychics,” Ian said.

“That doesn’t matter. It’ll be fun. Maybe we could get a state trooper to come with one of the K-9 dogs. We could do animal tattoos for the kiddies, face painting, have a balloon guy make those little poodles … This will be great, Ian!” I was practically bouncing in my seat, I was so excited. Ian could walk through the whole thing like a beneficent duke or something, and everyone could see that he wasn’t stiff and remote, just a little shy. “What do you think?” I asked.

“It sounds …” terrifying, I imagined him saying. “It sounds great, Callie,” he said, surprising me. “I never would’ve thought of something like that.”

Well! A flush of pride rushed to my cheeks. “We should do it soon. Winter comes fast up here.” At that moment, my phone buzzed. “Oh, sorry, let me get this,” I said. “It might be Noah needing something.”

It wasn’t. It was a text from Annie. Glad you’re feeling lustful toward the vet. Go get him, girl!

“Is it your grandfather?” Ian asked.

He was leaning forward, a small frown of concern on his face. He had beautiful hands, Ian McFarland did. Capable. Strong. Gentle. “He’s fine,” I said, my voice a bit breathy. I felt my heart roll over in a slow, pleasant wave. “Just … he’s great.” Wouldn’t mind feeling those hands on me, no sir. I sat up a little straighter and told my inner Betty to pipe down. “So, Ian, are you seeing someone?” I heard myself say. Michelle Obama sighed wearily.

Ian froze for a second, and well did I recognize that deer in the headlights look, oh, yes. “I’m not interested in a relationship at this time, but thank you,” he said, in what was clearly a much-rehearsed line.

“No, no! I’m not asking for myself … it was more of a PR thing. You know, if you had a girlfriend, I’d … but it’s a moot point, right? Okay. Moving on.” My face was broiling, of course.

Rescue came from an unlikely source.

“Callie! How lovely to see you! And how lucky, too, since you never come by anymore. We’ll sit right here. Near our daughter.”

My parents, led by Dave, stood in front of me.

“Hi, Mom. And Dad! Oh! Hi, you, guys!” I stood up and hugged my parents, Mom first so she wouldn’t kill me, then Dad, who felt a little damp. Mom looked the way she always did when Dad was around—cool, disdainful and mildly disgusted. Dad, on the other hand, twinkled desperately.

“How’s my Poodle?” he chortled, cupping my face in his hands, as in Clearly we did something right, Eleanor, so please don’t hurt me. “Isn’t she beautiful, Ellie?”

“Mom, Dad, this is Ian McFarland, the vet who took over for Dr. Kumar,” I said.

“A pleasure, young man, a pleasure,” Dad said, shaking Ian’s hand vigorously and slapping him on the shoulder. “Tobias Grey. Callie’s father.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ian said. He nodded at my mom. “Mrs. Grey.”

“I am not Mrs. Grey,” my mother said, narrowing her eyes. “Eleanor Misinski.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian said. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Misinski.”

“Call me Eleanor,” she said, as welcoming as a cuddly viper.

“So what are you guys doing here?” A date between the two of them? Nah. Too much to hope for.

“Your father and I are meeting a special someone,” Mom said in her silken voice.

Dad swallowed sickly.

“Oh … right.” I winced. The Tour of Whores, as Mom had called it during our last phone call.

“Here are your menus,” Dave said, pulling out a chair for my mom. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Grey? Ms. Misinski?”

“I’ll just take a bottle of Grey Goose,” my father said, slapping Dave’s solid shoulder. “No relation. Hahahahaha!”

Poor Dad. He was terrified, and rightly so. Sensing a sympathetic soul, he looked at me sharply. “Callie! Poodle! Why don’t you and your friend join us?”

“Oh, no. God, no. No, no. Nope. Never.”

“Callie, you should,” my mother said, slithering into her seat. “Stay and see what your father was doing while I was pregnant with your brother. Your …” she looked Ian up and down as if trying to determine his species “… companion is welcome, too, of course.”

“No! We can’t. It’s business. Business dinner. Sorry!” I chirped. “Ian, shall we sit back down? To discuss things? In more detail? We have so much more to …”

To my despair, Ian was checking his phone. “I’m sorry, Callie. I have to go. I’m on call at the hospital.”

“He’s on call. Must be an emergency. Drat! We have to go!”

“You don’t have to come,” Ian said.

“Shush!” I hissed. “Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad! Dave, I’ll just call you with my credit card number, okay?” With that, I grabbed my laptop and turned to my parents. “Bye!”

“Why can’t you stay, Calliope? He doesn’t need you,” Mom said, surveying the martini menu.

“Um …” I said, my heart sinking.

“Stay, by all means,” she said in an iron tone.

“I need to go, Callie,” Ian said. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Don’t abandon me!” I hissed. “Take me with you.”

“Callie, I need to leave. See?” He held up his phone, and I caught a glimpse of a text … emergency, dog, car. “It was nice meeting you both,” he said to my parents.

“Great to meet you, son!” Dad cried, looking over his shoulder to see what was taking so long with the booze.

“You’re a cruel man, Ian McFarland,” I muttered, but he was already halfway across the restaurant. Dammit. There went the cavalry, off to heal the wounded. So unfair! With a sigh, I surrendered and slid into the chair between my parents. “So,” I said. “I’m guessing this is round one in the Tour of Whores?”

“Exactly,” Mom said.

“Oh, gosh, that’s a good one!” Dad laughed, glancing around frantically, checking all possible exits.

Mercifully, Brittany, who’d just served Ian and me, bustled over at that moment. “I’ll have a huge dirty martini,” I said. “Very big.”

“Make it two,” Mom seconded. For an instant, something flickered through her eyes, but it was gone before I could tell what it was.

“It’s unanimous,” Dad twinkled desperately. “Three big-ass dirty martinis for our little family gathering.”

“How nice,” Brittany said. “Okey-doke, I’ll be right back with your drinks!”

I took a deep breath, mentally girding my loins. “So how did you get the … what’s her name, Dad?”

He looked at me blankly. “Who?”

“Your—the woman who’s coming today.”

“Oh.” He looked at Mom nervously, but she radiated calm, the same way a lizard does, cool, unblinking. “Her name is—”

“Tanya,” Mom interrupted. “Which I think is a fitting name. Tanya the Whore. It works just as well for a stripper or a drug dealer, don’t you think?”

“Mmm,” I murmured. “So, why did she agree to meet with you and Mom?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know I’ll be here,” Mom said.

“Where are those drinks?” Dad barked.

Ten minutes later, when I’d almost finished my martini and was feeling a bit better, Dad stiffened. Stood up. Glanced at Mom, who gave an imperious nod. “Tanya!” Dad called weakly. “Over here.”

She wasn’t what I expected in a home-wrecking trollop, that was for sure. Weighing in at well over two hundred pounds, her plump cheeks quite red, hair in a long, graying braid, Tanya wore a purple peasant dress that made her look like an extra in some dreadful Woodstock retrospective. She completed her look with Hobbit-esque Birkenstocks and blue-tinted granny glasses.

“Well, well, well,” she said, thumping her way over. “Tobias Grey. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you!” Dad said, trying to hit his usual Clooney sparkle. “You … it’s … Hello!”

Tanya leaned in to kiss Dad’s cheek, but he flinched. Her gaze drifted to Mom and me. “Hello,” she said uncertainly.

“Hi,” I muttered, draining my drink.

“Hello,” Mom said, giving her a John Malkovich smile. You know the type. Sure, it’s a smile, but you just know some serious shit is about to rain down.

“Uh, Tanya, have a seat,” my father said, his face a little ashen. “This is my daughter, Calliope, and, um … my ex-wife. Eleanor.”

“Oh,” Tanya said. “Hi.” She gave Dad a dry look.

“Isn’t this nice,” Mom said, and if I’d had testicles, I’m quite sure they would’ve retracted in terror. Dad swallowed. “Tobias, tell Tanya … oh, isn’t that charming? Tobias and Tanya, Tanya and Tobias. So cute. Tobias, tell her why she’s here.”

Dad and Tanya sat down. It was beginning to dawn on Tanya that this was not going to be the evening she’d expected. Run, lady, I mentally urged her. Run fast.

“Well,” Dad said, trying to smile. “My wife here … she … back when we were, ah, married …”

“Who wants bread?” Brittany, our chipper server, plopped down a basket in front of us. Even though I’d just eaten with Ian, I pounced on it, tearing off a hunk of the still-warm sourdough and stuffing it in my mouth. Almost as good as cake batter.

“Would you ladies like some?” Dad asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. He pried the basket out of my hand and offered some to Mom, who shook her head, then to Tanya.

“Who wants to order? Oh, should I bring more menus?” Brittany asked.

“You know, Brittany,” I said, chewing, “we need a little privacy.”

“That’s fine! Call me when you’re ready! My name’s Brittany!”

“We know,” Mom said icily, staring at her nametag. Brittany backed away.

“So what’s going on here, Toby?” Tanya said. Mom’s eyes narrowed even more. “I take it you didn’t want to just catch up.”

“Well, see, Eleanor and I … we … well, we’re thinking about reconciling. But she wants a little … closure, might we call it, El?”

“We might,” Mom said. “You see, Tanya, is it? You were sleeping with my husband when I was pregnant with our third child. Which I found quite … unsettling.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Tanya muttered, giving Dad an evil look. “You cheated on your pregnant wife? You shit.”

“Very bad of me, I realize that. I’m deeply sorry,” Dad babbled.

“Very bad, I’ll say. I would’ve strung you up by your balls,” Tanya said. Dad’s face drained of its last bit of color.

“But let’s not forget your own role in this,” Mom said. “You slept with a married man.” Each word was an acid-dipped razor. “Tobias said you knew he was married.”

“Yeah. I did. So sue me,” she said.

Dad stiffened. Mom stiffened. I grabbed another hunk of bread.

“I mean, I didn’t know you were pregnant,” Tanya continued, “and if I had, I would never have gotten near him. He said he was separated.” She nailed Dad with a look nearly as terrifying as my mother’s reptilian gaze and continued. “My husband died the year before. I was looking for a meaningless fling, had dinner with Toby here once, slept with him, and that was that.” She paused. “It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was lonely. And I wasn’t married. Your husband couldn’t keep it in his pants. I think you should blame him.”

“Oh, I do,” Mom said. “Believe me, I do.” But she looked slightly daunted, perhaps realizing that the first stop on the Tour hadn’t been quite the trashy slut she’d imagined.

“So.” Tanya looked around the table at each of us. “Anything else?”

I couldn’t help it. I kind of liked Tanya. “Well, now, Tanya’s got a point,” I said. “You wanted to meet her, here she is. Can we be done? Is everyone happy now? Yes?” I glanced at the aging hippie, feeling more than a twinge of pity for her. “I think we’re done, Tanya. Sorry for this.” Then, in my need to make everyone on earth think well of me, I added, “I love your, uh … shoes.”

Tanya stood with great dignity and surveyed the three of us. Very deliberately, she picked up her full water glass and tossed the contents in Dad’s face. Then she snatched up the bread basket and the little bowl of chilled butter and walked out, right past Dave, who didn’t say a word.

My parents sat in silence. Water dripped off Dad’s hair and down into his collar.

“Thank you so much for making me stay,” I said. “I’m getting cheesecake. And you guys are paying.”