Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 19

AFTER WORK THAT DAY, I dragged Damien to the Whoop & Holler, ye olde Vermont townie bar. “I’m not sitting there,” he said, giving our booth a disdainful once-over. “I’ll get crabs.”

“Oh, stop,” I said. “We couldn’t go to Elements, because Dave works there, and since you guys are still broken up …” Damien sighed, and I continued. “Besides, I’m meeting someone here later.” Another attempt at eCommitment’s offerings. “And,” I continued craftily, before he could insult me over my anemic love life, “they have the best apricot sours ever.”

Damien’s perfectly groomed eyebrows bounced up at the mention of his favorite drink. “Okay. For you. On this day of days,” he said, sitting down gingerly.

“Two apricot sours, Jim!” I called, doing a double take when I saw my brother at the bar. “And don’t serve Freddie! He’s underage!”

“You little shit,” Jim said, cuffing Freddie. “How dare you come in with a fake ID!”

“I turned twenty-one in April!” my brother yelped. “My own sister might not remember, but it’s still true!”

I paused and did the math. “Oh, that’s right, Jim. Sorry!”

Freddie gave me the finger and grinned.

When our drinks came, Damien took a sip and then, mollified by the yumminess, told the whole story, with plenty of embellishment and snark, just as I’d hoped.

First, John Hammill had been surprised not to see me, as he was under the (correct) impression that I was the genius of the operation. Secondly, he’d been confused and slightly disturbed by Muriel’s idea.

“It was a cartoon, Callie,” Damien said, slurping more apricot sour. “Of a squirrel, okay? So her little squirrel, which is apparently named Squeaky the Squirrel, climbs up on a barrel of syrup, jumps in and starts lapping it up. And then comes this scary little high-pitched voice, and I’m pretty fucking sure it was Muriel … ‘So good even a squirrel will eat it!’”

“What does that even mean?” I asked, covering my mouth in horror.

“Who the fuck knows?” he said, laughing so hard he practically choked. I couldn’t help joining in. “So John says, ‘I’m really uncomfortable with this … who’d want to buy syrup when a rodent’s been swimming around in it? What are you gonna do next? Rats?’ And M&M, they give each other these looks, like they can’t fucking believe he took a pass.”

“So what happened after that?” I asked, sucking up the last of my girly-girl drink through a straw.

“So Mark said something like, ‘Well, we do have another idea,’ and shows yours, and John practically wets himself, he loves it so much. Came out of his chair when he heard that you already got Terry fucking Francona to agree.”

I sat back against the booth. “That’s great. I’m so glad John liked it. He’s such a good guy,” I said, pleased beyond words. Still, the fact didn’t escape me that I’d just spent the past three days frantically working, all on a Muriel whim. That was not cool. Not at all.

“So. You win, Callie,” Damien said, slurping down the rest of his drink. “What next?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know, Damien,” I admitted. “Do you …” I hesitated. “Do you think Muriel’s going to … last? With Mark, I mean?”

Damien sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s not the one I’d pick for him, that’s for sure.”

I didn’t say anything else. Annie had just come in, and she’d skin me if she knew I was talking about Mark’s love life. She was here to eavesdrop on my meeting with Ron, my latest attempt at finding The One. I wasn’t always sitting around mooning after my boss, my vet and other emotionally unavailable men.

Damien glanced at his watch. “Well. Must run. I have much better plans than hanging out here with you and these townies. No offense, of course. Toodles!”

“You’re going to get beat up if you don’t stop saying that,” I advised. “And I’ll be leading the mob, carrying a pipe.”

To my surprise, he kissed my cheek. “Thanks for the drink, Callie. And well done. Oh!” He looked over at the door. “Is that the someone you’re meeting? He’s looking around, has a desperate, furtive, rat-like demeanor …”

“Shut it, Damien,” I muttered. I looked over and waved. As if electrified, Annie hurtled over, followed closely by Freddie.

“Hi,” she said. “Is that him? The guy you waved to? Is he cute? He’s not bad. At least he’s tall.”

“Go sit where you can eavesdrop,” I instructed. Annie took the booth directly behind me. “Come, Fred,” she ordered. “Sit. Stay.”

“He looks unwashed,” Damien murmured. “Must flee. Tra-la!”

My date began making his way over. The Whoop & Holler was a dark and cavernous space, excellent for alcoholics and clandestine hookups. As he got closer, my heart sank. No, no, don’t do that, I told the pesky organ. He’s got … hidden depths? He might, anyway …

“This is gonna be great,” Freddie said in a stage whisper.

“Fred, don’t you dare …” Ah, there was no point. Little brothers were created to mock, torment and steal from their sisters, and Fred was a shining example. Besides, Ron was here.

Damien was right. He wasn’t quite … clean. Not that he was filthy, mind you. But here I was, in a wicked cute dress, a green-and-white pattern with flattering belt and, yes, darling orange suede high-heeled shoes for that pop of color. I’m just saying. And Ron … Ron wore faded and stained blue work pants, matching shirt. “Callie?” he asked, frowning fiercely.

“Yes! Hi, Ron! It’s so nice to meet you!” I chirruped, hoping that this would soon be true. He had an earthy, not exactly unpleasant smell about him. “Have a seat.”

He obeyed. Ron was a large, solid guy in that reassuring manly man way. We’d done the whole tennis volley of e-mails, and he’d actually seemed pretty nice. Friendly. Asked questions, gave answers. Our knees bumped, and I quickly shifted so as to avoid any unintended signals or dirt.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he muttered. “It was my night to milk.”

“Oh! Milk the, um … cows?” No, Callie. The monkeys. I heard the telltale wheeze of my brother’s laughter already, Annie’s little snort. Super. “I mean, you said you were a farmer. I guess a dairy farmer, right?”

He nodded.

“That’s great. I love cows,” I said. It was true. I did. Especially the kind on the side of the Ben & Jerry’s truck.

Ron’s eyes dropped to my chest. Damn! My adorable dress was quite low-cut … not slutty low, but low enough. If one has a great rack, one must use it to distract from food babies and the like. Or so I’d thought before now. Ron looked very … assessing, as if calculating my own potential in the dairy department.

“You don’t happen to supply Ben & Jerry’s, do you?” I asked. It could never hurt to have an in …

“No.”

“Cabot’s? I love their cheese.”

“No.”

Freddie squeaked.

“So, anyway,” I said, determined to charm. “It’s nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

Ron said nothing.

“Want to order something? A drink? Nachos?” I asked.

He glanced over to Jim, who called out, “What can I get you, pal?”

“Beer,” Ron answered.

“What kind? We have Coors, Coors Light, Bud, Bud Light, Amstel, Amstel Light, Miller, Miller Light …”

“Bud.” Ron looked back at me. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Dropped his eyes to the girls again.

“So, Ron, tell me about yourself,” I said, tipping my head so my shiny hair might distract him from my bosom.

“I’m a farmer,” he said, not looking up.

“Yes! We covered that, I think. Have you been a farmer long?”

“Yup.”

This guy made Ian look like Joy Behar in the chat department. The peanut gallery was having fun, anyway. I reminded myself to remember this at Christmas and not buy them so many presents.

“That’s great.” Tick. Tick. Tick. “And … uh, you said you were divorced?”

“Yup.”

Nothing more. The Betty Boop in my head rubbed her hands together. He’s a challenge, that’s all. We are not going to admit defeat here. He will like us. We are adorable, let’s not forget!

I glanced around. Above the bar, the Sox were on. Poifect. Man-talk. I could fake baseball chatter with the best of them.

“Ron, do you watch sports?” I asked. He was still staring at my chest. I did wear this dress, so I couldn’t exactly be irritated. “Ron? Up here, pal.” I snapped my fingers. Ah. Finally. Eye contact. I smiled to show I understood. “Do you like baseball? How ‘bout them Sox, huh? Second place. That’s not bad. Those damn Yankees, right?” I smiled ruefully. I often checked the sports page for just this sort of chatty tidbit. He still said nothing. Maybe he was diabetic or something, having a blood sugar crash. I often felt the same way when I went too long without cake batter. “Ron? Do you like baseball?”

“Nope,” he said. His eyes dropped back to my chest.

“Everything okay, Ron? You feeling all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

Freddie wheezed behind me. Could I smack him from this angle? Alas, no.

Well, clearly Ron wasn’t going to stop looking at my chest unless I made him, so I picked up the little napkin that had come with my drink, unfolded it and held it in front of the girls. “Ron? What’s the deal?” I asked. “You were very nice in your e-mails … can we please have a conversation here?”

He shrugged. “Well … the e-mails …” His voice trailed off.

“What?” I asked.

He scratched his head vigorously. “My aunt wrote them.”

Behind me, Annie and my brother sputtered and choked. “I see. Well. Tell your aunt she seems very nice. Maybe she’d like to go out with me, hmm?”

Nothing. No reaction.

“I think we’re probably done here, Ron,” I said gently.

“Great,” he answered. “Want to go back to my place and watch porn?”

Holy Lord in heaven! “I … I … I’m gonna have to pass on that one, Ron,” I finally managed. “You take care.”

Thirty seconds later, when Ron was a memory (though the smell of manure still hung in the air), Fred and Annie staggered to my booth and collapsed across from me. “I hope you’re gonna marry him.” My brother sighed.

“You really should let me screen them,” Annie said, wiping her eyes.

“You picked the human hair guy!” I reminded her.

“At least he was clean,” she said.

“Ish,” I corrected. I sighed. “Fred, buy your best girls drinks, what do you say?”

“Sure, Calorie,” he said amiably. “Jim! Another one of those candy-ass drinks for my sister, okay? Annie, what do you want?”

“I have to go,” she said regretfully. “Tonight’s Family Fun Night. We’re playing mini golf.”

“Rub it in, O happily married woman and mother of perfect child,” I said. She smiled modestly. “I don’t get it, guys,” I continued. “I’d want to date me. Why is it so hard for me? I’m wicked fun, I dress nicely, I’m friendly … I’d love to date me. Wouldn’t you?”

“The whole incest-sister thing aside?” Fred asked. I nodded. “Sure,” he said.

“I’d date you,” Annie agreed. “If I was gay, I would. Definitely.”

“Thank you,” I said. She smiled and gave me a quick hug, then went off to Perfectville.

Freddie and I ordered nachos and talked about work as we ate—my work, his lack thereof, and what he might do with his life. “You could always be a lawyer,” I suggested. “You do love the sound of your own voice.”

“True, true. Not that the universe needs another lawyer,” he said. “Hey, completely meaning to change the subject, I guess the next stop on the Tour of Whores is coming.”

“So much fun,” I murmured. “Poor Dad. All this for nothing.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think they’ll make it,” Fred said, draining his beer.

“Who?” I asked. “Mom and Dad? Really?”

“Yeah. They’re gonna make it. I could be wrong, of course. There’s always a first time.”

I rolled my eyes. “You and that little ego of yours,” I murmured. My voice trailed off.

Mark and Muriel had just come into the bar.

In the olden days, Mark used to take the gang to Whoop & Holler after a particularly successful pitch or a long week. Muriel hadn’t changed from the black skirt, white shirt and killer heels she’d worn to Hammill Farms today. Mark’s hand was on her back as he guided her to a table on the other side of the dimly lit bar. As she sat down, she looked up at him and laughed at whatever he was saying.

They looked … happy. My Hammill Farms presentation had kicked Muriel’s in the butt, and she was laughing, and gorgeous, and on a date. With Mark.

My heart rolled over like a dead turtle, then sank to the pit of my stomach. Whatever triumph and pleasure I’d felt over work today faded. I’m going to slap you, Michelle said. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. So snap out of it.

Easy for you to say, I told her. Are you the one who was just invited to watch porn at a dairy farm? Huh, First Lady who lives at the White House? And stop stealing Mrs. Roosevelt’s lines.

“Callie? Wake up,” my brother said. “You’re muttering to yourself.” He turned around to look where I was staring. “Why, it’s Mark! The guy you’ve been mooning over half your life! Want to give me a piggyback ride to show how cute we are?”

“Shh!” I hissed, kicking his shin.

See, way back when I was a teen and in fact mooning over Mark, I would often take Freddie on my rounds. I thought it would make me look adorable, loving and mature, that pretty Callie Grey and her sweet little brother whom she so obviously loved. Of course, I did love Freddie (much of the time, anyway) and he was always thrilled when I took him out of the funeral home for a spin on my bike or yes, a piggyback ride. One day, I made the mistake of informing my prop that I loved a certain boy. “That one,” I whispered when we actually caught a glimpse of Mark at a soccer game. The little shit never forgot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled back. “They are.”

Ah, accessories. Always good for a bonding moment.

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed and tossed the paper towels into the trash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

My footsteps halted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. Muriel was sweetpea now.

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

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

“I’ll walk,” he slurred.

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

“‘Kay. Thanks, sissy.”

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

Sweetpea.

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

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

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

Their bedroom.

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

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

She sounded a lot like me.