Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 20

“EASY THERE, GIRL, we’re not in this for exercise,” I warned Annie as she paddled vigorously.

“We’re not?” Annie asked.

“Nope. This is scenery appreciation only. Oh, look! A loon! Hi, loon!”

It was Saturday morning, a week after my little spying gig, which had left a bad taste in my mouth for quite a few days. A paddle on a lake was just the sort of soul cleansing I needed, so when Annie called this morning, begging me to get her out of the house before she (in her words) “slaughtered every living thing,” I suggested kayaking. Then, of course, when I zipped over there, I had to pry her off her child as she covered Seamus’s ridiculously cute face with kisses, then made out with her husband in the front hall. “You people disgust me,” I said, finally dragging her off.

“Bye, Callie,” Jack called.

“Don’t you have a twin?” I’d asked. “No? Then save it, bub.”

Alas, Annie was a jock … as opposed to my lackadaisical paddle, she was quite the little engine that could, propelling us along at a good clip and expecting me to keep up.

“It’s nice to have human company,” I said, turning my head a bit so Annie, who was in the back, could hear me.

“Bowie’s not jealous?” she asked.

“Of course he is. I had to give him three chew sticks and a pancake.”

Kayaking … at least, this type of kayaking, was just breathtaking. The let’s-see-if-these-rapids-will-kill-me type … not for me. But Annie and I were just circling Granite Lake, following the shore, where small waves slapped at the rocks in a rhythmic, soothing beat. A snapping turtle broke the surface a few feet away, then ducked back under the water with barely a ripple.

Today, the air was soft, the sky gray and gentle. It had been chilly at first, but now that we’d been at it a while, we were warmer. The lake was spring-fed and so clear I could see to the bottom, which was lined with the rocks that gave the lake its name. Surrounding us was a nearly unbroken wall of green—pines and hemlocks, maples and oaks. Overnight, the leaves would start to turn … the few tinges of yellow and red that had been flirting with us since August would suddenly engulf the foliage in fiery, heart-stopping color that would light up our countryside, a shock of beauty so intense it dazzled the eyes and made you wonder how you’d last another year without it.

“So how are your parents?” Annie asked.

“Um … hmm,” I said, taking yet another opportunity to stop paddling and turn to talk to my friend. “How to answer that. Let’s see. The Tour of Whores made its second stop, apparently. I wasn’t there this time—thank you, Jesus—but according to Hester, this particular home wrecker was blind, and when Mom saw the white cane and guide dog, she just lost heart. Left the table and had Dad buy the woman a drink.”

“Figured she’d been punished enough? God struck her blind, that sort of thing?” Annie asked.

“Well, apparently she’s always been blind,” I said. “Which makes me wonder a little.”

“About what?”

“Well, the first woman was a widow. This one was blind. What’s the next one gonna be? A refugee from a war-torn country? Maybe my dad was—”

“Don’t say it,” Annie warned.

“Say what? How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Because we’ve been friends for a thousand years, and you’re always Polly Sunshine when it comes to people—”

“A positive quality, some would say,” I interrupted.

“—especially when it comes to men, and especially, especially when it comes to your father, and you were about to say something along the lines of ‘My dad was performing a public service,’ am I right?”

“No! I’m well aware that he broke my mother’s heart. But, Annie, you have to admit …”

“I should slap you.”

“You and Michelle Obama,” I muttered, then, in a normal voice, said, “The thing is, Mom’s just torturing him. She’s like a shark who just … I don’t know … just ate a walrus, sees a baby seal and eats that, too. Not because she’s hungry … just because she can.”

“She has a right to be mad, Callie.”

“Twenty-two years of being mad?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said, huffing away behind me. “If Jack even thought of cheating on me, I’d slice him up good.”

I grinned. “I love when you talk all tough like that, you gangsta, you.”

“Get paddling,” she retorted. “Or I’ll slice you up, too.”

I turned back around and obeyed. A thumb-size mosquito whined near my face, taunting me before coming in for the pint or so of blood it would take. The water sluiced gently against the bow of my kayak. Our speed was pretty good … certainly much better than when Bowie and I went out, since the stubborn beast refused to help.

“Oh, look!” Annie said, nudging me with her paddle. “A man!” She pointed into the distance. Sure enough, a human figure was visible on a dock about a hundred yards away.

“Let’s kidnap him and force him to marry me,” I suggested.

“Okay!” Annie laughed. “Ooh. I think he’s drawing! That’s so hot, don’t you think?”

“Only if I’m naked and wearing the Heart of the Ocean and Jack Dawson is intently sketching me mere hours before his hypothermic death in the North Atlantic,” I said with a happy sigh.

“You’ve got to stop watching those sappy movies.”

“I will not! And don’t get sanctimonious on me, young lady! Didn’t your own husband use the phrase You complete me during his marriage proposal? Hmm?”

“I still regret telling you that,” she murmured. “Let’s go check him out.”

As we drew near, we could see the figure more clearly. It was indeed a man. And not just any man. It was Ian, sitting cross-legged on an old wooden dock, Angie at his side. And yes, he was drawing, a sketchpad on his lap. He looked up as we approached.

“Hi!” Annie chirped.

“Hi, Ian,” I seconded.

“Hello.” He watched as we pulled up to the dock, our intentions clear—to interrupt his lovely morning.

“Ian, this is my friend, Annie Doyle. Annie, the new vet, Ian McFarland.”

“Hi there,” she said, making me blush furiously, because Annie had this voice, you know? The voice she used when a particularly good meal was served … that oh, God, yes, yes, come to me, fettuccine Alfredo type of voice. “It’s … really nice to meet you.” I considered smacking her with my paddle.

“Are you drawing, Ian?” I asked.

Ian glanced down at his pad, the pencil that he held in his hand, then back at me. Wow. Those are some powers of deduction. “Yes.” Angie’s tail wagged.

“Can we dock here for a sec? I could really use a good stretch,” Annie said, subtle as a charging wildebeest.

Ian hesitated a second. “Sure.”

We paddled up to the dock. Ian came down to steady the kayak as we twisted and lunged our way out.

“So!” Annie said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you live around here, Ian?”

“Yes. Over there.”

He pointed to the woods. A little path twisted through the pines and over the granite rocks. I could make out a clearing, but not a house. “Is this your dock?” Annie asked. It would probably be easier if she just asked for a financial statement. Knowing her, that would be next.

“Yes. It’s mine.” Ian’s eyes flicked over to me.

“So Callie tells me she’s doing a little work for you, Ian,” Annie said, nodding approvingly. “She’s the best. So talented. You’re very lucky to have her. She’s great.”

“That’s enough, Annie,” I said. “I didn’t know you drew, Ian.” I could’ve put that on the Web site. Hobbies include painting, drawing and being too polite to get rid of intrusive visitors. “That painting in your office … your work?”

He looked at me, mildly surprised that I guessed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I love that picture,” I said. “Nice and juicy with all that squishy paint.”

“She doubles as an art critic,” Annie said with mock seriousness. Ian smiled. My uterus twitched in response. Dang. To cover my blush, I knelt down to pet Angie, who wagged politely.

“You know what?” Annie said abruptly. “I have a soccer game! Actually, Seamus—my son, Ian—he has a soccer game. But I have to go to it! I forgot! So I’m just gonna call Jack and he can come and get me! Okay?”

“I thought Seamus and Jack were going to the movies,” I said.

“No, he has a soccer game,” Annie ground out, widening her eyes at me as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Hi, Jack, sweetie, can you pick me up? No, I’m fine. I just remembered the game. The game. Never mind. I’m at … what’s your address, Ian?”

“75 Bitter Creek Road,” he answered, glancing at me. “Will you be able to get back alone?” he asked, looking down at the kayak.

“Sure,” I said, resigned. Annie was matchmaking, a disastrous hobby of hers that had resulted thus far in zero happy couples and two estranged cousins.

“Shall I just scamper down this path and wait for my husband at your house, Ian?” Annie asked, snapping her phone shut.

“Please. No scampering,” I said.

Ian didn’t seem to know what to say. “Uh … Sure. I’ll show you the way.”

Annie beamed and started off. “So, Ian, tell me about yourself,” she said merrily, then proceeded to fill him in on the wonder that was me. “Callie and I have been friends since we moved here when I was in fourth grade. She came right up and said hi, and the rest is history!”

The path from the lake was lovely, just wide enough for two people. The clouds had blown off, but the pines were so thick here the sunlight only broke through in patches, spilling gold on the forest floor. Ian’s dog padded silently beside me. “How are you, Angie?” I asked, petting the dog’s silky head. “Are you a beautiful girl?” She wagged her tail in confirmation that yes, indeed she was. “‘Angie … Aaaangie. Ain’t it good to be ali-i-i-ive?’” I sang in a whisper. It was, after all, our tradition.

Ahead of me, Annie was yakking away. Ian rubbed his neck with one hand, trying to answer Annie’s prying questions, such as …

“So, Ian, are you married?” My friend blinked up at him.

“I’m divorced,” he said, glancing back at me as if in a plea for help.

“How sad!” Annie sang. “How long has it been?”

“Two years.”

Annie turned and pulled a gruesome face meant to indicate joy and hope. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a special some—”

“Look! A deer!” I barked. The deer fled, white tail flashing as it leaped neatly into the woods. I took the opportunity to trot up to Annie and pinch her. Hard. “Stop it,” I mouthed.

“What are you talking about?” she mouthed back, then said aloud, “Is this your place? It’s beautiful!”

Ah. We were here. I stopped in my tracks.

The woods thinned out to a backyard. The grass had recently been cut, the fresh, sweet scent filling the air. The house was a green two-story farmhouse with a beautiful gray slate roof … a classic New England design, but, if I wasn’t mistaken, recently overhauled. New windows, I thought. Fresh paint.

“This is very pretty, Ian,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Um … would you like to come in?” It was clear he didn’t know how to avoid asking us.

“Sure! I’d love some coffee,” Annie said, shooting me another joyful look.

We walked around the side yard, which had a bank of mature lilac trees along one side. I could only imagine the smell in the springtime. Then we came to the front, and once again, I stopped short.

We were on the edge of a large field thick with goldenrod and late-blooming black-eyed Susans. Dragonflies dipped and skimmed, and finches flew in and out of the long grass. A stone wall ran along one side … a real stone wall, the Robert Frost variety, uneven and sincere. The gravel driveway led out to the unseen road—it would be hell to plow come winter, but who cared? About two hundred yards off was a large stand of maples, already topped in red. Ian would be in for quite a show in a few more weeks.

“Come on in,” Ian said. Did I mention he was wearing faded Levis? I suppressed a lustful sigh and followed him onto the porch, then turned to take in the view (of the natural scenery, not his ass, though both were compelling). The wide porch wrapped around on the western side. Perfect for sunsets. No railing, just an unobscured view of the field. A person could spend all day sitting on a porch like this, listening to the birds and the wind in the grass, the smell of pines rich and sharp in the air …

“You coming, Callie?” Annie chirped.

“Sure,” I said distantly, tearing my eyes off the view.

“This place is gorgeous!” she hissed. “And he’s not so bad himself! Oh, my God, those eyes!”

“Can you keep it down, please?” I asked. Ian was already inside.

“I wish I wasn’t married,” she murmured. “I’m serious. I’m leaving Jack.”

“Super. I’ve always had a thing for him. Now’s my chance,” I said, stepping into the house.

The interior of the house was pretty damn impressive, too. Clearly, an architect had done this, because it had that sleek, perfect feeling … smooth, shiny hardwood floors, streamlined bookcases, funky steel light fixtures. The overall effect was very modern, and maybe a little stark. And beautiful, because it was that, too. Expensive-looking furniture was well placed throughout, reinforcing the slightly chilly tone—I didn’t see a place where slumping and flopping could be executed too well, a far cry from the sofa I’d brought to Noah’s, which was aging leather and deliciously broken-in, a piece that seemed to invite a running start. But the house was beautiful.

And it was clean. Immaculate, even. I was a fair housekeeper myself, but not like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up. “Who’s Fleur?”

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

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

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

“Sure.” He may have sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Is your brother married?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“He’s also married,” Ian said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Ian answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good at what?”

“Working people over.”

I blinked. “Ouch, Ian!”

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

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

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

“Why are you being mean to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There you go again,” he murmured.

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

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

“Me, neither,” I muttered.

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

“Okay,” I said faintly.

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

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

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

“Okay,” Ian said. “Need a hand?”

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

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

“Yes,” he answered.

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

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

“Do you need a push?”

Not what I was hoping for. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then again, I was excellent at misinterpretation.