Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 21

IN A VERY RARE MANEUVER, my sister came over one night. “Hi,” I said, opening the door as Bowie leaped and crooned. “Did someone die?”

“No,” she answered. “Why? Did someone die here?”

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s just … you never come over.”

“Does that mean you’re thrilled to see me and want to pour me a glass of wine?”

“Yes! Yes, it does, Hes.”

“Keep it down!” Noah bellowed from the living room.

“We have company!” I yelled back.

“I don’t know how you live with him,” Hester said. “Dog, get off my leg or I’ll castrate you so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

“I’m trying to watch America’s Next Top Model!” our dear grandfather shouted. “Go upstairs, you two!”

“He’s very dedicated,” I told Hester, grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge. “He thinks Tenisha’s going to win, but her pictures last week … train wreck.”

Hester sighed. “Callie, I need advice,” she said.

I paused as I reached for the glasses. This was new. “Um … okay. Sure. Let’s go up to my room.”

“Finally,” Noah muttered as we passed his chair. “Hello, Hester.”

“Hi, Grumpy,” she said.

“Takes one to know one,” he returned.

Upstairs, Hester sat on my bed, well aware of the ban on the Morelock chair, and poured herself a glass of wine ‘til it hit the brim. “How are you?” she asked, then chugged half the glass.

“Um, I’m good,” I said. “And you?”

“Great. Just great,” she said.

“So what can I advise you on, Hes?” I asked, sitting in my office chair.

“Bronte’s been having a rough time lately.”

I nodded. “More than just adolescence?”

“Well,” Hester said, “she says she feels like a misfit up here … adopted, mixed race, single mother, funeral home in the family.”

“Right,” I said.

“So this morning she comes down to breakfast and gives me a list of all the reasons she doesn’t fit in, from her skin color to that wonky toenail on her left foot.”

I smiled. “It’s always freaked me out, I’ll be honest.”

Hester smiled back a little, and then, abruptly, her eyes filled with tears. “So she said if there was one thing on the list that she could actually change, it would be having a single mother.”

“What?” I breathed. “She wants to be put back in foster care?”

“No, idiot. She wants me to marry someone.”

“Oh! Okay, yeah, that makes more sense.” Or not. “Wow, Hes.”

“I’ve tried so hard, Callie,” she wept. “You know. Don’t end up like Mom, avoid men, adopt a child who needs a home, be stable and normal and strict and loving, and here she shoots me right in my Achilles’ heel!”

“That’s what kids do, I guess,” I murmured, handing my sister a box of tissues.

“Exactly. All my life I haven’t needed a man. Never wanted to, because look how it fucked up Mom, right? Now my kid needs a father, and it just sucks!”

“Well, just tell her it’s not for you. Tell her how much you love her and all that—”

“I already have!” Hester said, wiping her eyes. She blew her nose so loudly Bowie jumped up and barked. “Bronte said she had to make a huge adjustment to become my daughter, and the least I can do is try to make one for her.”

“She’s good,” I murmured.

“I know,” Hester said.

Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her, living with her fourth foster family in Queens, New York. She hadn’t wanted to leave the city; it took her months to sleep through the night. She’d barely spoken that first year.

“So,” Hester said, flopping down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. “Can you help me find a boyfriend? I was thinking of that vet guy.”

“Oh.” I hesitated. “Um, Hes, I kind of … like him.”

“Okay. Do you know anyone else?” Obviously, my sister didn’t care who it was.

“Do you really want a boyfriend, Hester?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’ll give it a shot.” She glanced at me. “It’s what you do when you have kids. And then, when Bronte sees what a clusterfuck dating is, she’ll drop it, I’ll take her to get her hair straightened, and maybe that will be the end of it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good plan, in a freakish, insincere way.”

“Exactly. So? Any names? You know everyone in town.”

“Do they have to be good-looking and employed and normal?”

“Nah,” Hester said. “Just single.”

“Okay, then. Yes, I know lots of men,” I said. “I’ll make a list. I have a guy who makes macramé out of human hair, a farmer who doesn’t talk or bathe, Jake Pelletier and his three ex-wives …” I looked up at my sister. “Plenty to choose from.”

“Perfect. That’ll set Bronte straight. Thanks, Callie,” my sister said sincerely. “I knew I could count on you.”

THE MORNING OF THE PET fair dawned bright and beautiful, a perfect fall day, the air crisp, the sun warm, the leaves abruptly unbelievable. Honestly, the trees glowed as if lit from within, Nature’s personal cathedral.

“Do you want to go see Dr. Ian? Do you?” I asked Bowie, who leaped onto his feet at the very thought. Then again, he tended to leap to his feet for anything.

I got dressed … no skirt or dress today, alas, but still, I wanted to look good, as I was sort of running this thing. And I’d be busy: There was the dog agility course, face painting, refreshments. Josephine and the Brownies would be dressed like cats or dogs, collecting for the Vermont Humane Society. The Senior Center had a choir—the Merryatrics (I thought of the name, thank you very much … they’d been high on my chocolate chip cookies that day and had nearly voted in favor of One Foot in the Grave) would be performing animal-related songs, such as “Barracuda” and “Eye of the Tiger” (they were a frisky lot). I’d confirmed with Sergeant Davis of the state police K-9 unit yesterday. Bethanne, the pet psychic who also worked as a nurse in Hester’s office, was thrilled at the chance to use her sixth sense. I had even—and this had been the hardest sell of all—I had even convinced Noah to come and whittle little cats and dogs to sell, the proceeds of which would go to the local animal shelter. Ian’s three-person staff would all be there to help as well.

If the advertising career didn’t work out, I could always do event planning, I thought as I surveyed myself in the mirror. “You’re very cute,” I said aloud. Smiled to prove it. Remembered what Ian had said about not needing to try so hard. Sighed.

Going into the bedroom, I glanced at my rocking chair. The sunlight poured through my window, illuminating the honeyed tiger maple. I ran a finger over the back, gave it a little push to see it rock, its smooth, gentle movement never failing to charm me. It was waiting, I thought. Waiting to be used for more than the occasional comfort session. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet.

“Let’s go, Bowie!” I said, earning a high yip and three whirling-dervish circles from my beloved.

Noah was waiting in the kitchen, scowling, a sweater vest over his flannel shirt—his version of dressed up.

“You look very nice, Grampy,” I said.

“What do you know?” he retorted. Then he recalled that he loved me and pinched my chin. “So do you, sweetheart. So do you.”

“You haven’t been hitting the sauce, have you?” I asked.

“That’s what I get for being nice,” he said, limping for the door. “Get in the damn truck. I’m driving.”

When we pulled up to the vet practice, there were already people milling about, a few Brownies and Scouts, the DJ, Bethanne, the pet psychic. Hester was there, sitting under a tent, booming into her phone. “No, it’s completely normal, it’s the injections. Just tell your husband to lock up any weapons, okay? Let’s be on the safe side.” She jerked her chin our way.

Fred, whom I’d bribed and blackmailed into being my helper, was running an extension cord to the PA system. He waved. “Hey, idiot!” I called, grinning.

“Hi, dumb-ass!” he returned.

“Have you seen Ian?”

“He’s inside,” Freddie answered.

Indeed he was. Gnawing on his thumbnail, staring out the window as if watching Mongol hordes descend. He was wearing a suit.

“Come on, Ian,” I said, not bothering with pleasantries. I grabbed his arm and towed him down the hall to his office.

“Take off the suit,” I ordered.

“This is unexpected,” he said.

“Very funny. A suit, Ian?”

“Well, I thought it would—”

“Take off your tie,” I said, jerking the knot loose, “and get rid of the jacket.” I shoved it off his shoulders. His broad, manly shoulders. My movements slowed. Ian smelled good. Really, really good. Like rain, somehow, sharp and clean. I could see the pulse beating in his neck, slow and sure. Felt the heat from his body, which was just a fraction from mine. Those unexpected eyelashes, so blond and somehow sweet, softened his severe looks. There was a little smile in his eyes, and his mouth was very near. If I stood on tiptoe …

“Doc?” Earl, my old vet tech buddy, appeared in the doorway. “Oh. Sorry.”

Suddenly aware that I was basically undressing my client in his office, I jumped back a foot or so, maybe three, and cleared my throat loudly.

“What do you need, Earl?” Ian asked.

“The police officer was wondering if you could float him some etogesic,” Earl said.

“Sure. I’ll be right out,” Ian answered.

“Sorry again,” Earl said.

“No, no!” I chirped. “Just a little … wardrobe malfunction.”

“Whatever you say,” Earl said, winking. With that, he left.

“Sorry, Ian,” I muttered, my legs still a little weak. “I just … you know. A suit is not quite the look we’re going for. Dockers would’ve been perfect, a nice blue oxford to match your eyes …”

I was blushing. Big surprise.

“Being male, I generally don’t think about matching my eyes,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Well. You should. You have gorgeous eyes,” I said, taking a shaky breath. “Bowie has an eye the same color as yours, very clear blue, like the sky. But his other eye is brown. Like mine. Funny. One like yours, one like mine. Not that I mean anything by that. Okay. I’m gonna stop talking now.”

Ian laughed, and the sound caught me right in the reproductive organs. Resisting the urge to pull a Bowie and flop on my back and offer myself up, I slapped my gaze out the window. Lust twisted hot and hard in my stomach. That was some laugh. Wow. Low and seductive and completely unexpected, that laugh.

“How’s this?” Ian asked.

I looked back at him. Swallowed. “Very nice. Much better,” I said. He’d taken off his tie and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves a few times, unbuttoned his shirt a couple. Would it be inappropriate to lick his neck? It probably would be. I cleared my throat. “Well, you’d better get out there,” I said. “It starts in ten minutes.”

A FEW HOURS LATER, IT was clear that the pet fair was a huge success.

Dogs of all kinds bounded in the area Freddie and I had designated as Dog Land. The obstacle course hadn’t worked so well, as none of the dogs seemed to get the concept and wanted only to mark their territory, but the Brownies had taken it over for their own purposes … Tess McIntyre had the best time thus far. The Merryatrics gave a rousing version of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” Bethanne’s readings confirmed just how much everyone’s pets loved their owners. Noah carved animals, which Jody Bingham took upon herself to hand-sell. Kids ran around with their faces painted like tigers or dogs or Scottish warriors (that would’ve been Seamus, my dear godson, who wanted to look like William Wallace from Braveheart rather than Tigger). The drug-sniffing dog had found Freddie a “person of interest,” but Freddie made a compelling catnip argument, and the cop let Freddie pass after a quick lecture on the continued illegality of marijuana. Bronte had been in charge of Cause for Paws, which rescued cats. By telling people that she herself had found a new and wonderful life thanks to the wonders of adoption, she’d managed to pawn off fourteen felines thus far.

And Ian had been great. Honest. A little stiff, sure, but he’d really tried. Shook hands, admired pets, fielded questions from Elmira Butkes, who was concerned that her twenty-two-year-old cat, Mr. Fluffers, wasn’t feeling “perky.” When Ian brought up the average lifespan of housecats (it’s thirteen), I gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs, and he changed his tune a little, saying maybe some B12 would do the trick. He even took the mike for a painful moment and thanked everyone for coming, encouraged them to have fun, not to forget to give what they could to the Humane Society. A little brief, a little formal, but quite … nice.

“So how are you?” Annie asked, coming up beside me to survey the fair.

“I’m feeling … ruttish,” I answered. She snorted appreciatively.

“Who wouldn’t?” she said. “He’s hot. All dangerous and growly.”

“Like a Russian assassin,” I murmured.

“Exactly,” she nodded. “I’ll bet he could kill you with one finger.” We were best friends for a reason.

“Hey,” I said, tearing my eyes off Ian, who was admiring a little girl’s newly adopted kitten, “Damien wants it floated to Dave that he’s ready to reconcile, okay? So consider it floated.” Damien had cornered me in my office yesterday with the aforementioned information, tired of being single after all of two months.

“Roger that,” Annie said. “How many well-dressed gay men live up here, anyway? They have to be together. It’s just a numbers thing.”

“Calliope, you look absolutely edible,” came that silken voice from behind me. I jumped. Sure enough, it was Louis, looking pale and damp and smug, like Gollum smiling over the sleeping Frodo Baggins.

“Oh! Louis! Annie, you remember Louis, right? Oops! Gotta run! Bye. Sorry! I have … things. To do. Things to do. Annie, help me! Help me do the things, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Annie said.

“I’ll help, too,” Louis said. “I’m very handy.” He raised an anemic eyebrow. “Very. Handy.”

I paused. “You know what, Louis? My sister needs help. Over there.” I gestured toward Hes, who appeared to be dozing in a lawn chair.

“If it would please you, then I will help your sister,” Louis said, gliding away.

“That wasn’t nice,” Annie said. “Oh, here comes Ian. Hi, Ian! You look really, really nice.” Back to her fettuccine voice.

“Hello, Annie,” Ian said. “Um … thank you.” He turned to me. “Callie, the K-9 unit has to go now. Did you want to say goodbye?”

“Sure. I have the check right here.” I peeked into my leather backpack purse. “Yup. Right here.”

“I hear Seamus calling me,” Annie lied. “Must run. Bye, kids!”

Ian and I walked over to where the cop was still holding court with his beautiful German shepherd under the elm tree. “So how are you doing, Ian?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” he answered. He glanced at me. “You really did a nice job on this. So many people came.”

“I thought you did great, too,” I said, risking a quick squeeze to his arm. Ooh. Nice arm. Nice and strong with all that dog-hefting or whatever. Cat hurling. Whatever.

We gave the good sergeant a donation to the cops’ union and thanked him. The fair was winding down, though Josephine had found the microphone and was serenading the stragglers with her favorite song. “‘Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me,’” she sang as Seamus head-bopped agreeably in the background. Annie and I had high hopes for a marriage between them someday.

“Callie, I’m headed home,” Noah said. He was rubbing his leg, but he gave Ian a terse nod.

“Sure, Noah,” I said. “I have to stay a little and make sure everything’s settled, but don’t worry. I’ll catch a ride.” I wasn’t in a horrible hurry, to be honest. It was 4:00 p.m. on a Saturday. I didn’t have plans, though the River Rats had invited me to hang out with them. I believed it was their monthly mojito night, not to be confused with their monthly martini night, beer night, wine night, mint julep night …

“I’ll drive you home,” Ian said.

“Thanks,” I said. “That would be great.”

“I’ll bring Bowie,” Noah said, then hobbled off toward his pickup truck, his uneven gait more pronounced than usual.

“His leg must be hurting,” I said. “He hates wearing the prosthesis. We’ve tried eight different models.” I frowned. “Can we stop at the pharmacy on the way home? He’s out of Lanacane, and I’ll bet he won’t remember to pick some up.” Glancing at my watch, I winced. “Shoot, they’re closed already.”

“I have some in the office,” Ian said.

“Really? Thanks, Ian,” I said. “See? You’re getting good at this nice thing. Just like me.”

He gave me a tolerant look, and I smiled.

As we approached the office, a new-model Saab pulled into the lot. The driver got out. I recognized her immediately—it was the woman from the ladies’ room at Whoop & Holler. The one who told me I wasn’t an idiot.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “How you doing, Kate Spade?”

“Hi there, fabulous shoe woman!” she called right back. “How are you?” Then she looked at Ian, and her expression softened. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. I sensed a tremor in the Force, if you know what I meant. Ian had gone very still.

“I didn’t realize you had an … event,” she said, gesturing to where the rental folks were taking down the tent.

“Yes,” he said, offering no more. They looked at each other for a moment, the air suddenly was crackling and brittle.

“Got a minute?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, then, turning to me, added, “Callie, though I take it you’ve already met somehow, this is Laura Pembers. My ex-wife.”

THOUGH I OH-SO-CASUALLY circled the building with Angie, I was unable to find a spot where I could eavesdrop on Ian and Laura without climbing a stepladder and pressing my ear against the window … and sadly, I didn’t see a ladder anywhere.

The last of the pet fair people left, trickling away with waves and compliments. I kissed my nieces and managed to catch Seamus and kiss him as well, though he was getting to the age where he kind of hated, kind of loved that sort of public display. With a sigh, I flopped on the grass under a pear tree, the silvery leaves rustling slightly in the breeze. Angie joined me, lying down with her front paws crossed daintily as if she were the Queen of England. I stroked her silky fur and was rewarded when she put her head in my lap.

So. Ian’s ex-wife was gorgeous, friendly and most important, had great taste in accessories. I remembered thinking that night in the ladies’ room that she looked familiar, and now I knew why. Her picture was still in Ian’s office, though her hair was shorter and darker now. I don’t think he’s over his ex-wife, Carmella had told me the first day I’d come to check Ian out. Ian himself told me he wasn’t looking for a relationship. So I guess I knew what he’d meant that day, when he’d told me I didn’t have to try so hard with him. It didn’t mean he was interested in me. And heck, he’d made that clear, hadn’t he? Actions spoke louder than words. He’d never touched me, except to help me into the kayak. Certainly didn’t flirt. So what if he laughed this morning? I was easy to laugh at.

I heard a car door close, then an engine start. As Laura drove down the driveway, she slowed. I stood up and waved. “Nice to meet you, Callie!” she called. Angie woofed softly.

“Same here,” I shouted back. Then I headed back toward the building where Ian stood looking where Laura’s car had been, his hands in his pockets, face more than a little grim.

“Hi,” I said, and he started.

“Hi,” he said, not looking at me. “I’m sorry, I forgot the Lanacane. Come on in.”

I followed him into the office and waited while he disappeared down the hall. A few seconds later he was back, his suit jacket and tie over his arm, the tube of cream in his hand. His face was tight, and he didn’t look at me.

“Everything okay, Ian?” I asked gently.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I offered.

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I appreciate the cream. Noah will, too.”

A muscle in his jaw clenched, and he managed to cut his eyes to me, then looked away once more. “She’s getting married.”

I bit my lip. “I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I knew already … she wrote to me about a month ago. I just haven’t seen her for a while.” He paused. “They should get married. They’re … right for each other.” He shrugged unconvincingly. “Let’s go.”

Angie came the nanosecond she was called, jumping into the way back of Ian’s Subaru, where there was a dog bed for her comfort. I got in the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, buckling my seat belt.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for today. It was very nice.”

I could tell his mind was elsewhere. For a change, I managed to keep my mouth shut as we drove home. Autumn was here, brilliant and blazing. The fields glowed with good health, and black-and-white cows lined the fence at the edge of the road at the Valasquez farm. But my heart hurt for Ian.

When we pulled into Noah’s Arks, Ian spoke again, though he stared straight ahead. “Callie,” he began, taking a deep breath. He didn’t continue, just exhaled slowly.

“Yes, Ian?” I prodded (gently, I thought).

“Laura wants me to come to her wedding.” He turned to look at me.

“Ah,” I said. He didn’t say anything else. “Well, do you want to go?”

“No,” he answered. “But I probably will.” He dropped his gaze to his hands.

“And how do you feel about going?” I asked, trying for armchair psychologist.

“Really crappy, Callie.”

I gave a little laugh, almost surprised at the honest answer. “I would, too,” I said.

“It’s next weekend.”

“That’s … soon.”

He took another deep breath, then seemed to grit his teeth. “Will you come with me?”

Lordy! I certainly didn’t see that coming. Well, of course he’d want a date! Especially (not to toot my own horn) but especially one as pretty and charming and in possession of such fabulous shoes as I was. “Sure, I’ll come!” I said. I could see it already. I’d flirt with him, be utterly gorgeous, we could dance, everyone could see that he’d moved on … “You can say I’m your girlfriend, I’m a great date, Ian, and I’ll—”

“No!” he blurted, looking stricken. “I don’t want you to pretend to be my girlfriend,” he said more calmly. “I … I don’t even want you to come as my date.”

“Oh,” I said, deflating. There went that plan. What did he want, a driver?

“Just come as my … friend.” He turned to look at me, his eyes steady.

My heart seemed to stop beating for a second. Oh. Somehow, coming from this man, the word was huge. His friend. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’d be honored.”

Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded up piece of paper, handing it to me. “It’s just outside Montpelier,” he said. “We’ll have to stay overnight, but I’ll pay for your room.”

“Or we could bunk together,” I said, glancing at the invitation. “Save some money. We could have a slumber party. Order room service, watch movies, jump on the beds.”

“I’ll pay for your room,” he repeated, but there it was, that little smile in his eyes.

I opened the car door. “Okay. See you next week.”

“It’s black tie, by the way.”

“Oh, I love black tie!” I exclaimed. “I have the best dress! How cool! This will be so much fun, Ian!” Then, remembering that Ian’s poor heart was probably breaking and his wife was in love with another man, I hastily added, “Actually, this is going to suck, and it won’t be any fun at all.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “I know I’m going to regret this,” he murmured.

I got out of the car and pointed at him. “You won’t, Ian. I’ll make sure of it.”