Читать книгу Rom-Com Collection - Kristan Higgins - Страница 25

GREEN MOUNTAIN WAS subdued the following week with the news that M&M were making it official. Mark avoided me, acting chipper and professional when we did have to talk and, on the two or three occasions when we happened to walk in at the same time, suddenly remembering he’d forgotten something, requiring an about-face. I heard him and Muriel laughing behind his office door one morning, and another day, the elder Rousseaus came in to take their son and his fiancée out to lunch. I still couldn’t believe it. Not that Mark was getting married … but that out of all the women on earth, he’d picked her. That he loved her enough for a lifetime.

Though I tried to stay out of any true gossip, it was clear the rest of my coworkers weren’t thrilled about the engagement, either. “He can marry her if he wants,” Karen said as we walked in together on Wednesday, “but I wish to holy hell that she wasn’t working here.” Yesterday, Muriel overheard Damien referring to her and Mark as M&M. “Oh, that’s so cute!” she said. “We should rename the company. M&M Media. What a great name, don’t you think, hon?” Mark had murmured an answer, and later that day, I’d seen Muriel playing with the words M&M Media in different fonts on her computer.

Muriel may have been a tad more pleasant, but the sight of her running our weekly staff meeting was off-putting. Apparently, she’d given up trying to be creative director and was moving into production.

“Callie, what are you working on this week?” she asked, her eyes giving me the customary scan-and-judge. She was clad in a winter-white wool dress, wide black belt and gorgeous black patent leather pumps.

“I’m working on your dad’s Web site and some of the downloads for—” I began.

“Please call the company by name,” she said mildly, ticking something off her notepad. Damien snorted and went back to studying his manicure. He used to run our production meetings and was making his irritation known through deep sighs and eye-rolling.

“Anything else?” Muriel asked.

“Yep. The hospital ad for the Globe and the pitch for that construction company in New Hampshire,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re shooting the fall footage for Hammill Farms, so I’ll be going to that, too.”

“Do you really need to? Mark and I will be on site,” she said, looking up with a fake smile.

I glanced at Mark, who was staring out the window. “Well, since I came up with the concept and wrote the script,” I said calmly, “I’d say the answer is yes, I do need to go.”

“Now, Callie,” she said in a placating tone. “You don’t need to be hostile. Everyone agrees that your commercial is wonderful. I’m just not sure if you really need to come, or if you can delegate once in a while. After all,” she added, “your boss will be there. I’m sure you can trust his judgment.” The insincere smile remained on her face.

“Mark?” I asked.

He snapped to attention. “Um … well, uh, I could use you here, actually.”

“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I guess I’m staying, then.”

“Great,” Muriel said, her diamond eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Fleur? What are you up to this week?”

Fleur straightened. “Muriel, those shoes … Prada, yeah?”

“Suck-up,” Damien muttered.

Fleur shot him a glare, but Muriel smiled. “Chanel,” she said.

“Right-o. Well, I’m nearly done with the copy for the BTR catalog, as you asked. Anything else you’d like me to do?”

“No, that’s fine, you keep at it. I love what you’ve shown me so far.”

My stomach knotted. Fleur was smart, and political, and if it felt a bit like she was a traitor, well, she was just looking out for herself. “And, Pete,” Muriel said, just as Pete was yawning hugely. “What are you working on this week?”

“I’m trying to get my USB into a certain port,” he said, nudging Leila who, as usual, was fused to his hip bone.

“Maybe you need a converter,” she giggled.

To my surprise, Muriel smiled, a real smile this time. “You guys are so cute,” she said. “I guess love is in the air.”

I LEFT WORK A LITTLE EARLY, and Bowie greeted me with his usual astonished joy that so great a miracle as my return had occurred. “Where’s Noah, huh, Bowie?” I asked. “Where’s your Grampy?” Noah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, but my dog failed to elucidate. Noah must’ve had some errands to run, though he usually got me, his slave, to do that for him, as he wasn’t fond of “the great unwashed,” as he liked to call the public.

I wasn’t alone in the house that often, and I had to admit, it was kind of nice. I loved my grandfather, of course, but I missed living alone, too. The tiny apartment I’d rented before Noah’s accident had been a snug little space with sloping ceilings and big windows. My father had clunked his head every single time he visited, but I loved the coziness of it. And sure, I wanted a house someday. I didn’t want to be Noah’s faithful servant forever. Or, I corrected, I didn’t want to just be Noah’s faithful servant. I wouldn’t mind having him live with my husband and me.

Not that there was a husband on the horizon.

I hadn’t heard from Ian since our drive home from Montpelier last week, which had been a study in awkwardness and fidgeting. On my part, that is. Honestly. Me, reduced to inane chatter about the foliage. Sure, he’d responded, his answers all polite and brief. We hadn’t talked about anything real. Certainly hadn’t talked about that kiss, which I’d relived about three hundred times thus far.

You blew it, the First Lady said, shaking her head sadly.

How did I blow it, huh? I snapped back. I was surprised that Mark’s getting married, that’s all. Is that a sin? And isn’t there a kindergarten somewhere waiting for you to show up and read a book? Betty Boop was useless, sighing mournfully somewhere in a corner of my brain. But Michelle was right. Somehow, I’d blown it. From Ian’s perspective, it must’ve seemed like I wasn’t over Mark. Are you sure you are? the First Lady asked.

I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew one thing. I really wanted to breach the wall between Ian and me. Too uncertain to pick up the phone, I’d written, then deleted about thirty e-mails to him, but despite the fact that I was good at making people want stuff—and making people like me, as Ian had once pointed out—every word sounded wrong. I checked his “Ask Dr. Ian” blog … he was doing fine. Carmella and I ran into each other at Toasted & Roasted, and she told me things had been really busy since the pet fair. That was good, at least. The little nudge provided by the warm and fuzzy campaign had worked. But at the memory of the scene in the church foyer, I felt ashamed that I’d ever suggested that Ian McFarland needed to be any different from how he actually was.

I slipped off my shoes and went up to my own room, Bowie at my side, the unaccustomed quiet broken only by the sound of the rain pounding the roof. The Morelock chair sat in front of the window as if waiting. Waiting to be a part of that happily ever after I’d promised it. For a second, I thought about trying to get some comfort there, but I didn’t feel worthy today.

I lay on my bed, Bowie curled next to me, and wondered what to do. Work was sucky, Muriel wasn’t going anywhere and I’d ruined things with Ian.

Bowie’s ears pricked up suddenly. So did mine, figuratively speaking.

Any further thoughts on my romantic woes disintegrated. It’s just the rain, I told myself. But there it was again. A sound. A thud. Not rain at all.

Someone was here. In my house. Someone was upstairs with me. Hot, liquid fear flooded my veins. Silently, I sat up.

Someone was in my bathroom.

Could it be Bronte, maybe? It was possible … she came over once in a while, but without Noah here, she would’ve gone to Mom’s. Maybe it was Freddie, but what the heck would he be doing in my bathroom? Should I follow that train of thought? Maybe it was a mass murderer, on the run from the police, ducking into our perpetually unlocked home to hide, coldly delighted to find one more victim.

It’s probably a bat, dummy, the First Lady said. The thought was calming, despite Michelle’s disrespectful tone. She was probably right. Speaking of bats, well, I didn’t have one. Baseball bat, that was. But I did have an oar, this old wooden oar I’d bought at a yard sale a few years ago, which I’d hung up as a very cool decoration. Taking care to be quiet, just in case the noise was indeed caused by Jack the Ripper, I crept over and took the oar off the wall.

Picking up my cell phone, I flipped it open, pressed 9, then 1, then kept my thumb hovering right there. If there really was a person in my bathroom, I’d press the last 1, then toss the phone under the bed so the perp couldn’t pry it from my hand and hang up. The police could then track my signal and rescue me. And surely Bowie wouldn’t just twirl in gleeful circles as I was attacked, right? Surely he’d protect the woman who’d saved him from the animal shelter, right? I glanced at my faithful friend. He was sleeping. Super.

Tiptoeing across the room, I could feel my heart clattering. The thing in my bathroom was probably a bat or a bird, but … what if it was a serial killer? Or a terrorist? Don’t forget vampire, Michelle suggested.

Lucky for me, the bathroom door’s latch was still broken. The door was closed, but I could kick it open the way they did on Law & Order: Criminal Intent and thus surprise my intruder. Oar in one hand, phone in the other, I took a deep breath, then kicked the door open as hard as I could.

A naked man leaned against my shower, dripping wet, his back to me.

“Aaah!” I screamed—the door hit the wall and closed again, and I leaped backward, away, the oar clattering to the floor. Bowie bolted to his feet, barking hysterically, rushing instantly to my side. A shriek—someone else’s—split the air, and I gave an answering scream. Holy shit, who was in there? What was in there?

“Nine-one-one operator, what’s your emergency?” came a voice. Thank God, I’d hit the last 1, bless my smart thumb. “Naked man! Naked man!” someone yelled—oh, it was me! Hide the phone! my brain instructed, so I hurled my cell across the room and vaulted across the bed, Bowie rocketing after me, baying in high-pitched panic, as I scrambled away from the naked intruder. Grabbing a pillow, I clutched it in front of me, my back against the wall.

The bathroom door opened again, and I screamed, long and loud.

“Christly, Callie, shut up!”

My scream choked off mid-screech.

My grandfather. Wrapped in a towel. It was Noah. Noah! The naked man had been leaning because he only had one leg. I threw the pillow to the floor.

“Jesus God in heaven, Noah, what the hell were you thinking?” I yelled, my entire body shaking wildly. Bowie barked, backing me up. “I thought you were a serial killer! You scared the life out of me!”

“Did I?” Noah snapped. “You’re kiddin’ me. And what if I was a killer, huh? Your pillow gonna save your life, dumb-ass?”

“You … I—” My heart still thundered away, so hard my head buzzed. “What the hell are you doing in my bathroom, anyway?” I asked.

“What the hell are you doing home so early?” he countered.

“I left work a little … wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. “Who else was screaming? It wasn’t just me, was it?”

“None of your business,” Noah answered, but his cheeks reddened.

“Is someone else in there?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

At that moment, Jody Bingham appeared from the bathroom, damp and … okay … wearing my bathrobe. “Hi, Callie,” she said calmly. “Sorry we scared you.”

In the distance, I heard the sound of sirens. “Well, I’m sorry I called 911,” I said.

WHEN THE POLICE, THE EMTS and the volunteer fire department (half of whom were River Rats) had listened to my story four or five times, wept tears of mirth and ascertained that my grandfather was not a threat to my safety, they finally trooped out.

“Always great to see you, Noah,” Robbie Neal, president of the River Rats, said, shaking my grandfather’s hand.

“Get outta here, Mister Man,” Noah grumbled.

Robbie winked at me. “Sorry for your troubles, Callie,” he said.

“Not as sorry as I am,” I returned. He closed the door behind him, already pulling out his phone to share the love.

“Noah, Jody, once again, I’m wicked sorry,” I said. “But maybe you’ve learned an important lesson about not using other people’s bathrooms, huh?” I stirred the soup I’d whipped up during my little police interrogation. Jody and Noah sat at the kitchen table, looking rightfully sheepish.

“We weren’t doing anything too …” Jody paused. “Nothing that improper, Callie,” she assured me. “Your grandfather’s leg hurt, I suggested he take a little Jacuzzi, and the tub’s in your bathroom.”

“Uh-huh. So, Noah, the next time your truck’s in the shop and you feel like getting a booty call, maybe you could leave a note?”

“What’s a booty call?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I muttered, still a little ticked off. One does not often see one’s grandfather naked in one’s bathroom, after all. And thank the merciful Christ for that.

“A booty call is when you visit someone for sex,” Jody said matter-of-factly. “Callie’s teaching us hip-hop. It’s very enlightening.”

“So,” I said, bringing the pot of soup to the table and going back for a pack of Ritz crackers and some cream cheese, “how long have you two been … getting it on?”

“Oh, we’re not really getting it on,” Jody said fondly. “Just two kindred spirits, right, Noah?”

“Let’s not get hysterical,” he muttered, but his cheeks were pink, and when Jody reached across the table to hold his hand, he didn’t pull away.

At that moment, the back door opened, and in poured the entire rest of my family—the parents, the siblings, the nieces.

“We just got a call from Robbie Neal,” my father said, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “He said there was a break-in involving a … a pervert, honey?” Dad came right over to me and gripped my upper arms.

“There was,” I confirmed. “And it was terrifying.”

Once again, I told the story of Naked Grampy, which was sure to become a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie.

“That is so nasty,” Bronte said, her face a little gray.

Freddie was rocking back and forth, wheezing, Hester wiped tears from her eyes, Josephine played with a one-armed Barbie. And my parents sat next to each other on the bench.

There was enough soup for everyone, and I whipped up a little peach crumble while we were all talking, and despite the fact that work sucked and I’d almost had my grandfather arrested for a sex crime, it turned out to be the nicest family meal we’d had in a long, long time.

Maybe ever.