Hello!

I hope you’ll enjoy All I Ever Wanted! I think like a lot of us, Callie feels that if she just does everything right, she’ll get the results—and the man—she wants. She tries so hard, but life seems to have other plans. Her challenge now: get over the guy who doesn’t want her, even though she thought they were pretty perfect together.

One of the things I love best about this book is how the hero and heroine meet. We’ve all had moments where we’ve seen people at their worst, not to mention those moments in our own personal histories we wish we could erase! But Ian and Callie see something in each other that no one else does and, in some ways, that’s the essence of a romance novel. It was awfully fun to write two characters with such different personalities, and I love the way Callie and Ian bump up against each other again and again. She wants to help him out so much! And he thinks he’s just fine on his own. But sometimes in life, what we want is not really what we need, don’t you think?

As always, you’ll find a quirky family (I especially like Noah), a great dog and a beautiful little town, this time in the form of Georgebury, Vermont. I visited the Northeast Kingdom part of the state last year, was especially fond of the Cabot’s Dairy tour, the rushing rivers and the faint smell of syrup that tinged the air.

Hope you’ll have a lot of laughs and a few deeply satisfying tears with All I Ever Wanted. And of course, I’d love to hear from you! Visit my website at www.kristanhiggins.com.

Happy reading!

Kristan

KRISTAN HIGGINS divides her time between home in Connecticut and summers on Cape Cod. She is the mother of two lovely kids, the wife of a brave firefighter, and a devoted Ben & Jerry’s fan. Previously a copywriter, Kristan began writing fiction when her children graced her life with simultaneous naps … so much more satisfying than folding laundry. She holds a BA in English, which enables her to identify dangling participles and quote many great novels. She loves to connect with readers on her website www.kristanhiggins.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks

This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to

Carol Robinson, who has been my great friend since

I was a just a little kid. Love you, Nana.

Thanks as always to Maria Carvainis, my brilliant agent, as well as to Keyren Gerlach, my wonderful editor, and everyone else at HQN for their overwhelming support and enthusiasm.

Many thanks to my incredibly nice vet, Sudesh Kumar, DVM, MS, PhD, for answering a hundred questions, and to Nick Schade, owner of Guillemot Kayaks and boat builder to the gods. Visit www.guillemot-kayaks.com for a peek at his breathtaking craftsmanship. For the use of their names, thanks to Annie, Jack and Seamus Doyle; Jody Bingham; Shaunee Cole; and my lovely friends, Hayley and Tess McIntyre. Adiaris Flores helped me with a few Spanish phrases … gracias, sweetheart! Thanks also to Lane Garrison Gerard for inspiring Josephine’s somewhat dubious taste in music.

I have been blessed with the support and friendship of many fellow writers, and though I can’t name them all, here are a few: Cindy Gerard, Susan Mallery, Deeanne Gist, Cathy Maxwell, Susan Andersen, Allison Kent, Sherry Thomas, and Monica McInerney. Thank you. Truly.

And lastly, all my love to my husband and kids. You three are everything to me.

AS THE MAN I LOVED approached my office, the image of a deer being hit by a truck came to mind. I was the deer, metaphorically speaking, and Mark Rousseau was the pickup truck of doom.

But here’s the thing. The deer always freezes, as we all know, hence the expression like a deer caught in the headlights. The deer and I (Callie Grey, age thirty as of 9:34 this very morning) are well aware that the pickup truck is going to hit us. But we just stand there, waiting for the inevitable, whether it’s a pickup truck (in the deer’s case) or a man walking athletically toward me (in mine), perpetual smile in place, his brown hair carelessly curling, those gorgeous, dancing dark eyes. I waited, doe-eyed. It was all really too bad, because outside of Mark’s influence, I was not at all a deer about to be run down. I was much more of an adorable, perky hedgehog or something.

“Hey.” Mark grinned.

Bam! We have impact. The sunlight streamed through the windows of the old brick office building in which Mark and I worked, illuminating him so that he looked like something painted by Michelangelo. To make him even more appealing, he was wearing an old sweater vest his mom knitted for him years ago, shapeless and faded but something he just couldn’t part with. A good son and a sex god.

It was as if there were two Callies … the smarter, more sensible self (I pictured her as Michelle Obama), and the dopey, in love part … Betty Boop. Would that Michelle could give Betty Boop a brisk slap, followed by some vigorous shaking. Alas, Betty just sat there, enthralled, as the First Lady snorted in disgust.

“Hi,” I said, feeling my face warm. You’d think that four years of seeing him almost daily would have built up some tolerance in me, but no. My chest prickled with longing and love, my throat turned Saharan, my feet and fingers tingled. Though I was trying hard for Intelligent Coworker, my expression was probably somewhere around Pathetic Adoration.

Mark leaned against my desk, which meant his crotch was, oh, let’s see, about a foot and a half from my face, since I was seated. Not that I noticed, of course. “Happy birthday,” he said, making it sound like the most intimate, most suggestive phrase in the world.

Face: nuclear. Heart: racing. Callie: half inch from orgasm. “Thanks.”

“I got you a present, of course,” he murmured in that voice … God, that voice. Low and soft and velvety … the same voice he used in the bedroom, as I well knew. Yes, Mark and I had been together. For five weeks. Five wonderful weeks. Almost five and a half, if you really analyzed it. Which I had.

From his back pocket, he withdrew a small, rectangular package. My heart flopped as my brain raced with contradictory thoughts. Jewelry? Betty squealed. That means something. That’s romantic. So romantic! Oh! My! God! On the other hand, Michelle advised caution. Calm down, Callie. Let’s just see how this plays out.

“Oh, Mark! Thank you! You didn’t have to,” I said, my voice breathy.

On the other side of the glass-bricked wall that separated our offices, Fleur Eames slammed a drawer. The wall only went up ten feet; the ceilings were twelve, perfect for eavesdropping, and I guessed she was trying to snap me out of my daze. Fleur, a copywriter here at the firm, knew about my crush. Everyone did.

Clearing my throat, I reached for the package in Mark’s hand. He held onto it for a minute, grinning before he let go. It was wrapped in cheerful yellow paper. Yellow is my favorite color. Did I tell him that once? Had he filed away that little fact the same way I filed away everything he ever told me? I mean, really, it could hardly be coincidence, right? He smiled down at me, and my racing heart stuttered, stalled, then revved into overdrive. Oh, God. Could it be? Did he finally want to get back together?

I’d worked at Mark’s firm for the past four years. We were the only advertising and public relations agency in northeastern Vermont. Our staff was small—just Mark and me; Fleur; the office manager, Karen; and the two pale computer geeks in the art department, Pete and Leila. Oh, and Damien, Mark’s personal assistant/receptionist/willing slave.

I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, at least that’s what Mark had said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when it comes to being with the man they love. No. It had been Mark’s timing that wasn’t right.

But now … now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was right? Maybe now, on the very day that my thirties began and I entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be mauled by a grizzly bear than get married … maybe today really was the start of a new age.

“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box. Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged and gave me that heart-stopping smile once more. “It’s not every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.

“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien appearing in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to me.

“Hi, Damien,” I said.

“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of contempt … Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s on line two.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe. Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The company made outdoorwear from a combination of plastic grocery bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San Diego, where Bags to Riches was based. As part of the package, Charles had asked Muriel to come to Vermont and work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to him keeping tabs on things. And, since Charles was paying us gobs of money, Mark had said yes.

Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”

“So let her wait some more,” Mark answered, tossing me a wink. “This is important. Open the damn box, Callie.” Damien sighed with the heavy drama that only a gay man can pull off and hustled down the hall.

Cheeks burning, I opened the velvet box. It was a bracelet, delicate silver strands that twisted and turned like ivy. “Oh, Mark, I love it,” I whispered, running my finger over the intricate lines. I bit my lip, my eyes already misting with happy tears. “Thank you.”

His expression was soft. “You’re welcome. You mean a lot to me. You know that, Callie.” He bent down and kissed my cheek, and every detail was immediately seared into my brain—his smooth, warm lips, the smell of his Hugo Boss cologne, the heat of his skin.

Hope, which had been lying in ashes for the past ten months, twitched hard.

“Think you’ll make it to my party later on?” I asked, striving for perky and fun, not lustful and ruttish. My parents were throwing me a little bash at Elements, the nicest restaurant around, and I’d invited all my coworkers. No use pretending: I was turning thirty; might as well get some presents.

Mark straightened, then moved a pile of papers from the small couch in my office and sat down. “Um … Listen, I need to tell you something. You met Muriel, right?”

“Well, just that once. She seems … very …” Hmm. She’d worn a killer black suit, had great shoes … kind of intense. “Very focused.”

“Yeah. She is. Callie …” Mark hesitated. “Muriel and I are seeing each other.”

It took a few seconds for that to register. Once again, I was that stupid deer, watching mutely as the pickup truck hurtled down the road. My heart slammed to a halt. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Michelle Obama stood by, shaking her head sadly, her fabulous arms crossed in regret. I realized my mouth was open. Closed it. “Oh,” I heard myself say.

Mark looked at the floor. “I hope that doesn’t cause you any … discomfort. Given our past involvement.”

There was a white, rushing sound, like a river engorged with snowmelt and hidden debris. He was seeing someone? How could that be? If the timing was okay for Muriel … why not … Oh, crap.

“Callie?” he said.

Here’s the thing about being hit by a truck. Sometimes those deer keep running. They just bound into the woods, sort of like they’re saying, Whoo-hoo! That was close! Good thing I’m okay. Um … I am okay, right? Actually, you know what? I’m feeling a little strange. Think I’ll lie down for a bit. And then they wake up dead.

Mark’s voice lowered. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

Say something, the First Lady commanded. “No, no!” I chirruped. “It’s … just … no worries, Mark. Don’t worry.” I seemed to be smiling. Smiling and nodding. Yes. I was nodding. “So how long have you been … together?”

“A couple of months,” Mark answered. “It’s … it’s fairly serious.” He reached out and took the bracelet out of the box, then put it on my wrist, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there, making me want to jerk away.

In the many years I’d known Mark, he’d never dated anyone for a couple of months. A couple of weeks, sure. I thought five was a record, quite honestly.

Ah. My body was catching on to the fact that I’d just been slammed. My throat tightened, my joints buzzed with the flight response to danger, and a sharp pain lanced through my chest. “Right. Well. You know what? I have to get my license renewed! I almost forgot! You know … birthday. License. Renewal.” Breathe, Callie. “Okay if I zip out for lunch a little early?” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat again, studiously avoiding Mark’s dark and now sorrowful eyes.

“Sure, Callie. Take all the time you need.”

The kindness in his voice made me feel abruptly murderous. “I won’t be long,” I chirped. “Thanks for the bracelet! See you in a bit!”

With that, I grabbed my oversize pink hobo bag and stood up, excruciatingly careful not to brush against Mark, who still sat on my couch, staring straight in front of him. “Callie, I’m sorry,” he said.

“No! Nothing to apologize for!” I sang. “Gotta run. They close at noon today. See ya later!”

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I stood in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the effects of being emotionally run down by the man I loved—and now hated—but still loved—were catching up with me. Michelle Obama had abandoned me, regretfully acknowledging that I was beyond help, and Betty Boop was clamping her lips together and blinking back tears. Trying to keep the choo-choo train of despair at bay, I glanced around. Gray, grimy tile floors. Dingy white walls. I stood in the middle of a line of about ten people, all of us listless and lifeless and loveless … or so it seemed.

The whole scene was like something out of some French existentialist play … Hell is not other people. Hell is the DMV. Robotic clerks shuffled behind the counter, clearly hating their lot in life and contemplating the easiest form of hari-kari or embezzlement so they could leave this grim place. The clock on the wall seemed to taunt me. Time’s a’wastin’, kid. Your life is passing you by. Happy fucking birthday.

My breathing started to quicken, my knees felt like a hive of angry bees. Tears burned in my eyes, and on my wrist, my stupid birthday present tickled. I should just rip it off. Melt it down into a bullet and kill Mark. Or myself. Or just swallow the bracelet whole and let it get tangled in my intestines and require emergency surgery and then have Mark come to the hospital and realize just how much he really loved me after all. Not that I would have him now. (Yeah, sure, Callie, said Mrs. Obama, making a reappearance. You’d eat a baby if it meant having him.)

Well. Maybe not a baby. But the idea that Mark was with someone … for a couple of months, fairly serious … ah, shit! Panic loomed like the jaws of a great white shark, terrifying and unexpected. Stupid Muriel with her black hair and white skin, like some vampire in fabulous shoes … when the hell had they started dating? When, dammit?

Oh, crap. Should I go? No. I had to get my license renewed. Today was the last day I could do it without incurring a fine. I’d picked out this wicked cute outfit, too—red-and-white printed blouse, short red skirt, big gold hoops, and my hair was perfect today, all shiny and swingy … Besides, what could I do? Sit in my car and wail? Kick a tree? Strangle a moose? I really wasn’t the type. The only idea that held any appeal was that of sitting in my rocking chair and eating cake batter.

A dry sob raked my throat. Shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.

“Next,” called one of the DMV drones, and we all shuffled forward six inches. The man behind me heaved an audible sigh.

Without another thought, I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. Where was it? Where was it, dammit? Tampon … no. Book on CD … no. Picture of Josephine and Bronte, my nieces … even their beautiful faces failed to cheer me. Where was the phone? Ah. Here. I scrolled down to Annie Doyle. Damn! I got her voice mail. Somehow, it felt like a personal insult. How could my best friend be unavailable in my time of need? Didn’t she love me anymore?

Clearly the choo-choo was chugging faster now, so I scrolled down for backup. My mom? God, no … this would just be confirmation that the Y chromosome should be erased from humanity. My sister? Not much better. Still, it was someone. Mercifully, Hester answered, even though I knew she was at work.

“Hester? Got a minute?”

“Hey, birthday girl! What’s up?” My sister’s voice, always on the loud side, boomed out of my phone, and I held it away from my ear.

“Hester,” I bleated, “he’s seeing someone! He gave me a beautiful bracelet and kissed me and then he told me he’s seeing someone! For a couple of months and it’s fairly serious, but I still love him!”

“Jesus, lady, get a grip,” muttered the man behind me. Without thinking, I whirled around and glared. He raised a contemptuous eyebrow—jerk—but okay, yes, heads were starting to turn. Miraculously, no one I knew was here today … the DMV was in Kettering, the town next to Georgebury, so at least there was that.

“Is this Mark we’re talking about?” Hester asked, as if I’d discussed any other man for the past year. Or two. Or four. Ah, shit!

“Yes! Mark is dating Muriel from California! Muriel, the daughter of our biggest client! Isn’t that lovely?”

The man behind me cleared his throat in a very phony and noticeable way.

“Well, I always thought Mark was a smug bastard,” Hester said.

“You’re not helping!” I bit out. Why hadn’t Annie answered her phone? She was so much better at this sort of thing. She was normal, not like Hester.

“Well, what should I say? He’s a prince? Where are you, anyway?” Hester asked.

“At the DMV. In Kettering.”

“Why are you at the DMV?”

“Because my license is about to expire! It was on my calendar—renew license. And I had to get out of there … I just didn’t know what else to do.” A sob caught in my throat. “Hester … I always thought …” I took a shuddering breath and tried to lower my voice. “He said it was just timing. He’s never been serious with anyone before. And they’ve been together for months.” The betrayal, the shock of those words made my chest actually hurt, and I pressed one hand against my swollen heart, feeling hot tears slice down my face.

The woman in front of me turned around. She had the leathery, lined face and broad shoulders of a dairy farmer. “You a’right, theah, deah?” she asked, her Vermont accent as thick as overboiled maple syrup.

“I’m fine,” I answered in a shaky and rather unconvincing voice, attempting a brave smile.

“I ovahheard you, you poah thing,” she said. “Men can be such ahssholes. My husband, Nahman we’re talkin’ about, he sits down to dinnah one day and says he wants a d’vorce on account a’ he’s been banging the secretary down at the creamery. And this when we’ve been married fahty-two yeahs.”

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to hold her hand. She was right. Men were assholes. Mark was an asshole. I shouldn’t be heartbroken over him. Except I loved the rat bastard. Oh, blerk!

“Hello? I’m still here, Callie,” my sister reminded me sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, Hes … What do you think I should do?” I asked.

“Step outside?” suggested the man behind me.

“Damned if I know, Callie,” she sighed. “The longest relationship I’ve ever had lasted thirty-six hours. Which you know,” she said, her voice turning thoughtful, “has worked really well for me.”

“Hes,” I said wetly, “I’ll be seeing them together every day.” The notion made my heart clench.

“That’s probably gonna suck,” my sister agreed.

“You poah deah,” said the older woman, squeezing my hand.

Work would never be the same. Green Mountain Media, the company that I helped build, would now be home to Muriel. Muriel. That was such a mean name! A rich girl’s name! A cold and condemning name! Not like Callie, which was so bleeping friendly and cute!

A sob squeaked out, and Mr. Intolerant behind me grumbled. That was it. I whirled around. “Look, mister, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I’m having a really shitty day, okay? Is that okay with you? My heart is breaking, okay, pal?”

“By all means,” he said coolly. “Please continue with your emotional diarrhea.”

Ooh. The bastard! He looked like the stick-up-the-butt type … dressed in a suit (and you know, please—this is Vermont). He had a boring military-style haircut, cold blue eyes and disdainful Slavic cheekbones. I turned back around. Clearly he didn’t understand what love felt like. Love gone bad. Love rejected. My tender and loyal heart, broken.

That being said, maybe he had a point.

“I’d better go,” I whispered to my sister. “I’ll call you later, Hes.”

“Okay. Sucks that it’s your birthday today. But listen, if it’s having babies you’re worried about, don’t bother. I can get you pregnant in a New York minute. I know all the best sperm donors.”

“I don’t want you to get me pregnant,” I blurted.

“For God’s sake,” muttered Mr. Slavic Cheekbones. The older woman who’d been cuckolded looked questioningly at me.

“My sister’s a fertility doctor,” I explained. I closed my phone and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s very successful.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” my dairy farmer friend replied. “My daughter did in vitro. She’s gawt twins now. Foah yeahs old.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said wetly.

“Next,” droned the robot. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. The man behind me sighed again.

Images of Mark flooded my mind—our first kiss when I was only fourteen. Years later at work, him bending over my computer, his hand companionably on my shoulder. Getting nearly drunk on maple syrup just last week at a farm we were pitching. Our first kiss. The fateful airplane ride to Santa Fe. Did I mention our first kiss?

Hot tears leaked out of my eyes, and I sucked in a shuddering breath.

Suddenly, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared at the side of my head. I turned. Mr. Intolerance of the Cruel Cheekbones was offering me his handkerchief. “Here,” he said, and I took it. It was ironed. It may have been starched. Who did that anymore? I blew my nose heartily, then looked at him again.

“Keep it,” he suggested, looking over my head.

“Thank you,” I squeaked.

“Next,” one of the drones called from behind the counter. We shuffled forward once more.

An eternity later, I finally had a new license. Insult to injury … for however many years, I would look like an escaped lunatic … mascara puddled, face blotchy, smile wobbly and insincere. So much for my spiffy outfit.

As I fished my keys out of my bag, I saw the older woman standing near the exit, putting on those vast black sunglasses old folks wear after cataract surgery. My heart went out to her … at least my husband didn’t cheat on me. Leave me after forty-two years. Crikey.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked.

“Who, me?” she asked. “No, sweethaht, I’ve gawt work to do. Good luck with everything, though.”

On impulse, I gave her a hug. “Norman’s an idiot,” I told her.

“I think you’re one smaht cookie,” she said, patting my back. “That boyfriend of yaws doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”

“Thanks,” I answered, tears threatening again. My new friend gave me a wave and went out to her car.

My phone bleated. Mom. Great. “Happy birthday, Calliope!” she sang.

“Hi, Mom,” I answered, wondering if she’d pick up anything from my leaden tone. She didn’t.

“Listen, I have news. Dave just called. Elements burst a pipe and flooded.”

Being housed in a 150-year-old industrial building, Elements was somewhat prone to this type of thing. “That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood anyway.” At least I wouldn’t have to endure a birthday party. I could just go home and eat cake batter.

“Don’t be silly,” Mom trilled. “I’ve already called everyone. We’re having your party here.”

My heart sank. “Here? Where do you mean, here?”

“At the funeral home, honey. Where else?”

“HARD TO BELIEVE you’re thirty,” my mother said that evening, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Mr. Paulson’s family is receiving visitors in the Tranquility Room,” she added as a well-dressed couple halted in confusion upon seeing my birthday balloons.

“How can our little girl be thirty, Eleanor, when you don’t look a day over twenty-five?” my father murmured from my other side, giving me a bear hug and nearly causing me to spill my second cosmo. Mom ignored him, as was her custom lo these many years since their divorce. Dad took it like a man. “Callie, I fell in love with you at first sight. You were such a beautiful baby! Still are! So beautiful!”

“Has … your father … been drinking, Callie?” my mother asked, not deigning to look at dear old Dad. “If so, please ask him to leave.” In this house, your father was synonymous with that shithead.

“Have you been drinking, Dad?” I asked amiably.

“Not too much,” he answered with equanimity. “Not enough, I should say,” he added in a lower voice.

“Hear, hear,” I murmured, taking a slug of my pink cocktail. Given that (A) the man I loved, etc., etc.; (B) Verdi’s Requiem was playing in the background, and (C) my party was being held at a funeral home, I’d decided to (D) ring in my special day in the company of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.

Irritated that she’d failed to insult my dad, Mom shot me an evil look. I snapped to attention. “This party is lovely, Mom,” I lied, giving her a big smile.

Mollified, she gave me a little smile. “I’ve always thought this was the most beautiful building in town,” she said. “Well, better go check on Mr. Paulson.” With that, she bustled off to check on the wake in the next room.

Misinski’s Funeral Home was an impressive building, a large Victorian with the first floor serving as the business end, the second and third floors as living quarters for Mom and, recently, my brother, Freddie. I’d grown up here. The basement, of course, was where all the yucky work was done. To my mother, there was absolutely nothing odd about having a birthday party next door to a wake; this funeral home had been in her family for three generations, and the whole death is a part of life philosophy was indelibly tattooed on her soul. So what if at age three, Freddie wouldn’t take his nap anywhere but in a casket? So what if Mom used to store the Thanksgiving turkey in the same fridge that kept the clients fresh?

Outside, the sun was shining, as Vermont was enjoying her two weeks of summer. The sky was rich and blue, the air fresh with the scent of pine. In here … not so much. The funeral home was like a time bubble in which nothing ever changed. The smell of lilies, the sounds of sad, classical music, the sight of the heavy, dark furniture … the caskets … the dead people. I sighed.

“So how’s my pretty girl?” Dad asked. “You got my check, right?”

“I did, Dad. Thank you so much! And I’m doing great.” It was always my habit to be cheerful around my parents, even when that meant lying through my pearly whites.

“Can I tell you a secret, Poodle?” Dad asked, waving at someone on the far side of the Serenity Room.

“Sure, Daddy,” I answered, putting my head on his shoulder.

“Now that I’ve retired, I’m going to get your mother back,” he said.

“Get her back for what?” I asked, assuming this was a revenge thing.

“Get her back as in woo her. Court her. Seduce her.”

I straightened abruptly. “Oh. Yeah, um … no. In case you forgot, she … uh … she hates you, Dad.”

“No!” He grinned. “Well, she might think she does. But your mother is the only woman I ever loved.” He gave me the wink that served him so well. Dad was a good-looking guy, silvery hair, dark eyes, dimples. I looked a lot like him, minus the gray. (Which is just around the corner! Betty Boop sobbed. And Mark’s with someone else!)

“That’s not a good idea, Daddy,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.

“Why isn’t it a good idea?” Dad asked, unsettled by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Maybe because you cheated on her when she was pregnant with Freddie. I’m just throwing that out there, of course.”

He nodded. “Not my best moment, I’ll admit. The cheating, I mean.” He paused and finished off his drink. “But you understand, Callie, sweetheart. It was a mistake, I’ve spent twenty-two years paying for it, and it’s all water under the bridge. She’ll forgive me. Hopefully.”

“You really still love her, Dad?”

“Of course I do! I never stopped.” He gave me a squeeze. “You’ll help me, right?”

“Ooh. Not sure about that. The wrath of Mom … you know.” Having Mom mad at you was the emotional equivalent of standing in the path of a category five tornado … lots of big things flying around ripping great chunks out of you.

“Oh, come on, Poodle,” Dad cajoled. “I thought we were the same. We’re romantics, aren’t we? God knows I can’t ask Hester.”

“True, true.” After all, Dad’s bad example was the reason my sister specialized in getting women pregnant without benefit of the physical presence of a man. “But, Dad … really? Do you really think you can get past all that … stuff?”

For a second, the expression on my father’s eternally smiling face flickered. “If I could do it all again,” he said quietly, looking at his drink, “things would be so different, Callie. We were happy once, and I … well.” His eyes went dark, like a light was turned off.

“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered, unable to stanch the sympathy that swelled in my heart. I was eight when my parents divorced, aware only that my world was falling apart. Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father … but he’d already been punished for so long. Hester had barely spoken to him for years, and my mother kept the emotional knives sharpened, as was her right. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t in me to hate my father. His infidelity was a mystery best left unexplored. To the best of my knowledge, and despite his Cary Grant charm and crinkly eyes, Dad had been alone ever since he left my mother. Certainly, I had never met a girlfriend or heard a tale of even a dinner companion. Indeed, it seemed as if Dad had been atoning since before Freddie was even born.

“She loved me once,” Dad said quietly, almost to himself. “I can make her remember why.”

Yes. Squirreled away, separated from the memories of Mom sobbing on the couch or spewing curses at my father as my infant brother screamed his way through five months of colic, were a few little gems. Mom sitting on Dad’s lap. The two of them dancing in the living room without benefit of music when Dad returned from a long business trip. The sound of their laughter drifting out from behind their bedroom door, as comforting as the smell of vanilla cake, fresh from the oven.

“Will you help me, Poodle?” Dad asked. “Please, baby?”

I took a deep breath. “You know what? Sure. It’ll be an uphill battle, but sure.”

Dad’s expression changed, and he once again became a sparkly George Clooney. “That’s my girl! You’ll see. I’ll get her back.” He smooched my cheek, and I couldn’t help smiling. Twenty-two years should be enough time served, right? Dad deserved another chance at love.

And so did I. Dammit, so did I! Betty Boop stopped crying and seemed to look up at me. Really? Honest and true?

“Want another drink?” my father asked, and without waiting for an answer, trotted to the makeshift bar in the back.

Suddenly, I felt better. My father was going to try again to reclaim the love of his life. I should try, too. Mark had chosen me once … maybe I’d been too … sappy or clingy or whatever during those five weeks. I’d been mooning after him ever since Santa Fe. Maybe, just by going back to myself, that cheerful, smart, likable person I was, Mark would see that I was the one for him, not Muriel. And if he saw me with someone else, maybe that would be the kick in the butt he needed.

The—what had the man at the DMV called it?—ah, yes, the emotional diarrhea had been purifying. Life was good, as the T-shirts said. Or it could become good, right? I could find someone else. Even if Mark didn’t want me—I winced, but kept going—if that was true, then I’d find someone else who did. I would! No more Debbie Downer, no more Bitter Betty. I was Callie Grey, after all. Former prom queen, I’ll have you know. Everyone liked me. They really did.

“Doesn’t it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.

“So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.

The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”

The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot’s!).

“Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”

“Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).

Louis Pinser was my mother’s mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she’d had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I’d overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I’m so sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me very attractive. All the weird ones did.

“I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

“Ah. Well. That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I’m so … it’s been a crazy … you know. Work. Stuff. What’s that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer, where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

“No, you can’t straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

Bronte turned to me. “Don’t you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

“Um … Mother knows best?” I suggested.

“You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer’s muse. No sympathy on the name.”

“And I was named after the slut in The Scarlet Letter,” Hester said. “At least you have a cool author’s name. Which, once again, I didn’t even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could’ve had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she’d adopted both her children. Bronte’s biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she’d hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

“Well, I’m changing my name to Sheniqua when I’m sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

“I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

“Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We’d love to stay …”

“… but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.

“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”

Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.

“Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a fucking funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.

The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.

“Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”

Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”

Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.

The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.

“So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.

“Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.

“You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”

I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.

“He’s really not,” Fleur echoed.

“Callie, I’m sorry. I hate him. He dumped you, made up some bullshit line about timing, and now he’s seeing another woman! Ass. Wipe.” She glared at Fleur and me over her gold-rimmed glasses.

“Okay, you have a point,” I conceded. “But those are just the details. Mark’s … he’s …” I sighed. “Kind of perfect.”

“Christly, you’re defending him,” Annie muttered. “You’re pathetic.”

“You sound like my grandfather,” I said.

“Right, well, not everyone gets to marry their little Prince Charming from third grade, yeah?” Fleur said to Annie. “For the rest of us, there’s a limited pool. Mark’s pretty great compared to what-all else is out there. And if he’s the love of Callie’s life, I say go for it, Callie. Take no prisoners.”

“Well, I think you can do much better,” Annie said loyally. “And Fleur, I forget. How long did you live in England?”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “A good bit of time,” she said tightly.

“You just have to get out there, Callie. Find someone else,” Annie said.

“Or better yet,” Fleur said, “win him back. Remind him of how fab you are. Find some man, make Mark screamingly jealous and bam! You’re back in.”

Though I’d thought the same thing earlier, I said nothing.

“Nope. Leave him in the dust, Callie,” Annie countered. “You deserve better. Write that down and tape it to your mirror. ‘I deserve better than the ass-wipe formerly known as Mark.’”

“You need to get laid, Calorie?” my brother asked, appearing at the back door. “My buddies back at school think you’re hot. You could be a cougar, how’s that?”

“I’m too young to be a cougar,” I said. “I’m only thirty! Besides, I want someone who doesn’t live with his mom.” I turned to my friends. “Is Gerard Butler single?”

“Setting your sights a bit high,” Fleur murmured. Hmmph.

“How about Kevin Youkilis?” Freddie suggested, joining us. “Then we could get Sox tickets.”

“Nah,” Annie said. “He has a lightbulb head. Consider your nieces and nephews, Freddie. Oh! How about the center-fielder, the cute one. Ellsbury? Now he’s hot!”

As my friends and brother suggested increasingly ridiculous choices for my new boyfriend, my brain was busy. Annie was right. I had to get over Mark. For months now, a stone had been sitting on my heart. I’d shed a lot of tears over Mark Rousseau, lost a lot of sleep, eaten a lot of cake batter. Somehow, I had to move on. Work would be hell if I didn’t shake loose from the grip he had on my heart. I most definitely didn’t want to keep feeling this way, alone in a love affair meant for two.

Even if he’d felt like The One. Even if I’d always thought we’d end up together. Even if he still had a choke chain on my heart.

UPON RETURNING HOME that night, I tripped over an appendage, an all too common experience for me. “Noah,” I called out, “if you don’t start picking up your legs, I’m going to bludgeon you with one of them.”

My grandfather’s rusty voice came from the living room. “That’s right. Pick on the poor cripple.”

“You think I’m kidding, old man?” I asked.

Bowie, my husky mutt, came leaping into the kitchen, singing with joy and canine love, his tail whacking me, great clumps of fur falling to the ground. “Hello, Bowie,” I crooned back at him in my special dog voice. “Yes, I love you, too! Yes, I do! I love you, handsome!” When Bowie had licked me, nipped my chin and turned in a dozen or so frenzied circles, he raced back into the living room. I picked up Noah’s leg and followed my faithful dog.

“The doctor said you need to wear this,” I said, bending to kiss my grandfather’s bearded cheek.

“Fuck the doctor,” Noah said amiably. His stump was propped on some pillows.

“Watch your language, Grumpy,” I said. “Is your leg giving you trouble?”

“My lack of leg is giving me trouble,” he retorted. “But no more than usual.” He rubbed the stump idly, not taking his eyes from the television screen.

Noah was a boat builder, the founder and sole operator of Noah’s Arks (a name I’d thought up when I was four and something I was still pretty proud of). His boats were the stuff of legend—beautiful wooden rowboats, kayaks and canoes, each one made from Noah’s design, by Noah’s hand, selling for thousands of dollars apiece. Up here in the Northeast Kingdom, where the rivers ran wild, he was pretty much a god.

Unfortunately, he’d suffered a small stroke two years ago. Even more unfortunately, he’d been holding a running radial saw at the time, and the result was a cut so bad that his leg had to be amputated just above the knee. At a family meeting, the doctor had recommended an assisted living facility for seniors. Noah, who’d lived alone since my grandmother had died years ago, had gone white. Without forethought, I found myself offering to live with him for a while ‘til he got used to his new situation. And though the curmudgeonly old bastard would never say so, I liked to think he appreciated it.

Noah was watching a Deadliest Catch rerun. We both loved reality TV, but this one was our favorite. As the hardy Alaskans battled it out on the Bering Sea, I sat on the couch, Bowie leaping neatly up beside me and laying his beautiful gray and white head in my lap, blinking up at me in adoration. My dog had one brown eye, one blue, which I found very appealing. I made a kissing noise at him, and his ridiculously cute triangle ears swiveled toward me, as if I were about to tell him the most important news ever. “You,” I said, “are a very good dog.” Because really, what message could be more important than that?

Glancing around, I saw that Noah, as usual, had ignored my pleas to keep our place tidy. Newspapers were strewn around his chair, as well as a bowl filled with a puddle of melted ice cream and an empty beer bottle. Yummy.

Noah and I lived in an old mill building, half of which was his workshop, the other half our living quarters. The downstairs housed the kitchen, a den and a huge great room with forty-foot ceilings and massive rafters. The great room was circled by a second-floor catwalk, off which were two bedrooms. My own was quite big and sunny, with plenty of space for my bed, a desk and my rocking chair, which was set in front of two wide windows that overlooked the Trout River. I also had a gorgeous bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi and separate shower. Noah was down the hall from me and mercifully had his own bathroom. There’s only so much a granddaughter will put up with.

At the commercial break, Noah hit Mute. “So? You have a good time?”

I hesitated. “Um … well, the party was at the funeral home. Mom and Dad were there. It was fine.”

“Sounds like a shit bath to me,” he said.

“You were right to stay home,” I confirmed. Noah avoided family get-togethers as if they were hotbeds of ebola. He wasn’t exactly close with my father, his son. Dad’s brother, Remy, had died in a car accident at age twenty, and I gathered from the little Dad said that Remy was the type of son Noah had expected: rugged, quiet, good with his hands. My father, on the other hand, had spent his life schmoozing people as a drug sales rep. And, of course, there was my parents’ divorce. Noah, who had adored my grandmother and nursed her through the horrors of pancreatic cancer, fiercely disapproved. “I brought you some cake, though,” I added.

“Knew I kept you around for a reason,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a little hand-carved animal … a dog. A husky.

“Oh! Thank you, Noah!” I gave him a kiss, which he tolerated with a mere grumble. He’d been making his grandchildren—and great-grandchildren—these little animals all our lives. I had quite a collection.

“You seem down,” Noah observed. This was deep in Dr. Phil territory from a man who didn’t spend a whole lot of time navel-gazing … in fact, Noah was the least sentimental person I’d ever met. He never spoke of my uncle Remy, but there was a picture of him in Noah’s room, the one thing that never needed dusting. When Gran died—I was six at the time—Noah didn’t shed a single tear, but his sorrow was palpable. I’d drawn him a card every week for months to try to cheer him up. Even when the bandages came off his leg for the first time, his only comment was, “Fuckin’ foolish.” No self-pity, no maudlin mourning of his limb. To comment on my emotional state … shocking.

I stared at him, but he didn’t look away from the muted television set. “Um … no. I’m fine.” I glanced at my wrist. Still wearing Mark’s gift, loser that I was. “Noah, I’m thinking I should probably find a …” the word boyfriend sounded so lame “… a special someone.” Ooh. Not much better. Far worse, in fact. “Care to share the wisdom of your long life?”

“Don’t do it,” he said. “Nothing but heartache and misery.” Underneath his white beard (Noah looked like a malnourished, possibly homeless Santa), his mouth twitched. “You can live here forever and take care of me.”

“And I do so love taking care of you,” I said. “How about a nice enema before bed?”

“Watch your mouth, smart-ass,” he said.

“Hey. Be sweet to me. I turned thirty today,” I reminded him. Bowie licked my hand, then turned on his back so I could see that his big white belly was just lying there, all alone and unrubbed.

“On second thought, ‘twouldn’t hurt for you to get a move on with life, Callie,” Noah said unexpectedly. “Don’t have to stay here forever.”

“Who else would put up with you?” I asked.

“Got a point there. You gonna talk all night, or can I watch Johnathan save this guy?”

“I’m going to bed. You need anything?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” He dragged his eyes off the TV. “Happy birthday, pretty girl.”

I paused. “Wow. It’s that bad?”

His beard twitched. “Cahn’t say I didn’t try.”

A few minutes later, washed and brushed and in my comfiest jammies (pink-and-yellow striped shorts, yellow cami), I was sitting in my rocking chair. Turning thirty was a momentous event in a woman’s life. Also, I needed to … I don’t know. Process things. And there was no better place to process anything than my Morelock chair, which I’d received twenty-two years ago to this very day.

There are two halves of Vermont—Old Vermont and New. Old Vermont was made up of crusty, rugged people who dropped their Rs and owned the same American-made pickup truck for thirty years, didn’t feel the cold and were immune to blackflies. Noah was Old, of course … he might not speak to his neighbor, but he’d cut and stack five cords of wood if that neighbor became sick. New Vermont … well, they were people who drove Volvos and Priuses, owned expensive hiking boots and hung out their laundry as a political statement as much as to get the clothes dry. They were friendly and cheerful … not like Noah at all, in other words.

Like my grandfather, David Morelock was Old Vermont. He was a furniture maker and Noah’s longtime compatriot. One summer, a reporter happened to be vacationing in St. Albans, where Mr. Morelock lived, and stumbled upon the furniture shop, learned Mr. Morelock had no formal training and didn’t even use power tools … just went out to his barn each day and worked. Two months later, the New York Times featured a story on Mr. Morelock, and bingo! He went from local craftsman to American legend. Suddenly, all those New Vermonters had to have a piece of Morelock furniture, and just like that, the old man had more work than he could manage. Before the story in the Times, his pieces had cost a few hundred dollars apiece. After the story, they sold for thousands, much to the amusement of their maker.

The day I turned eight was a bleak one in my personal history. Dad had moved out the week before, and in all the distress, my birthday was kind of forgotten. Mom was not only pregnant, heartbroken, furious, but also trying to manage a double funeral for a couple who’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Hester was away for the summer at some mathlete camp, and the end result was that Mom had hurriedly poured me some Cheerios, then shuttled me over to my grandfather’s. Noah popped me in his truck and drove to St. Albans. I don’t remember the reason.

At any rate, the two men got talking, and I wandered around the drafty old barn, picking up scraps of wood, drawing my initials in a pile of sawdust, trying not to be bothered by the fact that no one remembered that I was eight years old, because even then I understood that grown-ups had a lot of problems. Then I saw the chair.

It was a rocking chair, the type meant for a front porch. Made from honey-colored tiger maple, it was truly a work of art, elegant and slender, almost glowing from within. With a glance at Noah and Mr. Morelock to ascertain that they were too busy to notice, I gave it a little nudge, and it glided back soundlessly. Could I sit in it? There was no sign saying I couldn’t. I sat. The seat and back were perfectly proportioned, curving in all the right places, and when I rocked in it, the movement was as gentle and slow as a quiet river.

Even then, I recognized that the chair was special. It was so … graceful. And so happy, somehow. Just sitting in this chair would make a person feel better. Even if her daddy didn’t live at home anymore. Even if her sister was far away. Even if her mom hadn’t baked a birthday cake. This was a chair that promised a better time ahead. The tightness that had wrapped itself around my throat the day my parents told me they were getting divorced seemed to ease as I rocked, the motion somehow tender and deep.

Closing my eyes, I pictured, perhaps for the first time, what I’d be like as a grown-up. I’d have a rooftop apartment in Manhattan overlooking the entire city. There’d be a garden up there with lemon trees and glorious flowers, and I’d work all day on the Today show, and at night, I’d come home and Bryant Gumbel, my husband, would bring me a drink that contained alcohol, and we’d hold hands and talk about really adult things, and he’d never leave me, a fact I’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You like that chair, little one?” Mr. Morelock asked, and I jumped in guilt and opened my eyes, feeling my face burn.

“It’s … it’s very nice,” I mumbled, unsure if I was in trouble.

“Your grandpa here tells me it’s your birthday,” he said. I looked at Noah, surprised that he was aware of the date. My grandfather winked at me.

“Yes, sir. I’m eight,” I said.

“How’d you like this chair as a present?” Mr. Morelock asked, and suddenly, my eyes were wet, and I looked down at my lap and nodded, unable to speak. Then Noah picked me up and gave me a bristly kiss, told me not to go all sloppy on them, and did I thank Mr. Morelock? I wiped my eyes and did as I was told.

When Noah took me home that evening, he carried the chair up to my room. “You take care of this chair, young lady,” he said.

“It’s my happily-ever-after chair,” I said, quite pleased with the title. The chair gave my room an entirely new look, and suddenly my ruffled pink bedspread and unicorn poster seemed quite passé. Noah chuckled and ruffled my hair, then left me to worship my new treasure.

David Morelock died later that week. For some reason, his death hit me hard … it was like losing Santa or something, and I was raw anyway. Noah told me that my chair was the last one Mr. Morelock made, and more special and valuable than ever. I took Noah at his word. I didn’t want anyone to sit in it, even me … I saved it for those moments when I felt in need of the most comfort.

Like now. And as usual, the chair was working its magic. From outside came the rushing and gurgling of the Trout River. A distant owl called out. I rocked, the long, smooth glide always a shock of sweetness. Dear Mr. Morelock, how I loved him that day! Sending up a silent thank-you to my chair’s maker, I felt the tension in my shoulders surrender bit by bit.

Somewhere out there was the guy for me. Bryant Gumbel, alas, was spoken for, but somewhere in the Green Mountain state was a man who’d see me and love me and think I was the most wonderful person on earth. We’d get married, and there’d be days when I’d come home and we’d sit on the front porch, and all I ever wanted would have come true.

And so, shoving aside the feelings of sloppy misery and humiliation and summoning the relentless optimism I’d wielded all my life, I took a deep breath, causing Bowie to snap to attention as if I were about to announce something momentous and hugely brilliant. “Bowie,” I said, loath to disappoint, “let’s find you a daddy.”

THURSDAY MORNINGS MEANT Senior Citizen Yoga. Granted, I was forty or fifty years younger than most of the other attendees, but since I was extremely unlimber and therefore made them feel good about themselves, I was welcomed. The fact that I brought my famous chocolate chip cookies was just gravy.

I never really got yoga. Indeed, I often dozed off during deep meditation at the end and had to be nudged back into consciousness by a classmate. Leslie, the instructor, often shot me disapproving looks as I blinked sleepily. Then again, I’d been getting those looks ever since I beat her out for prom queen. But I loved yoga class, because I loved the ladies and figured the exercise and chakra alignment (whatever that was) couldn’t hurt. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be the only one grunting as we moved into Upward Laughing Monkey.

One of the far-too-many reasons I loved Mark was that he was a wonderful boss. He gave us a flexible schedule, figuring happy employees worked harder, and so I could always squeeze in a yoga class or chaperone a field trip for one of my nieces. Besides, Mark encouraged his employees to be active in the community; like me, he was a Georgebury native, and we often did pro bono work for various nonprofit groups, including the Senior Center. We’d helped with the fundraising drive a couple of years ago, and I’d made some nice friends during that time.

I confess, I also enjoyed being fussed and cooed over. It was a commonly held belief that I was a jewel and destined for a wonderful romance with a wonderful man. I often heard things like, “You’re smart to wait for the right man, Callie, sweetheart. You don’t want to end up like my daughter/granddaughter/niece/sister/neighbor/self.” Then the horror stories would begin, and though I probably shouldn’t admit it, I loved hearing them. Jody Bingham (who could do a full split at the age of seventy-six and had better legs than I did) knew a woman who married a man who already had a wife, possibly two. Letty Baker’s daughter married a “crackhead pot-smoker” who was arrested during the wedding reception. Elmira Butkes’s daughter Lily was twice divorced—the latest ex was a poet, and the shocking news was that he didn’t make enough to feed an ant. He was suing Lily for alimony … insult to injury.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Elmira said as we smoothly transitioned into Downward Looking Giraffe (well, some transitioned smoothly. Others looked like Downward Dying Giraffe, but I was trying). “Why can’t she find a normal man with health insurance and a decent haircut?”

We all murmured in sympathy, getting a dirty look from Leslie, who frowned on chatting during class. “Well, anyway,” Elmira said, “I took Mr. Fluffers to the vet this week, and he’s single—the vet, that is, not Mr. Fluffers—so I called up Lily right away and said, ‘Lily, the new vet is single. Why can’t you go after someone like that?’ Well, of course she didn’t listen to me …”

“You should give him a try, Callie,” Jody said, sliding into her trademark split, the show-off. “A vet’s almost as good as a doctor.” She smiled up at me and gave me a wink as I struggled into a distant approximation of her position. How Jody could smile while doing that was a mystery of physics and superior genes.

The new vet, huh? I thought. Very promising indeed! I’d worked for Dr. Kumar, the old vet, back when I was a teenager. Everyone adored Dr. Kumar. He offered coffee and doughnuts in the waiting room, gave out his home phone number and sang to nervous animals until they were literally eating out of his hand. He was so tenderhearted that he often cried more than the pet owner when Roscoe or Tabby had to be put down. He’d retired recently and had great plans to take the lovely Mrs. Kumar to Branson, Missouri, where they were eager to tour the wax museum and ride the duck boats.

This new vet … hmm. If Dr. Kumar had sold the practice to him, the new guy had to be a real sweetheart. Already, we had so much in common! Vets loved animals … I also loved animals! With a hopeful note ringing in my heart, I contorted myself into Westward Twisting Heron and made a mental note to call for an appointment this very day. It was worth a shot, and I was taking all the shots I could find.

Last night, for example, I’d registered on eCommitment. Annie had been more excited than I was, since her last first date had been at age 14. Several friends, including Karen, our office manager, had met their husbands online, so what the heck. Yes, it would be nice to meet someone the old-fashioned way … my maternal grandparents, for example, had met over a cadaver in mortuary school. Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t the epitome of romance I was going for, but still.

In the past, before Mark and I were together, I’d had a relationship or two. I wasn’t a troll or anything. In fact, men really liked me. I was quite attractive, if I do say so … smiley brown eyes, shiny brown hair (it ought to be shiny, considering the number and cost of the hair-care products I used). A dimple in my left cheek … adorable! I’d grown a little chubby in the past year, courtesy of trying to bribe my heart into a good mood by eating cake batter, but still fell in the pleasingly curvy range. My Wonderbra and I could manage some very impressive cleavage. Men’s heads still turned. I was popular with the River Rats, a local boating club who worshipped my grandfather. I met clients who, occasionally, were single, normal, age-appropriate males.

Despite my parents’ wretched example and Hester’s utter revulsion of the idea of marriage, despite the fact that Noah had been gutted by the loss of my gran, I’d always been an optimist. Love made you a better person. Made you feel protected and precious and chosen. Chosen. Such a lovely word! And in loving someone else, you became better … noble and generous and beneficent.

I stretched my arms wide in Gentle Gorilla and tried to embrace my karmic blessings, as Leslie was telling us to do. The new vet, huh? Employed. Educated. Smart. Someone who could definitely compare to Mark. No doubt this new vet was also tender, loving, funny, probably a fabulous cook with Ryan Reynolds abs. Ryan Reynolds everything, maybe.

Not that I was getting ahead of myself, of course.

I MANAGED TO GET an appointment to see Dr. McFarland late in the day, telling Carmella Landi, the longtime receptionist, that poor little Bowie wasn’t himself and I figured he should be checked out. “Got it,” she said, her voice short.

“I think he ate something weird,” I added, trying to be convincing. This was half true … Bowie ate something weird at least once a day … a sock, a chunk of wood, a bag of frozen lima beans. Once he ate one of Noah’s feet … the rubber kind that was attached to the end of a particularly ugly prosthetic.

However, as we got ready for the appointment (I’d gone home to fetch my dog, of course, and freshen up a bit), Bowie looked in fighting form, all glossy and gorgeous and yipping and singing, his unusual eyes winking at me as I adjusted my cleavage. Should I change my shirt? Yes. Pulling on a pale green short-sleeved sweater, I unbuttoned the top two buttons. Should I go for three? No, three was slutty.

“Try to act calm, at least, Bowie,” I said. “You don’t have to lie, but you don’t have to do somersaults, either.” I switched my earrings to match the sweater, added a green and blue beaded necklace, then smiled winningly at my reflection. “You’re adorable,” I told myself. “Come on, Bowie.”

Ordinarily, I’d have ridden my bike … Bowie, being a husky, was born to do one thing, and that was pull. Noah and I had rigged up a terrific little harness to hitch onto my bike, and my dog loved nothing more than towing me up the hills of our fair city. Today, however, I’d have to drive Lancelot, my green Prius. Couldn’t have my dog pull me three miles out of town if he was allegedly under the weather. I felt a pang at the untruth and said a quick prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, as well as to Balto, the legendary sled dog whose heroics had given birth to the Iditarod, so that Bowie would remain in the pink.

It was humid today, the sky an unconvincing blue, and the forecasters had predicted heat in the mid-eighties, which was about as hot as Vermont was going to get. Mosquitoes, the Vermont state bird, were out in force, so it was just as well that I was driving.

Georgebury was a typical Vermont city—well, typical for the Northeast Kingdom part of the state, where the mountains were too small and too rough for skiing and the gobs of money it infused into the economy. No, Georgebury was scruffy, and we residents liked it that way. The downtown was set into a hillside, a few blocks of shops and offices and restaurants, the aging brick architecture from a more caring age, when builders left a legacy of arching windows and intricate details, high ceilings and wide-planked floors. Green Mountain Media occupied a Flatiron-style building on the V-shaped intersection of Allen and River Streets.

I glided past the office and headed up the hill to the more upscale, residential area of town—huge Victorian homes built by the mill owners in the town’s heyday, the beautiful town green, the athenaeum and town hall, the private boarding school. Misinski’s Funeral Home was here as well, tastefully painted in shades of dark green, yellow and rust, the long awning and hearse in the driveway marking the building’s function.

Though it certainly wasn’t necessary, I turned onto Camden Street. Just sightseeing, I lied to myself, looking for a car with rental plates. Almost against my will, I slowed.

Mark’s house was a place I’d always loved, a grand Craftsman with a stone front porch and a huge copper beech tree in the back. Of course, I’d pictured myself living here. Eleven months ago, I’d spent four nights here in Mark’s house, in Mark’s bed. My chest tightened as I looked at the yard. Our kids were supposed to have played there. Not gonna happen, the First Lady reminded me. He didn’t choose you. Move on. “Right, right,” I muttered. She had a point. Besides, no one seemed to be there. Maybe Muriel was staying elsewhere. Maybe this whole seeing each other was a lot less serious than it sounded.

With a sigh, I eased past Mark’s, heading down the other side of the hill.

The vet’s office was located out on Route 2, four or five miles from downtown. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed Bowie’s leash and unclipped him from his doggy seat belt. “Let’s go, boy,” I said, trying not to stagger as Bowie lunged for the door. He adored Dr. Kumar, of course, and would often sing along as Dr. K. serenaded him. Bowie chugged right up to the counter. “Hey, Carmella,” I said. “Bowie’s here for a check.”

“Right,” she said, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“He ate something, I think,” I reminded her.

“Mmm-hmm.” Again with the eyebrow. “That seems to be going around.” She jerked her chin, urging me to look. I did.

Ruh-roh.

The waiting room was … gosh, it was pretty full, wasn’t it? And not just full. Full of women. Many of them young women. And um … you know … like me, sort of decked out, sort of shiny. Sort of single. Crap. There was Lily Butkes, who had apparently heeded Elmira’s advice, holding a very large Persian cat, which eyed me contemptuously. Aimee Wilder, who’d been a year ahead of me at school, clutched a trembling Chihuahua. “Hey, Callie,” she said, smiling. Dang it. She was quite attractive, very tall and lean and supermodelesque.

“Hi, Aimee, nice to see you!” I answered merrily. Also in the waiting room were two women I didn’t know, one with a hugely overweight terrier, the other with a ball python coiled around her arm. There was Jenna Sykes, another old schoolmate, who gave me a confident smile. A golden doodle puppy snoozed on her shoulder like a baby. Okay, that would be hard to beat. A puppy was an unfair advantage in man-seeking, especially if the man was a vet. I wondered if that was Jenna’s strategy. Not a bad idea when I thought of all the money we women invested to get a man—haircuts and color, makeup and moisturizers, minimizers, maximizers, lingerie, clothes, shoes, waxes … crikey! And all we asked in return was that they be semi-clean. At least Jenna’s investment would love her back.

“Have a seat, Callie,” Carmella said, taking out Bowie’s chart and clipping it to a board.

“Thanks, Carmella. Come on, Bowie.” I tugged and nudged my dog as he tried to sniff every square inch of floor, his curling tail wagging madly, sending clumps of husky fur through the air. “Come on, Bowie, be a good boy,” I reminded him. He sniffed the python owner’s knee, then, finding it to his liking, tried to lunge in for her crotch. “No, Bowie! Stop it! Please stop!” I commanded. “Sorry,” I said to her, reeling in my ridiculously strong dog. “He’s a people person.” She gave me a cold look from her reptilian eyes, and made a big point of brushing Bowie’s fur from her knee. You know how they say people resemble their pets? True.

“Jenna, you can go into Room 3,” Carmella said. “Aimee, Room 2.” Jenna stood up, still cradling the sleeping puppy, and shot me another confident smile. Aimee also rose, hips swinging in a passable runway walk as she strolled down the hall. I heard the rumble of a masculine voice, then Aimee’s giggle.

I sat and waited, the minutes ticking by slowly. This could work, I reminded myself. Men love us. Ball Python Woman was next, and frankly, I was glad. That snake had been staring unblinking at Bowie. I may not be big enough to eat you, the creature seemed to be thinking. Yet.

From where I sat in the waiting room—the coffee service was gone, much to my disappointment—I couldn’t see Dr. McFarland. And okay, clearly I wasn’t exactly original in bringing in my doggie for a quick once-over. But a girl had to try.

Ruh-roh. Here came Jenna, looking quite miffed as she held the now awake and squirming puppy. She scowled at Carmella as she settled the bill, then caught my eye. “May as well go to Dr. Jones in Kettering from now on,” she grumbled. “This guy’s a dick. Didn’t even give me the time of day.” With that, she stomped past me to the door.

“Bye,” I said. Hmm.

A few minutes later, Aimee came out with her Chihuahua, who still seemed extremely stressed. Aimee handed her credit card to Carmella, sighed loudly, then caught my eye. “Good luck,” she said flatly. “If you’re here for why I think you’re here, that is.”

“Thanks,” I said, frowning.

Finally, it was my turn. I brushed a clot of Bowie fur from my skirt (I’d craftily worn white as camouflage), squared my shoulders and walked down the hall.

“Hi, Callie!” It was Earl, a tech who’d worked here for ages.

“Hi, Earl!” I said, giving him a hug.

“Don’t tell me Bowie’s sick,” Earl said.

“Oh, just a little,” I said, blushing.

“Ah,” he said knowingly. Too bad Earl was in his sixties. I’d always loved him.

I went to Exam Room 4 and took a seat on the hard little wooden bench. Dr. Kumar used to have pictures hanging up … that series where the dogs are playing poker or pool. Those were gone now, but the walls had been painted a nut brown, which was kind of nice. Otherwise, the place was as bland as any veterinarian’s exam room—metal table, small fridge for the vaccines, scale and a poster about tick-borne illnesses. It all made me kind of sleepy. Bowie seemed to share the sentiment—he yawned and flopped down at my feet, panting rhythmically.

Being at the vet’s brought back a lot of happy memories, a few sad ones as well. We hadn’t been allowed to have pets as kids … we tried having a cat when I was about nine, but it had crept into an occupied casket one day and reappeared during the wake, much to the horror of the family of the departed, so Mom sent Patches to live on a nice farm.

But I always loved animals, and when I was fourteen, Dr. Kumar let me come work here cleaning cages and, as I got older, washing dogs. When a pet died, Dr. K. would sometimes ask me to handwrite the Rainbow Bridge poem so he could mail it to the owner. Ah, the Rainbow Bridge. Oh, blerk, I was getting all choked up just thinking about it.

The Rainbow Bridge poem says that when your pet dies, he goes to a wonderful, sunny place full of meadows and woods and doggy and kitty friends. He’s young and healthy again, and very happy. There’s a beautiful rainbow bridge nearby, but your dog never crosses it. No. He just plays and eats steak. But then one day … one day, your pet goes on alert. He sees something in the distance. He starts to tremble. Can it be? He breaks into a run. He runs and runs and runs … toward … you! Yes, it’s you, you’ve died and you’re coming to heaven, and for all these years, your pet has been waiting for you. He runs to you and licks your face and wags and wags his tail and you pet him and kiss him and hug him. You’re so, so happy to see your old friend … and then, finally, you and your beloved pet cross the Rainbow Bridge together into heaven proper to live for all eternity.

I seemed to be sobbing. “I love you, Bowie,” I squeaked, leaning down to pet my pup. Bowie was only three, so hopefully he and I would have a long, long time before I had to think about any rainbow bridges. Bowie licked my cheeks happily and sang me a little song—Rurrrooorah. “I love you, good doggy,” I repeated wetly.

The door opened and I quickly blew some dog fur off my lips. “Hello,” I said, wiping my eyes hastily as I looked up.

Oh, shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.

It was the guy from the DMV. The Jesus, lady, get a grip guy.

He was studying Bowie’s chart and didn’t see me at first. Then he said, “Hi, I’m Ian McFarland,” and looked at me. His expression froze. “Oh.”

“Hi,” I muttered, feeling my face ignite.

“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Well … I was crying a little. You know that poem about the Rainbow Bridge? I was just thinking about it … well. Got a little weepy! You know how it is.” I wiped my eyes again, then fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Crap. Didn’t seem to have one.

“Here.” His expression stony, Ian McFarland once again handed me a handkerchief.

“Thanks,” I said, standing up. He took a quick step backward, as if my emotional diarrhea might be catching.

He wasn’t particularly good-looking … well, maybe he had a rough appeal. Sort of a Russian gangster look with sharp cheekbones, short blond hair and Siberian blue eyes. The overall effect was … let’s see. Disapproval. Great. This guy did not look like a tenderhearted vet who’d cry over the Rainbow Bridge or ask me to dinner. He looked more like the type who’d know how to kill me using only his little finger.

“Hi,” I said again, remembering that I should probably speak. “I’m Callie. Callie Grey.”

At the sound of my name, Bowie whined and thumped his tail as if telling me I was doing great. Dr. McFarland glanced at the chart. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. Bowie, sensing a belly rub somewhere in the very near future, rolled over and offered himself. And oh, how adorable. My dog was … you know. Excited. Interested. Aroused.

Tearing my eyes off the display of canine amour, I swallowed. “Um … well, Bowie ate something this morning. Which is not uncommon. Bowie, get up.” He was neutered, of course, but just because he couldn’t father any cute little puppies didn’t mean he didn’t have urges, and apparently Dr. McFarland was his type. My dog didn’t move, just lay there, exposing himself.

“What did he eat?” the vet asked.

“Uh, the newspaper? But he does that a lot. He’s probably fine.”

“You should be more careful about where you leave the paper.” He made a note on the chart—Bad pet owner, I imagined—then looked up at me. Yep. Disapproval. “How’s he acting?”

Horny? “Um … he felt, well, he seemed to be a little, ah … blue? Not himself? So …” I smiled weakly. Roooraahroh! Bowie sang, wagging his tail.

The vet glanced at Bowie, then shot me a look that bespoke gobs of cynicism.

I swallowed. “I just figured it’s never the wrong thing to do, you know, double-check on your dog, see if everything’s okay. He seemed a little … down.”

Bowie took this as a cue to flip to his feet in that agile and speedy way huskies have. He stared at me with his wide, different-colored eyes, tilting his head and giving a single yip, as if saying, And then? And then? What happened next, Mom? I love this story! It smells good here! Can I have some meat?

“He seemed down,” Dr. McFarland repeated.

“Off. He seemed off.” I looked at the floor.

He sighed, then set the chart down on the counter. “Miss Grey,” he said, folding his arms and giving me the full power of the Arctic stare. He paused for a moment. “Let me share something with you. You’re the eighth woman this week to come in with a vague complaint involving a pet eating something he shouldn’t have.” He paused. “Seven of those women were single. And as I seem to recall from our morning together at the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’re single as well.”

D’oh! as Homer Simpson would say. “Wow. Someone has an ego,” I murmured, pulling on Bowie’s leash as he inched closer and closer to Dr. McFarland’s leg.

“Two of the dogs supposedly ate dishcloths. When I told the owners that this was cause for concern, as cloth can be very damaging to an animal’s intestinal track, they rather abruptly amended their stories. A parrot may or may not have eaten a plastic toy. One cat allegedly ate a ring. When I recommended an X-ray, the owner found the ring in her pocket. And four dogs, Miss Grey, seem to have eaten a newspaper and were feeling a little off.”

“What a coincidence,” I said brightly.

He raised an eyebrow, slowly. Mr. Darcy could take put-down lessons from this guy. Jenna was right. He was kind of a dick.

“You know what, Dr. McFarland?” I chirped. “You’re actually a little bit right. Here’s the thing.” I paused. He waited. I waited, too, for something good to come to me. “Bowie did eat the paper this morning. I’d been meaning to come see you anyway, and since my dog felt a little blue, I figured what the heck.” I cleared my throat. “See, the thing is, I used to work for Dr. Kumar, did you know that?” Dr. McStuck-Up shook his head, looking utterly uninterested. “I washed dogs, cleaned up, was generally helpful.”

Dr. McFarland sighed and glanced at his watch.

“Anyway, I work in advertising and public relations now … um, and I know how friendly and sweet Dr. Kumar was, and you have big shoes to fill and all that. So I was thinking maybe you needed some … I don’t know. A little help in getting the word out that you’re just as sweet as Dr. K. Because I’m guessing that even though you’re seeing a bump in the single-women-pet-owning population right now, business might die down a little.”

Ah-ha! He frowned—frowned more, that is—and I kept talking. “You might not know this, but there’s another veterinary practice in Kettering, which is only fifteen minutes away, and it’s not really much farther for the people who live east of Main Street, so you know … I wondered if you might be interested in a little PR, so I figured I’d drop in and offer my services.”

Well! That was as unexpected as pigs flying out of my butt, as my dear grandfather would say. Not bad, Michelle said. Though I don’t approve of lying, of course. “Why?” I asked. “Did you think I was checking you out?”

Dr. McFarland regarded me steadily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not looking for an advertising agency.”

“This would be more public relations,” I said. Bowie wagged encouragingly and added a yip.

“No, thank you,” the vet said. “Now. Would you like me to examine your dog or not?”

“Sure!” I said. “Might as well, right?” He didn’t roll his eyes, but I sensed it was close. The vet knelt down next to Bowie, who immediately tried to mount him for a little dry humping.

“Off,” Dr. McFarland said. Bowie obeyed, surprisingly, and licked the vet’s face, getting a little smile as a reward. A smile. Something hot and unexpected darted in my stomach. Dr. McFarland … Ian. Nice name. Ian McFarland. Yes. I liked it. Dr. Ian took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against Bowie’s side, gently holding my dog’s head with one hand so Bowie didn’t lick him again.

“So, the women of Georgebury have been through, huh?” I said, just to show I was not one of them, the desperate hags of northeastern Vermont. “I guess you can’t blame them. Hard to meet people up here, I suppose. It’s funny, seven people with—”

“Miss Grey?” He looked up at me with those blue eyes, and suddenly I felt that liquid, flashing heat again. Those were some very pretty eyes, and he was looking so deeply at me, as if maybe … maybe he kind of felt something? Something for me?

“You can call me Callie,” I said, and my voice was a little breathy. “Short for Calliope. Homer’s muse.”

“Callie, then.”

Your name! He said your name! Betty Boop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?” I sighed.

“I can’t hear your dog’s bowel sounds if you don’t stop talking.”

“Right! Bowel sounds. You keep going. Do what you need to do. You’re the doctor. Examine away. Good boy, Bowie.” I closed my eyes, closed my mouth and sat still, imagining the First Lady sighing yet again.

After a minute, Dr. McFarland said, “Everything sounds fine.” He stood up and scribbled something else on the chart. “Try not to leave newspapers where your dog can get them. Please see Carmella on your way out.”

“Right. Nice to meet you,” I said, blushing once again.

“Same here,” he lied.

I followed him out of the exam room. Bowie yipped, then lunged, causing me to crash into Dr. McFarland’s back. He turned, scowling. “Sorry,” I muttered, hauling Bowie back from the object of his interest—an unleashed and extremely beautiful Irish setter. When she saw us, she sat immediately and wagged her plumy tail.

“Wow, that is one gorgeous dog,” I said. “Is she yours?”

“Yes,” he answered. He eyed my whining dog the way a father eyes his teenage daughter’s boyfriend.

“Bowie, stop,” I ordered, tugging on the leash. My dog was getting aroused once more. “What’s her name?”

“Angie.”

“Angie,” I immediately crooned in a whispery voice. The old Rolling Stones song was a favorite of mine, “‘Aaaangie, you can’t say we never tri-ah-ah-ied.’” Bowie joined right in with a whining howl, and Angie wagged appreciatively. Her owner said nothing. “Did you name her after the song?”

“No. Her name is Four D Mayo’s Angel,” he answered in what I’m sure he thought was a patient tone. “I shortened it.”

“Oh, so she’s one of those purebred AKC dogs, is that it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Apparently unable to stop talking, I kept going. “Bowie’s a mutt.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that.”

“Right. Because you’re the vet.” For heaven’s sake, Michelle said. Shut it, Callie.

“Angie, go lie down, girl,” the good doctor said. His dog wagged at me once more, then walked off down the hall. Bowie crooned a mournful goodbye.

“Well, see you arou—” I offered to Dr. McFarland, but he was already going into the next exam room to deal with the obese terrier and its owner.

I looked at my dog, who stared back, ready to hear whatever gem I was about to impart. “That did not go too well,” I whispered.

Up at the front desk, Carmella took pity on me. “Divorced,” she said. “Not over his wife, I think.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “Too bad.”

My trip to Humiliationville cost me $75. Michelle told me I’d learned a valuable lesson in not wasting other people’s time. Betty mourned the shoes that money could’ve bought.

In the parking lot, Ball Python Woman was sliding her pet into the passenger seat, which made me wonder what the heck the snake did while she drove around. “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she announced as I opened the door for Bowie.

“You’re telling me,” I answered.

BACK HOME, I CROSSED New Vet off my list and checked my e-mail. Yesterday, when Annie was supposed to be getting ready for the new school year, she had instead screened several candidates, thoroughly enjoying her foray into Internet dating. This guy is gorgeous! she’d written, complete with a link to his info. Doug336. What did those numbers mean, anyway? That there were 336 Dougs in the world, all of them looking for love? That was a lot of Dougs. I sighed and turned to look at the framed photo I really should toss.

It was taken at last year’s company picnic, two months before that fateful foray to Santa Fe. Mark had organized one of those team-building exercise retreat things involving paintball and physical exertion, and though there had been grumblings about why the heck we couldn’t have gone on a booze cruise instead, I’d had a great time. Especially during the Chicken Challenge. Oh, I loved the Chicken Challenge! It was basically a game of piggyback chicken in a lake, and guess who got to partner up with the boss? Me, that’s who, and Pete had snapped a photo of the two of us, soaked and triumphant, me on Mark’s back, my arms around his lovely neck. That was a happy, happy day. I’d been so sure Mark was feeling it, too …

Get rid of the picture, Michelle advised.

I didn’t. But I dragged my eyes off it and clicked the link. “Okay, Doug336,” I said. “Let’s make a date.”

I HAD KNOWN MARK SINCE I was a kid and, like most of the kids I knew, admired him from afar. I might have been pretty and friendly, but he was older by two years. He was the mayor’s son. He lived up the street, right on the town green, and not in a funeral home, but in a house where, rumor had it, he had an entire floor to himself. He was an only child, he was tall, he was athletic, he was handsome. In my young eyes, Mark Rousseau and Leonardo DiCaprio both had the same appeal and the same unattainability … they were fun to look at, sure, someone to swoon over … but someone you’d talk to? No.

And then came Gwen Hardy’s fourteenth birthday party. Boy-girl, rec room, a closet … the classic scene. Despite the fact that several classmates were well into the world of horny teenage groping, I had not yet so much as held hands with a boy. Jake Fiore had asked me out in sixth grade, but I told him my parents were very strict and old-fashioned … not that my parents were paying a lot of attention, but because it seemed easier than negotiating the murky waters of adolescent love.

Anthony Gates approached in seventh grade, and again, I flashed the parent card, apologizing profusely and telling him I thought he was an awfully nice guy, but my dad … gosh, but thanks so much, I was really flattered. (I mastered the art of the nice rejection early in life, as you can see.)

The truth was, I believed in Love. After my father moved out, I resolved that Life Would Still Be Happy. I was helpful with my baby brother, cheerful in the mornings to counterbalance Hester. I made sure I always skipped out to my dad’s car when he came to pick us up for his nights and pretended to love bowling because he loved bowling. Made Mom tea when she came in from work. Always kept my room neat. Smiled when I felt like crying, and when I did cry, made sure I went into my closet so no one would hear.

Love would be my reward. I yearned for love. I’d have it, and not with any ordinary boy, either. It would be overwhelming, undeniable, meant to be Love with a capital L. The kind that caused Johnny Depp to swing from a rope outside the mental hospital in Benny & Joon. The kind that made John Cusack hold up the boom box in the pouring rain so Peter Gabriel could do the talking for him. My parents had obviously failed miserably on that front, but I would never make their mistakes (whatever those were). Hester was cynical and bitter, having been sixteen when Dad left and all too aware of why our parents’ marriage failed. She took the other extreme a child of divorce might embrace—swearing that she’d never let a man have so much as a toehold on her heart. She’d roll her eyes as I wept at romantic movies and advise me to stop being such a putz, but I wouldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

Okay, so back to Gwen’s basement. Her parents were upstairs watching Seinfeld, and we were playing some variation of Truth or Dare that involved a boy and a girl going into a closet and making out. Prior to the party, Annie and I had spent roughly a thousand hours discussing whom we’d most want in the closet with us … her vote was the extremely cute Jack Doyle, the man she’d end up marrying. Me … I didn’t really have a leading contender. Until the actual night.

Gwen lived four doors down from the Rousseaus, and she’d worked up the nerve to ask Mark to stop by her party. For some reason, Mark agreed. It was a huge triumph for Gwen … Mark was sixteen already! He had his driver’s permit! He was on varsity lacrosse and soccer! He shaved! Mark, as we all knew, was dating Julie Revere, and Julie’s little sister rode the bus with Corinne Breck’s cousin, and Corinne, who was in our class, said that her cousin said that Julie’s sister said that Julie said she might let Mark go all the way.

We were all hugely aware of him … not one of the girls had touched the giant bowl of Cheeto balls for fear of getting orange gunk stuck in her braces, and most of us were sipping Diet Coke instead of the far too childish punch. I was so glad I’d worn my denim miniskirt with the cropped pink angora sweater. And yes, Mark had checked me out ten minutes earlier when he’d come in (thank you, padded bra!), causing me to blush furiously even as I pretended not to see him.

When Mark’s turn came during Truth or Dare, I didn’t hear the question he was supposed to answer. A roaring sound filled my ears. My face burned. I adopted a casual pose, and when Mark’s dark eyes stopped on me, I gave a little smile, even though my heart raced fast enough to make me sick. He stood up, crossed the circle and held out his hand. “Okay, kid. Time to go slumming with me,” he said with the crooked grin that would torture me for the next decade and a half.

Gwen and my friends Carla and Jenna fell silent with the wonder of it all, jealousy stamped clear on their faces, the idea of me being chosen as bitter to them as it was miraculous to me. Annie didn’t look at me, for which I was grateful … would’ve broken into squeals if she had—but her face glowed with excitement just the same. I stood up, brushed off my skirt and took Mark’s hand. Followed him into the closet, practically floating with the surrealism of the moment. Mark Rousseau was holding my hand! Taking me into a closet! It was more than I ever dared to dream.

The closet was crowded; an air-conditioning vent ran through the space, so we had to stand close. Mark smelled wonderful—a mix of soap and sweat—and I could hear him breathing. He took my other hand. My palms were sweaty, but his were warm and dry, and my body temperature shot up well into fever range, sweat dampening my forehead. “You’re cute, Callie,” he whispered … the first time he said my name, and I almost threw up with the thrill of it all.

“Thanks,” I whispered back, swallowing a little bile. My heart thudded so fast and hard it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it.

“You ever been kissed before?” There was a smile in his voice, though I couldn’t see it in the dark.

I bit my lip. “Um … not really,” I whispered.

“Is it all right if I kiss you now?” he whispered back.

“Sure,” I managed.

It was a soft, gentle, wonderful kiss, chaste and perfect, his lips soft and warm. Something flipped in my stomach as his mouth moved against mine, and suddenly, to my mortification, a little moan escaped from my throat. That kind of moan. An oh, baby moan. Dang it! Mark laughed quietly, pulling back.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” I answered, too horrified to say anything else.

Then he kissed me again. This wasn’t a magical, perfect first kiss. This was … oh, it was warm, and mature, deeper and, oh, Lord, hot. My knees weakened in a near painful rush. The pit of my stomach tingled. Mark’s hands slid down to my ass, and he pulled me against him. Oh!

Then he stopped. “Okay. We’re all set, then,” he said casually, the way a cool guy would. He stepped back and opened the closet door, the bright light and giggles from the other kids like the rude buzzing of an alarm clock calling me from a soft and lovely dream.

My first kiss! My first kiss was from Mark Rousseau, and it had been perfect. And that second one—holy crap! I floated back to my place in the circle, next to Annie. She asked me something, and I murmured some nonsensical syllables in response, but I didn’t hear, couldn’t see, was absolutely heedless of the sharp and curious glances from my friends. My heart pounded and kept pounding, faster and faster, the rhythm repeating over and over, Mark Rousseau kissed me. Mark Rousseau kissed me.

Of course, I fell crazy in love with him. Made a point of appearing in his path here and there, noting when, during a football game, he might head to the concession stand and hustling there myself so we’d innocently run into each other. He always said hi, sometimes even using my name. I began riding my bike past his house occasionally (well, four or five times a week, to be honest). I even joined the cross-country team because they warmed up near the lacrosse team.

Mark didn’t break up with Julie. Didn’t hold up a boom box under my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.

But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did … I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.

After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.

Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home, back to the sweet light of a Vermont summer. Mom and Dad both seemed pleased that I was home. Freddie, whose IQ was in the genius range, was often bored in school and welcomed the chance to torture me. I babysat for my nieces, hung out with Annie and Jack, got a job covering town meetings for the little local paper and waited tables at night, figuring some job opportunity would present itself.

It did. Mark returned from Chicago, where he’d been working, and opened up Green Mountain Media.

It seemed like it was meant to be, didn’t it? I mean, come on! Of course I applied. So did three hundred other people. Jobs like that were rare in our corner of the state, and it was big news in Georgebury. I wore my favorite skirt and sweater ensemble, bought on Beacon Street in Beantown, trying to look creative and funky and professional. Spent even longer on my hair that day, practiced my answers in the mirror.

When I walked into Mark’s office, the old attraction came crashing back. He was better-looking than ever, more manly, broader in the shoulders, and he was as nice as could be. Asked me about college and my job in Boston … most of my work there had been trying to make “oily discharge” sound less horrific on drug warning labels, something I acknowledged honestly, getting a good laugh from Mark. He told me he loved the Back Bay and tried to make at least one Sox game a year, chatted about us both moving back to Georgebury. I, in turn, made sure to ask questions about his company, talked about my creativity and excellent work ethic, and agreed that the Sox were looking great.

“I have to tell you, Callie,” he said, glancing again at my résumé, “you’re one of the most qualified people I’ve had in here. This looks really good.”

“Thanks,” I beamed, my toes curling in my new shoes.

“I can’t say for sure, since I have a few more people to interview, but … well, I think you’ll be hearing from me. By Friday at the latest.”

“Excellent,” I said. “But take your time. It’s an important decision. You want to make sure you have the right mix of people.”

He nodded, pleased. “True enough. Thanks for coming in.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

I made it to the door, quite thrilled with the interview, not to mention the stir Mark’s physical presence still caused, when he spoke again.

“Callie?”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Didn’t we make out in a closet once?”

Bam! My face ignited. “Um … you know, I … don’t …”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned, slowly. “Callie, Callie. You haven’t forgotten your first kiss, have you?”

I gave a mock grimace. “Okay, you caught me. Yes, we kissed in a closet. I wasn’t sure I should bring it up in a job interview.”

He laughed. “I can’t see how it would hurt.” And then he smiled at me, a smile that went straight to my groin, and I held on to the door frame and hoped I didn’t look quite as ruttish as I was suddenly feeling.

“I seem to remember it was quite … nice,” he added.

“I seem to remember that, too,” I said, and my heart knocked around in my chest. “Well. Great seeing you again, Mark.”

“I’ll call you soon.”

And he did call. I got the job, and though I reminded myself that I was no longer fourteen, that I didn’t want to screw up a really great career opportunity and that romance had no place in a new company, I fell right back in love. He was a great boss—energetic, hardworking, appreciative of the efforts of his small staff. I loved the work … because we were so small, I worked on every project at first, and Mark quickly realized he’d hired the right person, something he often said out loud. He flirted occasionally, told me often that I looked pretty, something he also said to Karen and Leila and, later, Fleur. But he never crossed the line, no matter how hard I psychically ordered him to.

Until last year, when we were nominated for a Clio.

We’d landed a job for a children’s hospital, a coup for us, since we were just a few years old, and we wanted to hit a home run. For two days, Mark and I sat in the conference room from morning until well past dinnertime, working through lunches, guzzling coffee, wadding up pieces of paper, talking ourselves blue in the face. What were the advantages of this particular hospital? How we could show people they didn’t have to fly down to Boston to get top-rate care? What did a parent really want in a hospital? Why would they pick this one?

And then, somewhere in the afternoon of the second day, I got it. Mark was blathering about hospital statistics or something, and I held up my hand to silence him. Then I said the line aloud, very slowly. Did a rough sketch on my notepad and looked into Mark’s dark eyes. His mouth fell open and he just stared at me. “That’s it,” he said in a near whisper.

A week later, we did the shoot. I chose the kid, who was an actual patient, and the doctor, scouted out the room where I wanted the picture taken and talked to Jens, the photographer, about what I had in mind, the lighting, the focal point.

The final poster was a close-up of a three-year-old boy in the arms of a doctor. The boy’s head rested on the woman’s shoulder, and he looked straight into the camera. The doctor’s face was turned away, so all you could see was her gray hair and the stethoscope draped around her neck. The boy’s shirt was white with thin red stripes, the doctor wore a white lab coat, and the wall behind them was also white. The focal point of the shot was the boy’s face … his huge, trusting, remarkable green eyes looking straight at the camera, a slight smile curling his lips. The tagline had been simple: … as if he were our own. Beneath that, Northeast Children’s Hospital. And that was it. The chairman of the hospital board got tears in his eyes when he saw it.

When the Clio committee called, we were ecstatic. Of course we’d both be going to the ceremony. It was huge! A three-day festival with the best advertising agencies in the world, and we were one of them. Holy guacamole!

An hour or two into our flight, Mark dozed off. A permeating fog of lust enveloped me, and tenderness, too. What could be more wonderful than watching over the man you love as he catches up on much-needed sleep? Sigh! For once I didn’t mind the fact that the airlines jammed passengers in like packaged herring. For once, I could study him without fear of discovery. His dark hair curled at the neck, his lashes were sooty and long. Even the way his chest rose and fell under his pale blue oxford was a turn-on.

And then, somewhere over the Midwest, the captain’s amiable, Texas-twanged voice came over the PA. “Folks, we’re gonna run into a few bumps here. Please stay in your seats and buckle up tight. Trays up, too. It’s gonna be pretty rough. Flight attendants, take a seat.”

I obeyed, making sure Mark was buckled, putting my laptop back in its case. And then, I was being shaken like a rag doll. The plane lurched and shuddered. People screamed as one, myself included. My seat belt cut into my stomach, my hair whooshed up. It was like being bucked off a horse, rough and unpredictable, and a horrible whine pierced the air. The oxygen masks tumbled out, and it was so loud! Mark, abruptly awake, threw his arm out across me, automatically trying to shield me from harm. “What the fuck?” he yelled over the noise.

The plane shuddered again and rolled to the left. I clutched Mark’s arm as we tilted, feeling my laptop slide past my feet. My mind went white with terror. The plane wobbled unevenly, people were screaming and praying, the engines roared and shrieked. Mark’s eyes met mine. Then the plane seemed to drop, cups and trash and purses flew up and hit the ceiling. More screams. I couldn’t seem to speak—I gripped the headrest in front of me with one hand, and with the other, I held Mark’s. The plane shuddered again.

“Folks, Captain Hewitt again. We’re having a little bit o’ difficulty,” the captain called out, sounding as calm as if he were watching corn grow. “Hang on tight.” As he spoke, the plane fell a few more … feet? Yards? God, we were trapped in a hunk of metal and falling from the sky! My mouth opened but no sound came out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mark muttered.

“Oh God, oh God help us, please Lord Jesus, save us!” the woman in front of me wailed. The plane bucked again, there was another mass scream. We’re going to die, came the small, quiet thought in the part of my brain that wasn’t roaring in panic. Behind me, someone vomited and my own stomach lurched. We’re crashing, oh, God, this is it. Fear electrified my legs, and my eyes, stretched too wide, saw everything … the man across the aisle hunched over, his hands over the back of his head. “Hail Mary, full of grace …” Trash was everywhere. Who knew there was so much trash? There was a little girl two rows ahead on my right sobbing, “Mommy, make it stop, Mommy!”

Someone else threw up, people were sobbing into their cell phones—”Baby, it’s bad, I love you, I love you so much”—but Mark and I just held on to each other as the plane dipped and shivered. Mark pushed my head down—crash position, Jesus God, I was in crash position, who survived a plane crash? I shook violently, my face was wet with tears … Josephine, Bronte, Hester, Freddie, my parents. Who’d take care of Noah? What about Bowie? Would my sweet dog somehow know that I was gone?

The plane bucked again, tilted, righted. And then, amid the chaos and terror, I saw lights down on land. We were getting lower, descending, even as the plane still shuddered. The wings wobbled, then straightened, the sound of the landing gear locking in place was the most reassuring and beautiful sound that had ever reached my ears.

“We’re gonna make it,” Mark said, his voice strained. My hand, clenched in his, had gone numb. “We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna make it.”

When the screech of rubber against tarmac sounded, the plane burst into cheers and sobbing. “Welcome to New Mexico,” came the captain’s voice, shaking now that we were safe. “Sorry for the rough ride.” The white-faced attendants stood, and people flung off their seat belts despite the rules of waiting, desperate to be off the plane, many still crying, still swearing, and all of us miraculously alive.

I turned to Mark, and we looked at each other. Then he kissed me, his hands cupping my tear-streaked face. He was drenched in sweat. “We’re fine,” he said hoarsely. I nodded, my throat still too clamped from terror to allow a word to escape. I’d almost died, but I hadn’t. I was alive. It was so strange. We were falling from the sky, and somehow we made it.

Standing in the aisle, waiting to get out, shaking like a junkie in heroin withdrawal, I found it so bizarre to do those mundane tasks like find my purse and laptop, straighten my shirt. People were already talking on their cell phones, assuring loved ones of their safety, opening the overhead compartments and retrieving their carry-on luggage. I didn’t speak. “Callie, you okay?” Mark asked.

I nodded. Realized I was crying. When we filed past the captain and crew, I hugged each of them, my God, I loved them so much. When I came to the captain, it was clear he was God’s right hand, not some middle-aged blond man with a mustache. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I wept.

“Well, now, we all made it down safe and sound, no matter what it felt like, right?” He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for flying with us, little lady.”

So, okay, you don’t almost die in a plane crash every day, do you? It’s life-affirming to walk off a plane that had been shuddering and dropping through the sky, to breathe fresh air and feel the ground under your feet again. And you know what else is life-affirming?

Sex.

Mark took my hand once we were off the airplane, and he didn’t let go of it. We didn’t speak, just got into a cab. Held hands. Got to the hotel. Held hands in the lobby as we checked in. Held hands in the elevator. Our rooms were on different floors, but he only pushed nine, which was where his room was. Led me out of the elevator, down the hall, the two of us bumping as we towed our suitcases, our hands still linked. Went right into that generically pleasing, wonderfully safe room, and the second the door closed, Mark pulled me against him and kissed the stuffing out of me, and let me tell you, we put that king-size bed to good use.

And it was wonderful. I’d never been in love—not like this. The shaking of Mark’s hands as he unbuttoned my shirt, his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine, that crooked smile … this was Love. The kind of Love I always knew I’d find, and it was just breathtaking.

The next morning, Mark suggested we blow off the conference, as we only needed to show up for the ceremony, and now that we’d nearly died, we realized how silly all this really was. We strolled through beautiful Santa Fe, admiring the little bungalows adorned with chili pepper wreaths, bought Native American souvenirs for Josephine and Bronte. When the heat got to us, we ducked into a movie theater and made out like teenagers. Had dinner at a tiny restaurant, discovered that green chili sauce was in fact nectar of the gods and wondered how we’d lived without it for so long.

On Thursday night, our poster won the bronze. Not bad, but it seemed so petty in light of everything else. We had each other. We knew what really mattered. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Clearly, this was the beginning of a very meaningful, heading-for-marriage-and-they-lived-happily-ever-after relationship. After all, I had known Mark most of my life. I worked with Mark … I worked for Mark. He wouldn’t sleep with me if it wasn’t serious. And the whole near-death experience … it had made him (finally) aware of me in a life-altering way. Faced with the vision of our deaths, he realized that I was, as the saying goes, The One. Priorities were made clear. Right?

Well … no. Actually, no.

At the end of the conference, Mark told me he’d meet me in the lobby. So I went back to my own room … that was one sign I’d ignored … though I’d slept in his room, I hadn’t been invited to actually share it, so all my showering and getting ready and stuff was done in my own space. Which made sense, of course, since we’d already paid for two rooms. Packing up my stuff, I hummed away. Josephine would make the cutest flower girl ever. Bronte could be a junior bridesmaid. I’d have to ask both parents to give me away to avoid any show of favoritism. Winter wedding with a Christmas theme, or the more traditional June? Mark and Callie. Callie and Mark. Sounded great together, didn’t it? I sure thought so.

When I met him in the lobby, he was engrossed in his iPhone, barely looking up as I approached. I forgave him. In the cab ride to the airport, he called a client. No problem. As I expressed my nervousness at flying again, he said (just a tad impatiently), “Callie, the odds of us experiencing something like that again are minuscule. Don’t be silly.” I smiled gamely, agreed that he was right, told myself not to be such a Betty Boop. On the flight back, he worked on his laptop. That was okay. We were busy. I pretended to work, too, even though I kept listening for engine failure. I tried to embrace Michelle Obama, the practical and intelligent side of myself. Tried to ignore my clattering heart.

For the next five weeks, I tried to feel happy. I had Mark … sort of. He loved me … or so I thought. For five weeks, I ignored the signs. Pretended that the increasing distance between us didn’t exist, tried harder than ever to be perfect, adorable, fun. Forgave him his ever-shorter answers. Until night #38 of our relationship, when he invited me over.

When I first walked in from the cold autumn air, I was pleasantly surprised. The table was set, he’d cooked dinner, there were candles. A fire snapped and hissed in the fireplace. Huh, I thought. I guess he just needed to adjust to things. Clearly, he wants to be with me, or else why would he go to all this fuss? Maybe he’s got something special planned! Like an engagement ring! For the first time since Santa Fe, I relaxed. Of course Mark loved me. Of course he did.

Mark poured some wine, offered Brie and crackers and then broke up with me.

It was the timing, see. Things were really crackling at the company, and a serious relationship … not the right time. He was sure I understood and indeed, felt the same way.

“Oh,” I said faintly. “Right.” I paused. “So … I guess we should take things slow, huh?”

Mark looked at me with those liquid, dark eyes of his, a searching, soulful look. “Callie, you’re so … um, amazing. But I’m not really at a point in my life where I can invest what you deserve. And you deserve it all. It’s not that the feelings aren’t there … of course you’re special to me. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “So … we’ll just play it by ear and reevaluate in, what … six months?”

The fire popped. Mark looked down at his plate and began breaking a cracker into pieces. “To be honest, I can’t even look that far ahead. I really wish I could, but … well, I can’t ask you to wait around until I can make a commitment.”

“No, no! I don’t mind waiting!” Oh, the humanity! Mrs. Obama said. “I mean … Mark, this whole time in Santa Fe, it was …” My voice broke a little. “It was so … special.”

“It really was,” he acknowledged, then added in a terrible Bogart impression, “We’ll always have Santa Fe.”

Oh, God. That sounded horribly final! Desperate, I stammered and blathered, hoping to change his mind. “I—I just feel like we have … something … we have this incredible bond, and I …”

All of a sudden, I understood the phrase hopelessly in love. Michelle’s voice was kind in my head. You’re not supposed to have to convince him, hon. I ignored her. “I just don’t think we should … I don’t think we should throw away what we feel for each other, Mark.”

How I hated saying those words … and yet, I had to. I had to beg, even as I detested myself for being so … weak. So helpless. So willing to throw out dignity, so ready to trade that for whatever scraps Mark could give me. But dignity was thrown out just the same. “Please, Mark.”

“Uh … well,” Mark said slowly, crushing his cracker fragments into crumbs. “Callie, you’re just fantastic, and I really wish I was in a different place in my life right now. But I’m not.” He gave me a James Dean sort of look, lowered head and sheepish grin. “We’ll be okay, right? We’re friends still, I hope. I mean, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. I cooked for you.”

Don’t stay. Have some self-respect and walk out of here.

I swallowed. “No, of course we’re still friends, Mark,” I said. “Of course!”

“Great,” Mark said, setting aside his plate of crackers and cheese. “I knew you’d understand, Callie. Thank God you’re not one of those hysterical women who can’t handle being alone, right?” He grinned. “I’m starving. Wanna eat?”

“You bet,” I said. I found myself standing and following him to the dining room table. For the next hour, Mark chatted about his parents and their cruise to Norway, a couple of clients, the unfairness of the Yankees winning yet another World Series. The entire time, I murmured and nodded and even ate my damn dinner as my mind whirled. How the hell … Did I just … agree? Somehow, I’d just signed on the dotted line to accept this situation … this un-situation, more like it. Mark had cleverly orchestrated this so there was no scene, no real breakup, no crying … nope, we just sat down and ate, back to colleagues and coworkers. He handled it well, I had to admit.

By the time I got home that night, I’d convinced myself that Mark had been sincere. Timing … a perfectly acceptable answer! Everything he said … true! Mark was right! I did deserve it all! For the next little while, Betty Boop and I held out hope. Tried to be perky and waited for Mark to notice me again and be ready and in a place in his life where he could give me what I deserved. But the days slid past, and my lifelong optimism eroded bit by bit, until even I couldn’t deny the truth. He didn’t want me.

I should’ve hated him, but that was impossible. First of all, I loved him (the devil’s in the details, right?). He was funny and talented and a great boss, loved his work and valued his employees. He’d send me goofy e-mails or links to odd news stories, sometimes texted me during a meeting with a comment about a client, called me at home if something occurred to him. When he complimented me on my work, I’d feel such a rush of pride and joy … joy that faded to a chalky residue moments after he left.

Those three days in Santa Fe had been so perfect that I just couldn’t get past them. I should’ve called Annie, gotten drunk on chocolate liqueur candies, made lists of why I hated Mark. But I didn’t. I was my father’s girl, and if I could’ve gone back in time, I would’ve endured that flight all over again, just to have those happiest moments back again, when I’d had all I ever wanted.

ON MONDAY, I HAD A date to meet Doug336 for lunch. We’d taken our relationship to the next level … that is, we’d exchanged a few e-mails, allowed each other to view a photo, checked out each other’s Facebook pages, the usual cyber rituals that masqueraded as human interaction these days. Annie was very confident. “You need to get out there,” she said, as if she knew all about heartbreak from the six hours she and Jack had been apart during eleventh grade. “This will help. You’ll see. Mark will be a distant memory any day now.”

It was possible, I thought, picking out my clothes even more carefully than usual. Not only was I meeting the guy who might be The One—it was Muriel’s first day of work at Green Mountain Media. The very thought had my stomach cramping.

“No, no,” I instructed my reflection. “It’s all good. And you look very cute.” I definitely needed some positive affirmation today, needed to look the part of Young Professional Cool Creative Director. Today’s choice was an adorable, sunshiny yellow dress paired with killer red heels. Red-and-orange beaded necklace, orange suede bag.

Damien watched as I struggled through the office door with a tray of scones. “Can you help me out here, Damien?” I said.

“I’m busy,” he returned, evidenced by the single sheet of paper he held.

“You’re such a putz,” I growled, finally making it into the lobby. “No scones for you.”

“I’m on a diet,” he said, then lowered his voice. “She’s here.”

I paused. “Okay. Great! Super.”

Damien pulled a face—half sympathy, half disgust—and sat down at his desk.

Green Mountain Media was shaped like a triangle. Damien’s domain was the foyer, a large, sunny space filled with framed prints of our work, several large ficus trees and a couch and coffee table across from Damien’s glass-topped desk. Next came the art department, an open, cheerfully cluttered space featuring large-screen Macs, printers, scanners and miles of cable and cords. Here Pete and Leila reigned, speaking in their computer-geek acronyms. As the triangle narrowed, there was the conference room, then Karen’s office, which was large and dark due to the perpetually drawn blinds (we suspected Karen was part vampire, as she hated mornings and sunshine). Across from Karen was Fleur’s office. As creative director, I got a bigger office, closer to the apex where Mark held court in the point of the triangle. Now, the previously empty office directly across from me held our newest employee. Muriel.

As I approached, my heart tightened. Mark was leaning in Muriel’s doorway. “Hey, Callie,” he said, smiling as if this were a normal day.

“Morning, boss,” I said, reassured that my voice sounded normal. I paused, the tray of scones growing heavier. My purse slipped off my shoulder. “Hi, Muriel. Welcome.”

She stood next to Mark, one bony hip tilted out. “Hello,” she said, giving me a quick once-over. Her nostrils twitched. “How are you, Calliope?”

“Great!” I answered. “How about you? Getting organized?”

“Already done.”

Muriel was beautiful, I couldn’t deny that. Her hair was black, pulled back into a severe twist, revealing her narrow, ice-queen face. Glittering pale gray eyes, white, white skin with two fiery spots of pink glowing on her cheeks, as if she were burning from fever. She wore a very fitted black suit—Armani maybe, sleek and vicious—and a black silk shirt. Couldn’t have been more than a size two, and I instantly felt quite large and very soft. “Well. I should put these scones—”

“Do you have a moment?” she asked.

I glanced at Mark, who looked blandly back. “Um … sure! Of course.”

“I’ll leave you girls alone,” Mark said, standing aside to let me by. “You look nice today, Callie.”

“Thank you,” I said. He smiled and closed the door. Setting the tray down on the only available surface—Muriel’s desk—I felt a little sweaty. Muriel’s perfume suffused the air.

“It looks great in here,” I said, forcing a smile. Great if you liked sterile, that was. Over the weekend, her office had been redone—the standard-issue desk had been replaced with something modern and white. A sumptuous white leather chair sat behind it. On the walls hung black-and-white Ansel Adams prints—well, given the deVeers money, they were probably originals. Black bookcases, white walls. There was a picture of her and Mr. deVeers in ski gear standing on some mountaintop. I seemed to remember that Muriel’s mother died when she was young.

Muriel sat behind her desk. “Have a seat,” she said, looking at me with those glittering eyes. I obeyed, feeling like I’d been called to the principal’s office (something that had never happened in real life, let me assure you).

“Would you like a scone?” I asked. “I made them this morning.”

“No, thank you,” she said, folding her hands primly.

“So,” I said. “What’s up?”

Once again she looked me up and down as if surveying a bug. “I thought you should be aware that Mark’s told me about the little … fling … you two had last year,” she said.

Fling? Is that what he called it? My heart flinched. All of me flinched, apparently, because she smiled, an evil little Cruella De Vil smile. “I didn’t want you to think you had to hide that information,” she said. “It must be quite hard, still having feelings for your employer.”

“Oh, no,” I lied. “I’m fine. I’ve known Mark most of my life, and we’re very good friends. Thank you so much, though.” I tried to match her cool tone, but it was hard when my face was practically bubbling with heat.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, raising a silken eyebrow. “Well, I commend you for not letting it get in your way. I’m not sure I could work with the man I loved if the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

Wow. I mean, really. Wow! It took balls of steel to say that. “I’m fine, let me assure you,” I said, though my throat was tightening.

“Well! Good for you, Callie,” she said. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”

I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the door, hoping not to look as shaken as I felt.

“Callie?” Muriel called, writing something on a pad.

“Yes?”

She didn’t look up. “Don’t forget your snack.”

“They’re for everyone,” I said defensively. “I always bake on Mondays. Production meetings.” She didn’t answer, just shot me a dubious look, as if she knew I’d be galumphing across the hall with my scones and stuffing all twelve of them into my mouth.

Taking care not to accidentally let the tray, oh, I don’t know … hit her in the face, I picked it up and left, closing the door quietly behind me.

THE NATURE OF ADVERTISING is to make people yearn for something. As creative director, my job was basically to come up with a concept … the big picture, the general idea of an ad campaign. But it was more than that, too. To me, there was something magical about my job. When I had an account, I got the chance to repackage something, to focus only on its good qualities, to convince others to like it, want it and need it. In essence, I focused on the positive. That had always been a strength of mine.

Mark was the account exec on all of our clients, though I knew Fleur had high hopes to move up the food chain. For the time being, she worked under me, doing the grunt work of writing the copy before giving it to me for approval and tweaking. Pete and Leila took care of the graphics side of things, the layout and fonts and color schemes and all that fun stuff. Karen booked ad space, paid the bills and dealt with our vendors, and Damien answered the phones, made appointments and worshipped Mark.

And now there was Muriel. We’d never had anyone work on just one account before, but then again, Bags to Riches was our biggest client. They wanted to do a huge national ad campaign—radio, television, Internet, print, billboards, everything. This morning, Muriel was supposed to give us the lowdown on what the client wanted, and then we’d finesse some ideas. I already had a few mock-ups prepared.

And so, ten minutes later, the entire staff filed into the conference room. I set down the tray of scones in the middle of the table.

“God loves you, Callie,” Pete said, lunging for one, then breaking a bit off and feeding it to Leila like a male cardinal.

“Those look great,” Mark said, grinning at me. “Muriel, Callie’s an incredible baker. Want one?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m starving.”

“Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re that thin and you eat carbs. Life’s so unfair. Hi, I’m Fleur Eames.” Fleur stopped dunking her tea bag and stuck out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way in. Fucking deer almost smashed my windscreen, yeah?”

“You hit a deer?” I blurted.

Fleur glanced at me. “Almost. I had to pull over and settle down, though. Have a ciggie, calm my nerves.”

“Nice to meet you,” Muriel said.

“Great meeting you,” Fleur said. “Heard oodles of good stuff about you.”

“Ass-kisser,” Damien whispered, taking his customary seat next to me.

“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s get down to business. Everyone’s met Muriel, we’ve got Callie’s great scones …” He smiled at me, and I forced a smile back. Good old Callie, scone baker. “Muriel, want to get us rolling? Tell us everything we need to know about Bags to Riches.”

“Absolutely. And let me just say I’m thrilled to be here.” She smiled at each of us in turn, then cleared her throat and reached for her notes. “Bags to Riches is an outerwear company that makes clothing out of a unique blend of cotton and plastic grocery bags.”

Her voice was confident and loud, as if she were addressing a stadium. “Our demographic is young, affluent people who enjoy outdoor activities, such as hiking and biking.” She paused, and made eye contact with each one of us, her expression grave. Damien kicked me under the table. “Our goal is to reach these people in a variety of media and increase sales. Thank you.”

With that, she sat down. Mark gave her a confused look, but she just smiled demurely and looked at her hands. “Um … okay. Great, Muriel,” Mark said. “Well, Callie, any ideas?”

I glanced from Mark to Muriel. What Muriel had just told us was something so basic a fourth grader could’ve presented it. Usually, Mark would give us much more detailed information … how long the campaign would last, which markets were underselling, which were doing great, product tie-ins, etc. “Are you … um, are you all done?” I asked her.

“Why, yes, I am, Callie,” she answered. “Mark said you were presenting some ideas. May we see them?”

“Of course,” I said, glancing at Pete, who shrugged. “Well, obviously what makes this company unique is the grocery bag element, and that’s something we’ll definitely focus on.”

“Obviously,” Muriel murmured.

I looked at her. “My first idea is geared toward male consumers, college grads, twenty-five to forty years old, earning more than fifty grand a year.” I reached down next to my chair, grabbed the first poster (PowerPoint was fine, but I was a little old school in presentations) and read my tagline aloud. “Kick some butt, save the planet. BTR Outerwear.” The poster showed a good-looking, sweaty guy, his backpack next to him, standing at the top of a mountain, overlooking a vast wilderness.

Mark smiled, and the usual tingle of pride fluttered in my stomach.

“Oh, nice work,” Leila said.

“Delicious,” Karen murmured, taking a bite of scone. “Him, I mean.” She jerked her chin at the poster.

“I’m thinking all our ads should be shot in national parks,” I continued. “If BTR coughs up some money, we can say we’re a proud sponsor of the Yellowstone Foundation or what have you, and—”

“He’s not even wearing Bags to Riches clothes,” Muriel protested. The rest of us paused.

“It’s a comp, Mure,” Mark said, patting her hand. “It’s a mock-up.” At her look of incomprehension, he continued. “It’s not the real ad … it’s just the idea for the ad.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well.” She squinted at the poster. “The name of the company is Bags to Riches, not BTR.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, that’s another thing. I think Bags to Riches is a little … off. See, it implies that someone’s getting rich off this, and while I’m sure that’s quite true—” everyone but Muriel laughed “—I think we should abbreviate.”

“I doubt my father will go for that,” Muriel said, scribbling something in a notebook. “Moving on, Callie, do you have anything else?”

I glanced at Mark, who was looking at the surface of the table. “Yes, I do, Muriel,” I said. “Female demographic.” I moved to the next comp, something I was quite proud of. It was a stock photo of a woman rock climbing somewhere in Bryce Canyon, dangling from a precipice, teeth gritted in concentration, dripping with sweat. “Redefining ‘bag lady.’ BTR Outerwear.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, Callie!” Pete cheered.

Mark nodded approvingly. “Bull’s-eye,” he murmured.

I smiled. “Now, I’m not sure how much we can afford, but I’d love to use a couple of celebs who champion the environment—Leonardo DiCaprio, for example.”

“Why would we use him? Does he hike?” Muriel asked.

I paused. Looked at Mark again, who was suddenly engrossed in doodling. Glanced at Damien, whose eyes were very wide. “Well, if we get a well-known face, especially one associated with a cause, we brand BTR—”

“Bags to Riches,” she corrected.

“Right.” I paused. “Okay, well … people want to be like celebrities, right? That’s why J. Crew sells out of whatever Michelle Obama’s wearing.”

“J. Crew is not our competitor, Callie,” Muriel said condescendingly. Leila winced.

“I know that,” I said. “What I mean is, the First Lady has influence. Which is true in any ad campaign that uses celebrities, whether they’re hawking milk or Nikes. So if we had Leo in a BTR ad, I’m sure we’d see a bump in sales.”

“Hmm,” Muriel said. “Interesting.”

No one made eye contact. This was Advertising 101. I glanced at Mark, who was looking at Muriel with a very tender expression. He leaned over and placed his hand over hers.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “Well, this has been great. Thanks, Callie. We’ll get back to you and talk about next steps. Oh, and by the way, the BTR people are coming out later this week. We’ll be doing an event on Friday. Participation mandatory.”

“What kind of event?” Damien asked, immediately suspicious.

“A little hike so Charles can see the beauty of a Vermont sunset,” Mark said, ignoring Damien’s stricken expression. “Drinks and dinner afterward.”

JUST BEFORE LUNCH, Fleur slipped into my office and closed the door. “What the fuck-all was Mark thinking?” she hissed. “Yeah, he’s shagging Muriel, but did he have to hire her? She doesn’t know a bloody thing!” She flopped onto my couch.

The thing about Fleur was that when she was truly upset, her accent slipped, something she was completely unaware of. Her accent was in full force now. I suspected she wanted gossip.

“It’s Mark’s company,” I said calmly, turning away from my computer. “And I’m sure Muriel will …” I paused. “Well, she’ll catch on. Obviously, her dad wants her on this account.”

“Callie,” Fleur whispered. “I’ve got much more experience than Muriel.” Accent gone, revealing shades of New York. The truth came out. “Just because my father doesn’t own the company doesn’t mean I should have to take orders from that frigid and ignorant bitch.”

“Listen,” I said quietly, “don’t go there. Just do your job well and trust that Mark will work things out.”

“She’s making more than me. More than you, too, as a matter of fact. Karen told me.”

“Karen shouldn’t have—”

“All right, all right, she didn’t tell me. I just happened to see some paperwork when I was in there for something else.” She sighed. “Figured you should know. You and Mark were … well. Whatever.”

The accent was back. I glanced at my watch. “I have to run, Fleur. I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

“Oh, right!” she said. “The plan!”

“What plan?” I asked, closing a file on my computer.

“The plan to make Mark green with envy!” she whispered gleefully.

“Oh, I’m not really going—”

“Now, now, no need to explain! I’ll walk you out.”

Sighing—Fleur could be a bit much—I grabbed my bag and we walked into the foyer, where Mark was signing something for Damien. “Have fun on your date!” Fleur called loudly as I pulled open the door to leave. Mark and Damien looked up.

“You’re going on a date?” Damien asked, as shocked as if I’d just announced I was getting a sex change.

I blushed. “Well, I’m just meeting a … a friend, that’s all. For a quick lunch.”

Mark’s eyes were … knowing. Smiling, too, the type of smile a man uses when a woman … when he … ah, shit, I was losing my train of thought. His eyes were warm, as if we shared a secret, and his generous mouth pulled up at one corner. For a second I—

“How thrilling,” Damien drawled. “Toodles.”

“Have fun,” Mark said. His eyes wandered down to my legs, and when he looked up again, he gave me a little wink, and my dopey heart leaped.

“See you in a bit,” I said. Get over him, Mrs. Obama said. I’m trying, I answered silently.

Doug336 and I were meeting at Toasted & Roasted, one of the three restaurants in our fair city. It was a little café known mostly for its coffee, the usual endless variety of lattes, mochaccinos and chais, but it also served soup and sandwiches for lunch. It was a pretty space with brick walls and lots of plants, the old tile floor intricately patterned. “Hey, Callie,” the owner called as I came in.

“Hi, Guy,” I answered. “What’s good today?”

“Got some nice hot pastrami and Swiss on rye,” he said. “Also a Philly cheese steak special.”

Both sounded fantastic … but both were dangerous date foods, requiring much chewing and many napkins. They were really more of an “alone” type of food, where you could get grease on your chin and really enjoy. First impressions were so important, though, and I didn’t want Doug336 to have a mental image of me with a cheesy wad of steak on my bosom. “I guess I’ll have a cup of the soup,” I said regretfully.

“Coming up,” Guy answered cheerfully.

At that moment, the door to Toasted & Roasted opened, and in came my mother. And Louis. Upon sighting me, Louis’s pale face lit up with creepy delight.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Someone looks good enough to eat.”

“Hi, Mom!” I said brightly, giving my mother a kiss and making sure she stood between myself and Voldemort there. “Hi, Louis.”

“Hello, honey, fancy running into you. And you do look nice. Louis is right.” A Grinchy grin spread across Louis’s face, and he stepped a little closer to me. Oh, God. He’d obviously come right from work.

“Louis, you’re … you still have your gloves on,” I said, swallowing against the images that leaped with unfortunate clarity into my brain. Latex gloves meant he was … preparing someone.

“Oopsy,” he said. Without taking his eyes off me, he peeled off the gloves, slowly, as if doing a striptease, then did a throat-scraping snort to clear his postnasal drip. Dear God.

“Calliope, did you know your father has been calling me?” Mom asked, frowning as she surveyed the take-out choices of the day. “Of course, I don’t pick up. Does he have a brain tumor or something I should know about?”

“Um, nope, no brain tumor, Mom. He has more time now that he’s retired. Maybe he just … needs to talk.” She gave me a dubious look and said nothing.

“I was just thinking about you today, Calliope,” Louis murmured. “How I’d … display you.” His anemic eyebrow rose.

“Come on, Louis!” I blurted. “That’s a horrible come-on line, not to mention terrifying!” He said nothing, just smirked. “Well, I’m meeting a friend, so I’d better run,” I added, backing away. “Have a nice lunch!” With that, I scampered into the corner and took a seat.

Toasted & Roasted started to fill up with the lunch crowd. I waved occasionally, since I knew just about everyone in town. There was Shaunee Cole, one of the River Rats. Dave, Annie’s brother, was on his phone. “Hey, gorgeous,” he called to me, pausing in his conversation. I waved back. Always loved Dave.

In four more minutes, Doug was going to be late, I noted, glancing at my red Hello Kitty collector’s edition wristwatch. I figured I’d give him ten minutes, then leave. Granted, I’d have happily waited hours for Mark … had, in fact, waited for months, if not years. I squelched the small lance of pain that thought caused and texted Annie to distract myself. Am meeting Doug336. Please choose color of your dress as maid of honor. Will call with a report. Annie was taking quite the interest in my love life, determined that I, too, should end up as smugly happy as she and Jack were.

Ah-ha! Here was Doug336 coming in right now. I waved (not too vigorously, didn’t want to seem psychotic or desperate). He didn’t see me. Alas, the guy behind him did, and that guy was Ian McFarland, veterinarian. He froze, then gave a small nod before fixing his attention firmly on the specials board.

Oh, calm down, I thought. I’m not here for you. I stood up and walked over to greet my date. Ian didn’t look away from the board, reminding me of Josephine’s early years, when she’d cover her eyes to become invisible.

“Hi, there, Doug.” I smiled my hundred-watter and noted from the corner of my eye that Ian McFarland let out a sigh of relief. For heaven’s sake!

“Hi, Callie! Great to meet you,” Doug said.

“I got us a table in the back,” I said. “Do you want to order?”

“Nah, I’m not here for the food,” he grinned. “Lead away.”

Ooh! I liked Doug336! He was cute! And how nice for Dr. Stuck-Up to see that a man liked me! So there! “Hello, Dr. McFarland,” I said.

“Hello, Miss Grey,” he said, not taking his eyes off the specials board.

“Can I call you Ian?” I asked, just to be a pain.

He cut his eyes to me, then looked back at the menu. “Of course.”

“Have a wonderful day, Ian,” I said, turning away to my date. That’s right, Ian. I have a date. And he’s cuter than you.

“You’re even prettier than your picture,” Doug336 said as we sat down.

I smiled. “Thank you, Doug.” He was quite attractive, with longish dark hair and hazel eyes. Nice build, jeans, T-shirt, a woven bracelet made of some shiny fiber.

I hadn’t been on a first date in a long, long time. In fact, I’d never been on a date with someone I didn’t know pretty well. “So,” I said, grinning so my dimple showed, something that always worked well for me. “Where shall we start? I have to admit, you’re my first Internet date ever.”

“An Internet virgin,” Doug murmured. “Nice.” I blinked. “How about a basic exchange of information?” he suggested.

“Sure,” I agreed, suddenly hesitant. “Well, I work at an ad agency. Um, I have an older sister and a younger brother. Lived in Vermont most of my life, though I went to college in Pennsylvania and lived in Boston for a few years. Never married, no kids, two nieces.”

“Do you live alone?” he asked.

“No, I live with my grandfather, actually. He’s um …” I paused, not wanting to share Noah’s issues with a stranger. “We’re very close.”

“I have a housemate, too,” Doug answered. “She’s kind of a shrew, but it’s her house, so what can you do?”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”

“Well, it’s my mother, so I’m stuck.”

Strike one. “Why don’t you move?” I asked.

“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.

Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama … the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.

“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.

“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.

“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”

“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.

“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”

“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”

My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.

I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”

“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him … after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.

“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.

“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.

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