All I Ever Wanted

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

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

“There you go again,” he murmured.

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

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

“Me, neither,” I muttered.

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

Oh. Oh.

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

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

“Okay,” I said faintly.

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

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

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

“Okay,” Ian said. “Need a hand?”

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

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

“Yes,” he answered.

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

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

“Do you need a push?”

Not what I was hoping for. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then again, I was excellent at misinterpretation.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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

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

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

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

“Yes! Yes, it does, Hes.”

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

“We have company!” I yelled back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, Grumpy,” she said.

“Takes one to know one,” he returned.

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

“Um, I’m good,” I said. “And you?”

“Great. Just great,” she said.

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

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

I nodded. “More than just adolescence?”

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

“Right,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s good,” I murmured.

“I know,” Hester said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nah,” Hester said. “Just single.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look very nice, Grampy,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, dumb-ass!” he returned.

“Have you seen Ian?”

“He’s inside,” Freddie answered.

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

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

“Take off the suit,” I ordered.

“This is unexpected,” he said.

“Very funny. A suit, Ian?”

“Well, I thought it would—”

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

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

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

“What do you need, Earl?” Ian asked.

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

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

“Sorry again,” Earl said.

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

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

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

I was blushing. Big surprise.