All I Ever Wanted
Page 14
Reading the box, I cringed. Dr. Duncan’s Cleanse ’n Purge Weight Loss Jump-Start Tea is 100% herbal all natural organic, guaranteed to detoxify your bowels from the modern-day poisons you ingest every day—eep!—maximize your liver’s ability to filter toxic waste—dear God!—blah blah blah, ah, here we go…adhering to and flushing out your body’s fat cells, allowing you to jumpstart your new weight loss and health maximization with results that can be measured within hours!
Okay. So tonight would be spent in the bathroom, I got that. Wishing that I was a more sensible person, the kind who didn’t try to lose seven pounds in a twelve-hour period, I picked up the box. Don’t do it, Mrs. Obama advised. Sure. Easy for her to say. There were Pilates classes in her honor. Besides, common sense was outweighed by the image of my disgusting food baby. And after all, hadn’t the tea worked for Cindy G.?
I glanced around the store. No one here but the clerk. Superb. Of course, I wasn’t about to buy just the Cleanse ’n Purge… I had to hide it among other purchases. I grabbed some beeswax-based shampoo. A little moisturizer, what the heck. Some green tea that Noah might like, better than the black coffee he swilled all the livelong day. Oh, some sassy lip balm for Josephine. Apricot shower gel for Bronte. Organic cookies for Bowie, who, it must be acknowledged, really preferred Quarter Pounders with cheese. Bringing it all to the counter, I made sure the Cleanse ’n Purge box was buried in the middle.
“So glad you found something!” the clerk sang.
“Oh, me, too!” I sang back. “I bought some stuff for my nieces.”
“Great! I’m so happy!” she said, seeming to mean it quite profoundly. She scanned the shampoo, humming as she did so. Then she looked past me and beamed again. “Hello! Welcome to the Happy Herb!”
I turned to look, then flinched. It was Ian McFarland. Crap. No woman wants to be caught buying a weight loss miracle, let alone one called Cleanse ’n Purge. And certainly not by the man who’s already seen her at her worst. Leaning subtly over the counter so my arm sort of draped over Dr. Duncan’s blurry, bearded face, I decided to play it friendly. “Hi there, Ian,” I chirped.
“Hello, Callie,” he said neutrally. His eyes met mine briefly, and he gave a little nod. That was it.
And yet…and yet he remembered my name. Which, of course, he should. But still. It felt like a compliment. And he was…I don’t know. Big. Male. He was a big, strong male. And I liked big, strong males. Get a grip, my imaginary Michelle told me. Yes, ma’am, I answered silently. Sorry. But even as I apologized, my attention drifted back to Ian.
He wore jeans…I’d yet to see him in something other than a suit, and I was having a hard time taking my eyes off those jeans, which fit very nicely. His polo shirt was a faded red, and somehow he managed to look quite…dangerous in a most pleasing and (let’s be honest) horny way. Like at any minute he’d get the call from a mysterious government agency and trot off to kill someone, the way Clive Owen did in The Bourne Identity. I’ll bet Ian had some cool scar somewhere…yes, actually, there it was, up near his eye. Knife fight, I’d bet hard cash.
I’d also bet he knew how to kiss. Guys who looked like that could kiss, ladies. Or so my romance novels told me. Hard kissing. Kisses that started hard, anyway, then went soft and long and the woman would be pulled against his unyielding chest, his arms like bands of steel, me all soft and melting, him hard and hot…
Blerk! I was staring. And he was looking back. His eyebrow raised in an unmistakable Do you mind, lady? kind of look.
Blushing, I turned back to the clerk and fumbled in my purse for my wallet. I had a purgative to buy. “I’m in a little bit of a hurry,” I whispered.
“No problem!” she cooed, ringing up the shampoo. “Are you looking for anything special today?” she asked Ian.
“Do you have any glucosamine in one-thousand-milligram tablets?” he asked.
“You know, I might!” she answered.
“For dogs?” I asked.
He cut those blue eyes back to me. “Yes.” Then he dropped his gaze to my purchases—crap, I’d moved!—and I hurled my body in front of the counter.
“I give glucosamine to Bowie,” I said, my voice a little too loud. “Every day. Dr. Kumar recommended it, even though he’s young. Bowie, that is. Bowie’s young. He’s three. Dr. Kumar…he’s what? Middle-aged? Retired, of course. His boys are out of college, anyway, so he must be…sixty? Fifty-five? Have you met the boys? They’re great.”
Ian didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. There was something about Ian McFarland that made me blather on like an idiot. Yes, there was definitely a pattern emerging here. Closing my eyes briefly, I smiled at him and managed to shut up. Behind me, the happiest woman in the world rang up my purchases.
“That will be $97.46,” she said.
“Holy Lord,” I exclaimed. “Wow!”
“I know,” she said, grinning like a monkey. “It’s the Cleanse ’n—”
“Doesn’t matter!” I blurted. “It’s worth it! Because it’s all organic! So worth it.” I handed her my credit card. One hundred bucks? Christ! “I can’t wait to try the shampoo,” I said in a more normal tone, hoping to throw her off the scent of Dr. Duncan and his miracle cure.
“It’s so wonderful,” the clerk said, tucking her limp hair behind her ears. “I use it, too.”
I tried not to flinch. “Great.”
“Here you go!” she said, handing my bag over like she was giving me the Nobel. “Make it a supermagical day!”
“I…okay!” I said. “Thank you.”
Clutching the bag to my chest, I walked past Ian. “Have a supermagical day, Ian,” I whispered, unable to help myself.
“I always do,” he murmured.
That stopped me in my tracks. I glanced behind me. Ian wasn’t smiling, not exactly. His mouth was in its usual straight line, but his eyes…those blue, blue eyes…and there it was again, that hot and darting thing in my stomach.
The whole way home, I thought of that almost-smile. And I have to admit, it was a pleasant distraction.
DR. DUNCAN WAS A GENIUS, I acknowledged as I surveyed myself in the mirror the next afternoon. I’d have to write him (as Hester G. from Vermont, to punish my sister for not helping). And I hadn’t even had to sleep on my bathroom floor! Not that that would’ve been much of a hardship. My bathroom was a thing of beauty, which was rather strange, since Noah had built this place, and a luxurious bathroom wasn’t something I’d have imagined him caring about. But I had a beautiful pedestal sink, a shower area made from those big bricks of thick glass and, the pièce de résistance, a huge Jacuzzi tub that I never used but often meant to. Noah’s own bathroom was much more utilitarian. Maybe he knew he’d need a grandchild to live with him someday, and this had been his bribe. Whatever the motivation, I was grateful. Getting ready was always a pleasure in here.
Especially now that my food baby, while not completely gone, had definitely shrunk. I wasn’t sure how it happened, since the expected GI distress never occurred (God bless you, Dr. Duncan!), but I looked pretty smokin’, if I did say so myself. Curvalicious, even. More like fertile J-Lo than stringy Lindsay Lohan, and thank God for that. Take that, Muriel! If I was the equivalent of, oh, let’s say a really good hamburger, juicy, comforting and delicious, Muriel was a rawhide shoelace. Mark had once told me (in Santa Fe) that he liked a woman who was, well, womanly.
I gave the biking shorts a tug, smiled at my reflection, and went out into my bedroom, where Freddie was waiting for me. In my chair!
“Get out of that chair!” I barked. “Fred! Come on! Out, you bad dog!”
“Why? I’m a grown-up. I won’t spill anything,” my brother grumbled, though he obeyed.
“First of all, you’re not a grown-up. Second of all, that chair is special, as you well know.” I bustled over to it. Poor chair, having to support my dopey if lovable brother. “I’m saving it.”
“For what?” Fred asked, flopping on my bed.
“For my happily-ever-after,” I said.
“That’s really pathetic,” he offered.
“I know,” I agreed. But that chair was for my future, and until I got there, I wasn’t about to squander it on the likes of my semi-clean brother. “But you still can’t sit there. That’s the rule, I’m the boss of you, the end. You ready to go?”
“Yes, yes. Tragic, really, that you have no friends and have to bring me as your date.”
“Don’t forget Bowie.” At the sound of his name, Bowie snapped to his feet and began jumping so his front feet left the ground. “Yes, Bowie, we’re going for a walk! Yes, we are!” I turned to my brother. “And I do have friends. It’s just Seamus had a soccer game, so Annie couldn’t come, and Dave wouldn’t come because he and Damien broke up.” Dave was not only Annie’s brother, but also Damien’s boyfriend. The two men kept their relationship sparky through serial breakups and glorious reunions.
“Well, if you want people to like you, you picked the right sibling. I won’t lecture anyone on ovarian torsion, after all. And then there’s my good looks, natural charm and athletic prowess.”
“No ego problems here,” I said, giving him a fond cuff to the head.
“It’s hard to complain when you’re me,” he acknowledged. It was true. He was a good-looking puppy, Freddie was, the image of our dad and, according to Noah’s picture, Uncle Remy.
We clattered down the stairs. “Bye, Noah,” I called into the workshop. The table saw was running, so I waved to make sure he knew I was leaving.
“Where are you going?” he asked, turning off the saw.
“I have that work hike thingie to do. Dinner’s in the oven, okay?”
“What did you make me?” he asked, scowling. Dear cuddly Grampy didn’t like eating alone.
“Veggie lasagna.” His scowl grew deeper. “You’ll like it,” I assured him. “I used lots of cheese. We have to run, Noah. Fred, say goodbye to your grandfather.”
“Bye, Grampy,” Fred said, smiling.
“Bye, jackass,” Noah said amiably. “Keep an eye on your sister, and don’t forget you’re supposed to help me tomorrow, you lazy good-for-nothin’.”
At five o’clock, right on time, we pulled into the small parking lot at the base of Mount Chenutney. Mark trotted over as we got out, and Bowie yipped in excitement, then licked my boss’s knee. “Great! You’re here! Come meet the BTR people! And Callie, thank you for bringing someone. Pete and Leila didn’t. Hi, Fred.”
“’S’up, Mark?” Fred said affably.
Mark was a little tense, that was clear. The three BTR people had come in this afternoon, but only Mark and Muriel went to lunch with them…a fact that caused a pang. Usually, I was in on those client schmooze fests. Then again, maybe it was more of a…I cringed at the thought…more of a family thing. Muriel. Her daddy. Her boyfriend.
We went over to the group, who looked slightly less than adventurous and athletic. Damien, who once told me that he felt Giorgio Armani was our greatest American, looked quite ridiculous in his BTR gear, as if a pin were sticking something tender. Pete and Leila, whom I rarely saw without a computer blocking their torsos, wandered aimlessly, their hands linked, their legs shockingly white even by New England standards.
Muriel, however, looked great. Long and lean, hiking boots, tan hiking shorts and a fitted sleeveless red shirt with Bags to Riches written across the back. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed relaxed and happy…not her usual look.
“Charles,” Mark boomed heartily, steering me over to the knot of BTR people. “This is Callie Grey, our fantastic creative director. She’s so excited about the new campaign, right, Callie?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I said, giving Mr. deVeers my hundred-watt smile as my dog flopped down and exposed himself. “It’s great to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Callie,” he said. His eyes fell to my chest, then rose quickly back. “Very nice indeed. This is Anna, my marketing vice president, and Bill, our sales director.” We shook hands all around, smiling hard. Bill and Anna were young, fit and gorgeous. They looked like twins…highlighted hair, perfectly tanned skin, glow-in-the-dark white teeth…just what you’d expect from young executives in California.
“Mark says you have some great ideas for us, Callie,” Charles deVeers said.
“I think so,” I said, smiling again. “I can’t wait to show you.”
“I can’t wait, either,” he murmured suggestively. Hmm. Well, my own father was a flirt, too, so I couldn’t really hold that against him. He bent down to pet my dog, who immediately began to sing in appreciation. “This is one gorgeous dog you have, Callie. A beautiful dog for a beautiful woman.”
“Why, Mr. deVeers! You charmer, you,” I said, grinning.
“Call me Charles,” he said, smiling back. It was a harmless vibe, and heck. I liked men, especially the type who liked me.
“Daddy,” Muriel said, stepping between us and lacing her arm through her father’s. “Let’s get going, okay? We don’t have time to waste if we want to make it down before dark.” She gave me a cool look, then ran her gaze up and down my form, her nose twitching.
Okay. So tonight would be spent in the bathroom, I got that. Wishing that I was a more sensible person, the kind who didn’t try to lose seven pounds in a twelve-hour period, I picked up the box. Don’t do it, Mrs. Obama advised. Sure. Easy for her to say. There were Pilates classes in her honor. Besides, common sense was outweighed by the image of my disgusting food baby. And after all, hadn’t the tea worked for Cindy G.?
I glanced around the store. No one here but the clerk. Superb. Of course, I wasn’t about to buy just the Cleanse ’n Purge… I had to hide it among other purchases. I grabbed some beeswax-based shampoo. A little moisturizer, what the heck. Some green tea that Noah might like, better than the black coffee he swilled all the livelong day. Oh, some sassy lip balm for Josephine. Apricot shower gel for Bronte. Organic cookies for Bowie, who, it must be acknowledged, really preferred Quarter Pounders with cheese. Bringing it all to the counter, I made sure the Cleanse ’n Purge box was buried in the middle.
“So glad you found something!” the clerk sang.
“Oh, me, too!” I sang back. “I bought some stuff for my nieces.”
“Great! I’m so happy!” she said, seeming to mean it quite profoundly. She scanned the shampoo, humming as she did so. Then she looked past me and beamed again. “Hello! Welcome to the Happy Herb!”
I turned to look, then flinched. It was Ian McFarland. Crap. No woman wants to be caught buying a weight loss miracle, let alone one called Cleanse ’n Purge. And certainly not by the man who’s already seen her at her worst. Leaning subtly over the counter so my arm sort of draped over Dr. Duncan’s blurry, bearded face, I decided to play it friendly. “Hi there, Ian,” I chirped.
“Hello, Callie,” he said neutrally. His eyes met mine briefly, and he gave a little nod. That was it.
And yet…and yet he remembered my name. Which, of course, he should. But still. It felt like a compliment. And he was…I don’t know. Big. Male. He was a big, strong male. And I liked big, strong males. Get a grip, my imaginary Michelle told me. Yes, ma’am, I answered silently. Sorry. But even as I apologized, my attention drifted back to Ian.
He wore jeans…I’d yet to see him in something other than a suit, and I was having a hard time taking my eyes off those jeans, which fit very nicely. His polo shirt was a faded red, and somehow he managed to look quite…dangerous in a most pleasing and (let’s be honest) horny way. Like at any minute he’d get the call from a mysterious government agency and trot off to kill someone, the way Clive Owen did in The Bourne Identity. I’ll bet Ian had some cool scar somewhere…yes, actually, there it was, up near his eye. Knife fight, I’d bet hard cash.
I’d also bet he knew how to kiss. Guys who looked like that could kiss, ladies. Or so my romance novels told me. Hard kissing. Kisses that started hard, anyway, then went soft and long and the woman would be pulled against his unyielding chest, his arms like bands of steel, me all soft and melting, him hard and hot…
Blerk! I was staring. And he was looking back. His eyebrow raised in an unmistakable Do you mind, lady? kind of look.
Blushing, I turned back to the clerk and fumbled in my purse for my wallet. I had a purgative to buy. “I’m in a little bit of a hurry,” I whispered.
“No problem!” she cooed, ringing up the shampoo. “Are you looking for anything special today?” she asked Ian.
“Do you have any glucosamine in one-thousand-milligram tablets?” he asked.
“You know, I might!” she answered.
“For dogs?” I asked.
He cut those blue eyes back to me. “Yes.” Then he dropped his gaze to my purchases—crap, I’d moved!—and I hurled my body in front of the counter.
“I give glucosamine to Bowie,” I said, my voice a little too loud. “Every day. Dr. Kumar recommended it, even though he’s young. Bowie, that is. Bowie’s young. He’s three. Dr. Kumar…he’s what? Middle-aged? Retired, of course. His boys are out of college, anyway, so he must be…sixty? Fifty-five? Have you met the boys? They’re great.”
Ian didn’t answer. I didn’t blame him. There was something about Ian McFarland that made me blather on like an idiot. Yes, there was definitely a pattern emerging here. Closing my eyes briefly, I smiled at him and managed to shut up. Behind me, the happiest woman in the world rang up my purchases.
“That will be $97.46,” she said.
“Holy Lord,” I exclaimed. “Wow!”
“I know,” she said, grinning like a monkey. “It’s the Cleanse ’n—”
“Doesn’t matter!” I blurted. “It’s worth it! Because it’s all organic! So worth it.” I handed her my credit card. One hundred bucks? Christ! “I can’t wait to try the shampoo,” I said in a more normal tone, hoping to throw her off the scent of Dr. Duncan and his miracle cure.
“It’s so wonderful,” the clerk said, tucking her limp hair behind her ears. “I use it, too.”
I tried not to flinch. “Great.”
“Here you go!” she said, handing my bag over like she was giving me the Nobel. “Make it a supermagical day!”
“I…okay!” I said. “Thank you.”
Clutching the bag to my chest, I walked past Ian. “Have a supermagical day, Ian,” I whispered, unable to help myself.
“I always do,” he murmured.
That stopped me in my tracks. I glanced behind me. Ian wasn’t smiling, not exactly. His mouth was in its usual straight line, but his eyes…those blue, blue eyes…and there it was again, that hot and darting thing in my stomach.
The whole way home, I thought of that almost-smile. And I have to admit, it was a pleasant distraction.
DR. DUNCAN WAS A GENIUS, I acknowledged as I surveyed myself in the mirror the next afternoon. I’d have to write him (as Hester G. from Vermont, to punish my sister for not helping). And I hadn’t even had to sleep on my bathroom floor! Not that that would’ve been much of a hardship. My bathroom was a thing of beauty, which was rather strange, since Noah had built this place, and a luxurious bathroom wasn’t something I’d have imagined him caring about. But I had a beautiful pedestal sink, a shower area made from those big bricks of thick glass and, the pièce de résistance, a huge Jacuzzi tub that I never used but often meant to. Noah’s own bathroom was much more utilitarian. Maybe he knew he’d need a grandchild to live with him someday, and this had been his bribe. Whatever the motivation, I was grateful. Getting ready was always a pleasure in here.
Especially now that my food baby, while not completely gone, had definitely shrunk. I wasn’t sure how it happened, since the expected GI distress never occurred (God bless you, Dr. Duncan!), but I looked pretty smokin’, if I did say so myself. Curvalicious, even. More like fertile J-Lo than stringy Lindsay Lohan, and thank God for that. Take that, Muriel! If I was the equivalent of, oh, let’s say a really good hamburger, juicy, comforting and delicious, Muriel was a rawhide shoelace. Mark had once told me (in Santa Fe) that he liked a woman who was, well, womanly.
I gave the biking shorts a tug, smiled at my reflection, and went out into my bedroom, where Freddie was waiting for me. In my chair!
“Get out of that chair!” I barked. “Fred! Come on! Out, you bad dog!”
“Why? I’m a grown-up. I won’t spill anything,” my brother grumbled, though he obeyed.
“First of all, you’re not a grown-up. Second of all, that chair is special, as you well know.” I bustled over to it. Poor chair, having to support my dopey if lovable brother. “I’m saving it.”
“For what?” Fred asked, flopping on my bed.
“For my happily-ever-after,” I said.
“That’s really pathetic,” he offered.
“I know,” I agreed. But that chair was for my future, and until I got there, I wasn’t about to squander it on the likes of my semi-clean brother. “But you still can’t sit there. That’s the rule, I’m the boss of you, the end. You ready to go?”
“Yes, yes. Tragic, really, that you have no friends and have to bring me as your date.”
“Don’t forget Bowie.” At the sound of his name, Bowie snapped to his feet and began jumping so his front feet left the ground. “Yes, Bowie, we’re going for a walk! Yes, we are!” I turned to my brother. “And I do have friends. It’s just Seamus had a soccer game, so Annie couldn’t come, and Dave wouldn’t come because he and Damien broke up.” Dave was not only Annie’s brother, but also Damien’s boyfriend. The two men kept their relationship sparky through serial breakups and glorious reunions.
“Well, if you want people to like you, you picked the right sibling. I won’t lecture anyone on ovarian torsion, after all. And then there’s my good looks, natural charm and athletic prowess.”
“No ego problems here,” I said, giving him a fond cuff to the head.
“It’s hard to complain when you’re me,” he acknowledged. It was true. He was a good-looking puppy, Freddie was, the image of our dad and, according to Noah’s picture, Uncle Remy.
We clattered down the stairs. “Bye, Noah,” I called into the workshop. The table saw was running, so I waved to make sure he knew I was leaving.
“Where are you going?” he asked, turning off the saw.
“I have that work hike thingie to do. Dinner’s in the oven, okay?”
“What did you make me?” he asked, scowling. Dear cuddly Grampy didn’t like eating alone.
“Veggie lasagna.” His scowl grew deeper. “You’ll like it,” I assured him. “I used lots of cheese. We have to run, Noah. Fred, say goodbye to your grandfather.”
“Bye, Grampy,” Fred said, smiling.
“Bye, jackass,” Noah said amiably. “Keep an eye on your sister, and don’t forget you’re supposed to help me tomorrow, you lazy good-for-nothin’.”
At five o’clock, right on time, we pulled into the small parking lot at the base of Mount Chenutney. Mark trotted over as we got out, and Bowie yipped in excitement, then licked my boss’s knee. “Great! You’re here! Come meet the BTR people! And Callie, thank you for bringing someone. Pete and Leila didn’t. Hi, Fred.”
“’S’up, Mark?” Fred said affably.
Mark was a little tense, that was clear. The three BTR people had come in this afternoon, but only Mark and Muriel went to lunch with them…a fact that caused a pang. Usually, I was in on those client schmooze fests. Then again, maybe it was more of a…I cringed at the thought…more of a family thing. Muriel. Her daddy. Her boyfriend.
We went over to the group, who looked slightly less than adventurous and athletic. Damien, who once told me that he felt Giorgio Armani was our greatest American, looked quite ridiculous in his BTR gear, as if a pin were sticking something tender. Pete and Leila, whom I rarely saw without a computer blocking their torsos, wandered aimlessly, their hands linked, their legs shockingly white even by New England standards.
Muriel, however, looked great. Long and lean, hiking boots, tan hiking shorts and a fitted sleeveless red shirt with Bags to Riches written across the back. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed relaxed and happy…not her usual look.
“Charles,” Mark boomed heartily, steering me over to the knot of BTR people. “This is Callie Grey, our fantastic creative director. She’s so excited about the new campaign, right, Callie?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I said, giving Mr. deVeers my hundred-watt smile as my dog flopped down and exposed himself. “It’s great to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Callie,” he said. His eyes fell to my chest, then rose quickly back. “Very nice indeed. This is Anna, my marketing vice president, and Bill, our sales director.” We shook hands all around, smiling hard. Bill and Anna were young, fit and gorgeous. They looked like twins…highlighted hair, perfectly tanned skin, glow-in-the-dark white teeth…just what you’d expect from young executives in California.
“Mark says you have some great ideas for us, Callie,” Charles deVeers said.
“I think so,” I said, smiling again. “I can’t wait to show you.”
“I can’t wait, either,” he murmured suggestively. Hmm. Well, my own father was a flirt, too, so I couldn’t really hold that against him. He bent down to pet my dog, who immediately began to sing in appreciation. “This is one gorgeous dog you have, Callie. A beautiful dog for a beautiful woman.”
“Why, Mr. deVeers! You charmer, you,” I said, grinning.
“Call me Charles,” he said, smiling back. It was a harmless vibe, and heck. I liked men, especially the type who liked me.
“Daddy,” Muriel said, stepping between us and lacing her arm through her father’s. “Let’s get going, okay? We don’t have time to waste if we want to make it down before dark.” She gave me a cool look, then ran her gaze up and down my form, her nose twitching.
