All I Ever Wanted
Page 2
“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?”
CHAPTER TWO
“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.
“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?”
CHAPTER TWO
“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.
