All I Ever Wanted (16 page)

The last of the Brownies left, and the office was abruptly quiet. “Callie?” I jumped. Ian had reemerged from his office, now that the coast was clear. “Can I see you for a minute?”

“Sure! Sure, of course.”

“Ian, I'll see you tomorrow,” Carmella said. “Great seeing you, Callie. Nice job with the ankle biters.”

“Thanks.” I grinned.

I followed Ian to his office, where Angie was sleeping, curled in her dog bed. The room was orderly—that was putting it mildly—but it wasn't sterile, not like Muriel's black-and-white blank space. My own office was cheerfully cluttered, occasionally bordering on chaotic, sticky notes and photos scattered hither and yon, coffee mugs and the like. Ian's, on the other hand, was very tidy. There were his diplomas, NYU undergrad, Tufts for his DVM. Shelves with heavy textbooks, a small sculpture of a dog. On the wall was a rather nice painting of a sailboat, lots of juicy oil and texture.

But most interesting of all was the framed photo on the cabinet behind his desk. It showed a younger Ian and a very, very beautiful woman. Long blond hair, creamy skin, bone structure to rival Natalie Portman's. They were both smiling, and an unexpected twinge hit my heart. Ian looked very happy in that picture.

“Your wife?” I asked.

He glanced at it. “Ex-wife.”

Not quite ex in your heart, pal, if you keep her picture here to torture yourself every day.
“She's gorgeous.”

“Yes.” He said nothing else.

“Ian?” I said after a minute had passed.

“Yes?”

“You wanted to speak to me, remember? Though this is quite fun, too.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Right.” He sighed. “I think I might need to hire you. If you think you can really do something, that is.”

“The warm and fuzzy campaign!” I clapped my hands, startling him. “Good for you, Ian. This will be great!”

“Will it?” he asked.

“Oh, come on. I'm not the dentist, for heaven's sake.” At that moment, my stomach growled.

“Not again,” Ian said.

“Hush. I'm just hungry. I had a hard day. First I taught old women to hip-hop, then I had to herd the Brownies. Want to grab some dinner? We can talk about things while we eat.”

Ian looked wary. “All right,” he said after much deliberation.

“We can go to Elements,” I suggested. “It's near where I live, and I can swing by and grab my laptop.”

“Fine,” Ian said. He looked at me steadily for a minute. Man, those eyes were so…blue. Betty Boop folded her hands under her chin and sighed deeply.

“Okay,” I said, remembering that I was a professional person and this was not prom night. “Um…do you know where it is? It's a little bit hard to find, because it's down
this little one-way street, then you have to sort of turn into a parking lot, but it doesn't look like a parking lot, it's more of an alley, but it leads—”

“Why don't I just follow you?” he suggested drily.

I smiled. “That, Dr. McFarland, is a great idea.”

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
,
we arrived at Noah's Arks. Ian pulled in next to me, then got out of his car, looked at the sign and gave me a questioning look. “This is my grandfather's place,” I explained as I fumbled for my purse. “I live with him. Come on in. You can meet him.”

Bowie greeted me with the type of joy usually reserved for parents and children separated by war, singing in joy, yipping, head butting me so that my jeans turned into a sea of fur.

“Hello, Bowie!” I said in my special dog voice. “Hello, my boy! Did you miss Mommy? You did? Do you remember Dr. Ian? You do?” Bowie demonstrated that he did indeed remember, mounting Ian's leg, his yipping growing more soulful.

“Off, Bowie,” Ian said. “Off.” My dog took this as a sign that yes, Ian
would
rub his stomach for the next year or so and quite possibly give him a Quarter Pounder, so he collapsed on his back, revealing his…gladness. His tail waved furiously, swishing across the floor as clumps of his undercoat drifted on the breeze he created.

“Huskies need to be brushed at least once a day,” Ian said.

“I do brush him every day! Do you know Eva Potts?”
Ian shook his head. “She's a knitter. She spins his fur into yarn.”

“Ah,” Ian murmured.

“I have a sweater made from my own dog. I don't wear it, granted, because that's a little incestuous, even for me, but still. Neat idea, I guess.” The memory of Mr. Human Hair flitted through my mind, and I suppressed a shudder. “All that shedding is the price you pay for the best dog in the world? Right, Bowie? You're the best, aren't you? Miss Angie's out in the car, did you know that, Bowie? Can you smell her?” I bent to rub his exposed tummy, earning two yips and some crooning, as well as a wink from Bowie's brown eye. I winked back. “Mommy loves you!”

“Do you always talk to him in that voice?” Ian asked, a trace of amusement in his own.

I straightened up. “Yes, I do,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “That way he knows I'm talking to him. Why? Do you speak French to Four D Angel's Mayonnaise out there? Mandarin Chinese?”

Ian grinned.

Oh. Oh, yes… That was nice. My girl parts suddenly felt tight and…lively. One smile, and I was fluttery. But it was some smile. Ian looked a little…I don't know…goofy when he smiled. A nice goofy. He had these unexpected laugh lines, and his cold Russian assassin looks suddenly morphed into utter likability, and he went from…I don't know, my brain was getting mushy here, but suddenly, the image of waking up with Ian and seeing that smile…waking up naked with Ian, oh, yeah, now
there
was a visual I could spend some time examining, a smiling, unclothed, warm, strong, manly—”

“Callie, thank the Christ you're home, because this fuckin' leg just won't fit and I'll be goddamned before I… Who are you?”

My dear, cuddly grampy hopped into the great room, wielding a prosthesis in one hand like a club. “Noah, this is Ian McFarland,” I said. “Ian, meet my grandfather, the legendary boat builder Noah Grey.”

“It's an honor, sir,” Ian said. Aw.

“What's an honor?” Noah spat. “And what are you doing with my granddaughter here? You're not sleeping with her, are you?”

“Gosh, you're adorable, Noah,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“No, sir,” Ian answered.

“Think you can win me over with nice manners, young man?” Noah asked, ignoring me and glaring at Ian.

“No, sir,” Ian said again. He looked over at me, his eyes smiling.

“Ian's the new vet, Noah. I'm doing some work for him,” I said, “so get your panties out of a twist and give me your leg.” He handed it over, still glaring at Ian. “Okay, Noah, where's the sleeve?” I asked, referring to the silicone sock that helped hold the prosthetic in place.

“Fuck if I know,” he grumbled. “I knew I forgot something.”

“It's a lot more comfortable if you use it,” I said.

“How do you know? Did you cut off your leg to test it out?”

“No, but I may cut off your other one if you don't stop growling, Grampy dear,” I said. “Ian, come upstairs with me, or Noah will eat you alive.”

Ian followed me up the stairs. A mistake. Ladies,
never have a man follow you upstairs, as there's just no way to hide the junk in the trunk, if you will. I raced up so as to minimize Ian's view. “My grandfather is only that irritable if he's in pain,” I said. “Sorry about that.”

“No apology needed,” he answered.

Ian waited on the catwalk as I went into Noah's room to find another silicone sock. Then I zipped down the hall into my own room to get my laptop and, let's be honest, check my hair. I closed the door behind me and took a deep breath.

My heart was beating a little fast, and not just because I'd hurtled up the stairs. Also, my cheeks were hot. I was…hmm. A little horny. Yanking off my fur-covered jeans, I opened my crowded closet and surveyed the contents. A skirt, definitely. I had fab legs. But not too flirty, because yes, I was working. Choosing a darling little pink and green plaid A-line with fun pleats at the bottom, I pulled it on, topped it with a sleeveless green silk tank, grabbed a matching cardigan, then dug out my bottle-green suede peep-toe shoes with three-inch heels.

“I'll be right out,” I called to Ian as I kicked some laundry under the bed. Not, of course, that Ian would come in here. But it was strange to have him there, right outside my bedroom. Thrilling, even. They say that men think of sex every ten seconds or something. Maybe Ian was having thoughts about me…naughty thoughts.
Dirty
thoughts. Long, hot, steamy thoughts of tumbling onto my big, comfortable bed, kissing my neck, moving lower, his hand working its way…

Hellooo? Anyone home?
Michelle Obama said. Right! I was doing a freelance job. Still, I went over to my laptop and typed a quick message to Annie.
Am going out to dinner with vet. Business only, but am having sex thoughts.
I figured she'd be proud. Then closed the cover, stuffed the laptop into its case, dashed on a little MAC lip gloss, fluffed my hair, then went to the door and opened it.

“All set,” I said.

Ian looked up, his eyes most definitely checking out my legs. Great choice, that cute little skirt! Indeed, he was staring.

“Is that a Morelock chair?” he asked.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling modestly. “I ran track in…what?”

“Your rocking chair. Do you know who made it?”

It was perhaps the first time I hadn't been thrilled to discuss my beloved rocking chair. “Um…yes. It's a Morelock chair.” I paused. “Good eye, Ian.”

“Can I see it?”

I blushed. He was coming into my bedroom! Betty Boop squealed and fluttered her eyelashes.
To admire the furniture,
the First Lady said pointedly. “Sure,” I mumbled.

He came in, not even glancing at my inviting bed. Hmmph. Well. The chair
was
special, and for some reason, I was glad Ian recognized that. It was, after all, my prize possession, the first thing I'd try to save in case of fire, right after Bowie and Noah (though Noah was pushing it these days).

“Where'd you find it?” he asked, not touching the chair and, bless him, not asking to sit in it.

“Actually,” I murmured, staring at the chair myself, “Mr. Morelock gave it to me for my eighth birthday.”

Ian looked at me in surprise. “You knew him?”

“I only met him once, but Noah knew him,” I said. “In fact, this is the last chair he ever made.”

Ian nodded once. “Well,” I said. “We should go, I
guess, before it gets too late.” I paused. “We can walk, if you want. It's not far.”

“Sure,” Ian said.

“Do you want Angie to come in? Noah won't mind. He loves dogs.”

“Thank you. That would be great.”

 

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
, we were walking down the twisting street. The sun was setting, and birds sang in the trees. Ten yards away, the Trout River rushed past, shushing and murmuring its river song. It was almost romantic, save for the fact that my laptop banged into my hip every other step and Ian didn't say a word the whole way there. Luckily, Elements wasn't far, which was good, because these shoes, while adorable, were also vices of death.

“Callie Grey!” a masculine voice purred the minute I opened the door. “My God, look at your legs, they're proof of a loving God.”

Ian looked confused. I beamed and kissed the owner of the voice.

Annie's brother, Dave, was part owner and manager of Elements, and of course I loved him madly. He looked like an Alaskan crab fisherman, rough and unshaven and so, so alpha, but unlike my crushes in
Deadliest Catch,
he knew how to dress.

“So who's this?” Dave asked, scanning Ian up and down and putting a proprietary arm around my shoulders. “I'm Dave, Callie's friend and protector, half owner of this fine establishment.” Dave stuck out his hand, which Ian shook.

“Hello,” he said.

“Ian, this is my friend, Dave. Dave, Ian McFarland, our town's new vet. I'm helping him out on a project, so can we have a booth? I have my laptop.”

“Of course! Right this way.” Dave led us through Elements, which, like Noah's place, had once been part of the mill industry, meaning it had uneven floors, brick walls and lots of character.

Various River Rats were assembled in the bar (big surprise there), and a chorus arose as we passed. “Callie! Hey, girl! How's Noah?”

I waved and grinned. “Hi, gang! Can't talk now, don't want to, have better company than you bozos!”

“Attagirl!”

“Take me with you,” Shaunee Cole called, lifting her martini glass.

“Marry me, Callie!” boomed Jake Pelletier, who'd actually made the trip to the altar three times thus far…he was only forty, so we figured he had six or seven marriages left in him.

“Come on, Prom Queen,” Dave urged, rolling his eyes. “Ian, she's still the most popular girl in school.” He waved us to our booth, which was not far from the bar and right under the large copper wall hanging (i.e., the best seat in the house) and proceeded to hand out the endless stream of menus…daily specials, wine list, martini choices, food. “And how is that ill-tempered little coworker of yours?” Dave asked. His reunion with Damien was, inevitably, just around the corner, but to mention this would undercut the drama, so…

“He's sulky, miserable and bitter,” I said.

“You're just saying that to make me happy.” Dave winked. Such a shame that he batted for the other team…we would've made beautiful babies. “Well, I'll let you two get to work. Enjoy your dinner! Nice to meet you, Ian.” Dave took my hand, kissed it, then wandered off to find someone else to schmooze.

“You know a lot of people,” Ian commented, shaking out his napkin and putting it in his lap.

“You will, too,” I said, taking a sip of water. “It's a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. And you should join the River Rats. They're a…” I made quotation marks with my fingers… “rowing club.”

“Yeah, join up, hottie!” Shaunee called. “We'll corrupt you!”

“Yes, they're great,” I said loudly, “if you like lazy, drunken revelers with no purpose in life other than trying to drown themselves.”

“Yeah!” my compadres cheered, toasting each other and high-fiving. I smiled. “Callie, we're going over to Whoop & Holler,” Mitch Jenkins called. “Drop by later if you get a chance.”

“Anything's possible,” I said. I watched fondly as the eight or nine Rats jostled their way out of the bar, then glanced over at Ian, who was watching as well. “They're really a fun bunch,” I said.

“Rowing club?” he asked.

“Drinking club, more like it, but yes. They go whitewater kayaking a few times a month, go drinking a few times a week. In October, they hold this funny little regatta.” I took a sip of water. “They love my grandfather. It's a little cultish, actually.” Mark was a member of the River Rats, though in name only. I wondered if Muriel would join. I sure hoped not.

Ian nodded, then picked up one of the leather-bound menus. Not much of a talker, this guy. We perused our menus in silence, though I kept darting looks across the table. The whole grumpy Russian thing was really starting to grow on me.

“So, Ian, why don't we get started?” I said once we'd
ordered. “I figured we'd do a Web site, and there'd be a section called ‘About Dr. McFarland,' which is pretty standard. So.” I slid my laptop out of its case and popped it open. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I went to New York University for undergrad, Tufts for veterinary school,” he said.

“Yes, I read your diplomas. What else?”

“I did research on joint degeneration and taught at UVM before taking over for Dr. Kumar.”

I typed a few lines. “Okay, well, how about some personal stuff?”

His eyes grew wary. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, why did you move to our fair state?”

He looked at his place setting, then adjusted his fork a millimeter. “I liked New England. And Laura was from Boston.”

Ah,
Laura.
I was deeply interested in Laura. “Did you guys live in Vermont when you were married?” I asked.
Do you still talk? Do you still love her? Did she break your heart?

“Yes. Burlington.” He took a breath—clearly, this was not how he'd choose to spend an evening—but he forged onward. “But I spent one summer in Georgebury when I was a kid.”

“Really?” The idea that Ian had been nearby was utterly thrilling.

He nodded. “I stayed with my uncle.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Maybe I know him.”

“Carl Villny. My mother's brother. He died about ten years ago.”