Callie, it must be hard, seeing them together all the time. They’re really in love, aren’t they?” Fleur asked. Before I could find a way to answer that, she went on. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning for us to have a chat. You ever see that bloke? The vet?”
“Um, yes, actually. My niece had a field trip to his office. I might be doing a little work for him on the side.”
“Really? Oh.” Fleur flashed a quick smile, then began reapplying her lipstick, and mussed her short hair. “Right. Seems like a sweetie, yeah?”
“Sure,” I said, though sweetie felt a bit left of center when I thought of Ian. Which I seemed to be doing a lot. Over the weekend, in between sanding a canoe for Noah, trying out some new hip-hop moves while Bronte howled with horrified laughter, babysitting for Seamus and taking Josephine for a kayak ride, I’d started work on Ian’s Web site. E-mailed him a request for a picture of him and Angie and was still waiting for an answer. Called a bunch of people for the pet fair, which would be held in two weeks.
“I saw him as well,” Fleur said. “Down at Toasted & Roasted, yeah? Had ourselves a coffee. He was sending out signals, yeah?”
“Really? He told me … uh, never mind.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Well,” I said hesitantly, “he said he wasn’t looking for a relationship right now. But of course, he may be feeling differently with you.”
She smirked. “Differently, is it? Could be. Well, I’d best get on. Cheerio!”
I definitely could not see Ian and Fleur as a couple. Wondered just what that coffee meant. Knowing Fleur, they could’ve just passed each other on the street—God knew the woman exaggerated her love life. But on a real date? No way. Not the way she talked a mile a minute, always with the crazy stories and … Now, now, Callie, said my inner Michelle. Don’t be catty.
Right. Besides, I had work to do. I set down my coffee and turned on my computer, staring into space as it warmed up. Well, not space, exactly. At a picture of Mark and me at the Clios. My dress had been absolutely adorable … this plum-colored A-line number with lighter purple flowers sewn on the bodice. Lots of great cleavage. I looked so happy. Mark did, too. We had been happy …
Might want to toss that one, Mrs. Obama offered. She was, as usual, right. But not just yet.
I forced my attention away from the photo and smiled. Fake smiling can lead to real smiling, I once read, and real smiling is good for a person. Still, my heart sighed.
Around ten, there was a ruckus in the hallway. “Give me ten minutes, Damien!” Mark snapped. Uh-oh. He rarely lost his cool in the office. Trouble in paradise? Betty Boop perked up.
Mark strode right into my office, which seemed to shrink instantly.
“Hey, Mark,” I said, giving him a big smile.
He didn’t smile back. Instead, he closed the door and put his hands on his hips. “What’s this I hear about you doing some freelance work for some vet?”
“Oh, yeah,” I answered easily. “A little PR for the guy who came on the BTR hike. Not big enough for the agency. Web site, stuff like that. I’ll probably charge him two hundred bucks.” I paused. “I e-mailed you about this over the weekend.”
“I’ll be the judge of whether it’s big enough for the agency, Callie,” he growled.
I blinked in surprise. “You never minded me doing little jobs before, Mark,” I pointed out. “The seniors’ center, the nursery school …”
“Right,” he said. “But … well, you should’ve asked.”
“I did, Mark. I e-mailed you.”
“Right,” he said again. He took a deep breath, then sighed and sat down on my couch, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Are you two seeing each other?”
I nearly choked. “Um … no! No, Mark.”
He looked at me for a long minute. “Are you seeing anybody these days?” His voice was velvety soft. The same voice he’d used in Santa Fe.
I took a quick breath. “It’s … I … it’s not really your business, is it?” My heart rolled.
Mark glanced through the wavy glass wall toward Fleur, who was clicking on her computer and probably straining to overhear us. “No, I guess not,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor. “It’s just … I’m sorry, Callie. Didn’t mean to be a prick.”
“It’s okay,” I said, my voice cracking a little. My stomach felt hot, my knees tingled.
I heard Muriel’s voice then, and the sound of her office door closing. Swallowing, I took a breath—seemed like I’d forgotten to for a few minutes. “Anything else, Mark?” I asked in a normal tone.
“Actually, yes.” He looked down at the floor. “I just took a look at your idea for Hammill Farms. I have some problems with it. You need a new concept.”
My mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. You need to rethink it.”
“I … I … Really?”
“Yes, Callie,” he said in a harder tone. “Really.”
Hammill Farms was one of our biggest accounts, second only to BTR. They’d made syrup here in Vermont for 150 years and wanted to do for syrup what Grey Goose had done for vodka—have people appreciate the good stuff, basically. They were also willing to fork out the cash to do so. The owner, John, was obsessed with syrup—he’d nearly gotten Mark and me drunk on the stuff when we’d visited. That was the week before Muriel came. The week before my birthday.
We were showing John the concept this week, and honestly, I thought it was one of my best campaigns. In the television spots, we’d hear the narrator say: John Hammill is a man obsessed. Then we’d show John, like a master winemaker, holding up a glass of syrup to the light as he waxed poetic, extolling the thickness, the clarity, the grade, the subtleties of flavor. Then we’d go to footage of John in action, tramping through the woods, kissing his maples, talking about ideal conditions and the tradition of syrup-making as he checked the sap lines and boiler, talking nonstop. We’d end with him pouring syrup onto a stack of pancakes, taking a bite of pancakes and, as he did when we visited, practically falling out of his chair in near-orgasmic pleasure. The voice-over would say: It takes a guy like that to make syrup like this. Fade out to a picture of the farm in winter, the newly designed label and the words Hammill Farms Maple Syrup: Six generations of perfection. The print and Internet ads would echo that theme, as would the radio spots.
The pièce de résistance and my huge home run was the narrator—Terry Francona, the manager of the Boston Red Sox. When we first visited the farm, I’d seen a picture of Mr. Francona in John’s office. Apparently, he’d visited with his family last fall just before the postseason. So I wrote to Mr. Francona’s agent, sent a huge basket of Hammill Farms goodies … maple syrup, maple sugar, gourmet pancake mix, T-shirts—the whole shebang—and said what an honor Terry had bestowed upon the farm with his visit, expressed the importance of family farming here in Red Sox Nation, yadda
