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 fucked 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,
