what are you working on this week?” she asked, her eyes giving me the customary scan-and-judge. She was clad in a winter-white wool dress, wide black belt and gorgeous black patent leather pumps.
“I’m working on your dad’s Web site and some of the downloads for—” I began.
“Please call the company by name,” she said mildly, ticking something off her notepad. Damien snorted and went back to studying his manicure. He used to run our production meetings and was making his irritation known through deep sighs and eye-rolling.
“Anything else?” Muriel asked.
“Yep. The hospital ad for the Globe and the pitch for that construction company in New Hampshire,” I said. “Tomorrow we’re shooting the fall footage for Hammill Farms, so I’ll be going to that, too.”
“Do you really need to? Mark and I will be on site,” she said, looking up with a fake smile.
I glanced at Mark, who was staring out the window. “Well, since I came up with the concept and wrote the script,” I said calmly, “I’d say the answer is yes, I do need to go.”
“Now, Callie,” she said in a placating tone. “You don’t need to be hostile. Everyone agrees that your commercial is wonderful. I’m just not sure if you really need to come, or if you can delegate once in a while. After all,” she added, “your boss will be there. I’m sure you can trust his judgment.” The insincere smile remained on her face.
“Mark?” I asked.
He snapped to attention. “Um … well, uh, I could use you here, actually.”
“Okay,” I said after a beat. “I guess I’m staying, then.”
“Great,” Muriel said, her diamond eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Fleur? What are you up to this week?”
Fleur straightened. “Muriel, those shoes … Prada, yeah?”
“Suck-up,” Damien muttered.
Fleur shot him a glare, but Muriel smiled. “Chanel,” she said.
“Right-o. Well, I’m nearly done with the copy for the BTR catalog, as you asked. Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“No, that’s fine, you keep at it. I love what you’ve shown me so far.”
My stomach knotted. Fleur was smart, and political, and if it felt a bit like she was a traitor, well, she was just looking out for herself. “And, Pete,” Muriel said, just as Pete was yawning hugely. “What are you working on this week?”
“I’m trying to get my USB into a certain port,” he said, nudging Leila who, as usual, was fused to his hip bone.
“Maybe you need a converter,” she giggled.
To my surprise, Muriel smiled, a real smile this time. “You guys are so cute,” she said. “I guess love is in the air.”
I LEFT WORK A LITTLE EARLY, and Bowie greeted me with his usual astonished joy that so great a miracle as my return had occurred. “Where’s Noah, huh, Bowie?” I asked. “Where’s your Grampy?” Noah’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, but my dog failed to elucidate. Noah must’ve had some errands to run, though he usually got me, his slave, to do that for him, as he wasn’t fond of “the great unwashed,” as he liked to call the public.
I wasn’t alone in the house that often, and I had to admit, it was kind of nice. I loved my grandfather, of course, but I missed living alone, too. The tiny apartment I’d rented before Noah’s accident had been a snug little space with sloping ceilings and big windows. My father had clunked his head every single time he visited, but I loved the coziness of it. And sure, I wanted a house someday. I didn’t want to be Noah’s faithful servant forever. Or, I corrected, I didn’t want to just be Noah’s faithful servant. I wouldn’t mind having him live with my husband and me.
Not that there was a husband on the horizon.
I hadn’t heard from Ian since our drive home from Montpelier last week, which had been a study in awkwardness and fidgeting. On my part, that is. Honestly. Me, reduced to inane chatter about the foliage. Sure, he’d responded, his answers all polite and brief. We hadn’t talked about anything real. Certainly hadn’t talked about that kiss, which I’d relived about three hundred times thus far.
You blew it, the First Lady said, shaking her head sadly.
How did I blow it, huh? I snapped back. I was surprised that Mark’s getting married, that’s all. Is that a sin? And isn’t there a kindergarten somewhere waiting for you to show up and read a book? Betty Boop was useless, sighing mournfully somewhere in a corner of my brain. But Michelle was right. Somehow, I’d blown it. From Ian’s perspective, it must’ve seemed like I wasn’t over Mark. Are you sure you are? the First Lady asked.
I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew one thing. I really wanted to breach the wall between Ian and me. Too uncertain to pick up the phone, I’d written, then deleted about thirty e-mails to him, but despite the fact that I was good at making people want stuff—and making people like me, as Ian had once pointed out—every word sounded wrong. I checked his “Ask Dr. Ian” blog … he was doing fine. Carmella and I ran into each other at Toasted & Roasted, and she told me things had been really busy since the pet fair. That was good, at least. The little nudge provided by the warm and fuzzy campaign had worked. But at the memory of the scene in the church foyer, I felt ashamed that I’d ever suggested that Ian McFarland needed to be any different from how he actually was.
I slipped off my shoes and went up to my own room, Bowie at my side, the unaccustomed quiet broken only by the sound of the rain pounding the roof. The Morelock chair sat in front of the window as if waiting. Waiting to be a part of that happily ever after I’d promised it. For a second, I thought about trying to get some comfort there, but I didn’t feel worthy today.
I lay on my bed, Bowie curled next to me, and wondered what to do. Work was sucky, Muriel wasn’t going anywhere and I’d ruined things with Ian.
Bowie’s ears pricked up suddenly. So did mine, figuratively speaking.
Any further thoughts on my romantic woes disintegrated. It’s just the rain, I told myself. But there it was again. A sound. A thud. Not rain at all.
Someone was here. In my house. Someone was upstairs with me. Hot, liquid fear flooded my veins. Silently, I sat up.
Someone was in my bathroom.
Could it be Bronte, maybe? It was possible … she came over once in a while, but without Noah here, she would’ve gone to Mom’s. Maybe it was Freddie, but what the heck would he be doing in my bathroom? Should I follow that train of thought? Maybe it was a mass murderer, on the run from the police, ducking into our perpetually unlocked home to hide, coldly delighted to find one more victim.
It’s probably a bat, dummy, the First Lady said. The thought was calming, despite Michelle’s disrespectful tone. She was probably right. Speaking of bats, well, I didn’t have one. Baseball bat, that was. But I did have an oar, this old wooden oar I’d bought at a yard sale a few years ago, which I’d hung up as a very cool decoration. Taking care to be quiet, just in case the noise was indeed caused by Jack the Ripper, I crept over and took the oar off the wall.
Picking
