over to it. Poor chair, having to support my dopey if lovable brother. “I’m saving it.”
“For what?” Fred asked, flopping on my bed.
“For my happily-ever-after,” I said.
“That’s really pathetic,” he offered.
“I know,” I agreed. But that chair was for my future, and until I got there, I wasn’t about to squander it on the likes of my semi-clean brother. “But you still can’t sit there. That’s the rule, I’m the boss of you, the end. You ready to go?”
“Yes, yes. Tragic, really, that you have no friends and have to bring me as your date.”
“Don’t forget Bowie.” At the sound of his name, Bowie snapped to his feet and began jumping so his front feet left the ground. “Yes, Bowie, we’re going for a walk! Yes, we are!” I turned to my brother. “And I do have friends. It’s just Seamus had a soccer game, so Annie couldn’t come, and Dave wouldn’t come because he and Damien broke up.” Dave was not only Annie’s brother, but also Damien’s boyfriend. The two men kept their relationship sparky through serial breakups and glorious reunions.
“Well, if you want people to like you, you picked the right sibling. I won’t lecture anyone on ovarian torsion, after all. And then there’s my good looks, natural charm and athletic prowess.”
“No ego problems here,” I said, giving him a fond cuff to the head.
“It’s hard to complain when you’re me,” he acknowledged. It was true. He was a good-looking puppy, Freddie was, the image of our dad and, according to Noah’s picture, Uncle Remy.
We clattered down the stairs. “Bye, Noah,” I called into the workshop. The table saw was running, so I waved to make sure he knew I was leaving.
“Where are you going?” he asked, turning off the saw.
“I have that work hike thingie to do. Dinner’s in the oven, okay?”
“What did you make me?” he asked, scowling. Dear cuddly Grampy didn’t like eating alone.
“Veggie lasagna.” His scowl grew deeper. “You’ll like it,” I assured him. “I used lots of cheese. We have to run, Noah. Fred, say goodbye to your grandfather.”
“Bye, Grampy,” Fred said, smiling.
“Bye, jackass,” Noah said amiably. “Keep an eye on your sister, and don’t forget you’re supposed to help me tomorrow, you lazy good-for-nothin’.”
At five o’clock, right on time, we pulled into the small parking lot at the base of Mount Chenutney. Mark trotted over as we got out, and Bowie yipped in excitement, then licked my boss’s knee. “Great! You’re here! Come meet the BTR people! And Callie, thank you for bringing someone. Pete and Leila didn’t. Hi, Fred.”
“‘S’up, Mark?” Fred said affably.
Mark was a little tense, that was clear. The three BTR people had come in this afternoon, but only Mark and Muriel went to lunch with them … a fact that caused a pang. Usually, I was in on those client schmooze fests. Then again, maybe it was more of a … I cringed at the thought … more of a family thing. Muriel. Her daddy. Her boyfriend.
We went over to the group, who looked slightly less than adventurous and athletic. Damien, who once told me that he felt Giorgio Armani was our greatest American, looked quite ridiculous in his BTR gear, as if a pin were sticking something tender. Pete and Leila, whom I rarely saw without a computer blocking their torsos, wandered aimlessly, their hands linked, their legs shockingly white even by New England standards.
Muriel, however, looked great. Long and lean, hiking boots, tan hiking shorts and a fitted sleeveless red shirt with Bags to Riches written across the back. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail. She seemed relaxed and happy … not her usual look.
“Charles,” Mark boomed heartily, steering me over to the knot of BTR people. “This is Callie Grey, our fantastic creative director. She’s so excited about the new campaign, right, Callie?”
“Oh, absolutely!” I said, giving Mr. deVeers my hundred-watt smile as my dog flopped down and exposed himself. “It’s great to finally meet you. I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Callie,” he said. His eyes fell to my chest, then rose quickly back. “Very nice indeed. This is Anna, my marketing vice president, and Bill, our sales director.” We shook hands all around, smiling hard. Bill and Anna were young, fit and gorgeous. They looked like twins … highlighted hair, perfectly tanned skin, glow-in-the-dark white teeth … just what you’d expect from young executives in California.
“Mark says you have some great ideas for us, Callie,” Charles deVeers said.
“I think so,” I said, smiling again. “I can’t wait to show you.”
“I can’t wait, either,” he murmured suggestively. Hmm. Well, my own father was a flirt, too, so I couldn’t really hold that against him. He bent down to pet my dog, who immediately began to sing in appreciation. “This is one gorgeous dog you have, Callie. A beautiful dog for a beautiful woman.”
“Why, Mr. deVeers! You charmer, you,” I said, grinning.
“Call me Charles,” he said, smiling back. It was a harmless vibe, and heck. I liked men, especially the type who liked me.
“Daddy,” Muriel said, stepping between us and lacing her arm through her father’s. “Let’s get going, okay? We don’t have time to waste if we want to make it down before dark.” She gave me a cool look, then ran her gaze up and down my form, her nose twitching.
At that moment, Fleur pulled up in her British-flag MINI Cooper and clambered out. Like Muriel, she was wearing normal hiking clothes (I was the only one in skintight anything). Like Muriel, Fleur looked athletic and competent. She’d said she was bringing a guest … what were her words? Someone “with potential.” And here he was. I did a double take. It was Ian McFarland.
“Oy, mates!” Fleur said, her British having unraveled from upper crust to Cockney.
“Hi!” I called as they approached. Fleur made the introductions. As Ian shook Mark’s hand, he glanced over at me. That’s right, Ian. Me, emotional diarrhea, DMV. Yep, that’s him.
Five minutes later, we were off, down the trail and into the woods. The line was clearly ranked. First went Mark, Muriel and Charles, followed by Anna and Bill. Then came the rest of us in a somewhat tangled knot … Fred, Damien, Pete, Leila, Fleur, Ian and yours truly. Karen had been excused, claiming to have sprained her ankle while watching television last night.
“So, Fleur, how do you know the good doctor here?” I asked, glancing over at her.
“We met through Tony Blair,” she said, referring to her foul-tempered and obese Jack Russell terrier. “He ate something a bit off, yeah, and wasn’t his chippy self.”
“Huh,” I said, shooting Ian a look. Dang. I really, really wished I’d thought of something other than “The dog ate my paper.” Ah, well. Water under the bridge.
The trail began as a fairly
