would look like an escaped lunatic … mascara puddled, face blotchy, smile wobbly and insincere. So much for my spiffy outfit.
As I fished my keys out of my bag, I saw the older woman standing near the exit, putting on those vast black sunglasses old folks wear after cataract surgery. My heart went out to her … at least my husband didn’t cheat on me. Leave me after forty-two years. Crikey.
“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Who, me?” she asked. “No, sweethaht, I’ve gawt work to do. Good luck with everything, though.”
On impulse, I gave her a hug. “Norman’s an idiot,” I told her.
“I think you’re one smaht cookie,” she said, patting my back. “That boyfriend of yaws doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”
“Thanks,” I answered, tears threatening again. My new friend gave me a wave and went out to her car.
My phone bleated. Mom. Great. “Happy birthday, Calliope!” she sang.
“Hi, Mom,” I answered, wondering if she’d pick up anything from my leaden tone. She didn’t.
“Listen, I have news. Dave just called. Elements burst a pipe and flooded.”
Being housed in a 150-year-old industrial building, Elements was somewhat prone to this type of thing. “That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood anyway.” At least I wouldn’t have to endure a birthday party. I could just go home and eat cake batter.
“Don’t be silly,” Mom trilled. “I’ve already called everyone. We’re having your party here.”
My heart sank. “Here? Where do you mean, here?”
“At the funeral home, honey. Where else?”
CHAPTER TWO
“HARD TO BELIEVE you’re thirty,” my mother said that evening, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Mr. Paulson’s family is receiving visitors in the Tranquility Room,” she added as a well-dressed couple halted in confusion upon seeing my birthday balloons.
“How can our little girl be thirty, Eleanor, when you don’t look a day over twenty-five?” my father murmured from my other side, giving me a bear hug and nearly causing me to spill my second cosmo. Mom ignored him, as was her custom lo these many years since their divorce. Dad took it like a man. “Callie, I fell in love with you at first sight. You were such a beautiful baby! Still are! So beautiful!”
“Has … your father … been drinking, Callie?” my mother asked, not deigning to look at dear old Dad. “If so, please ask him to leave.” In this house, your father was synonymous with that shithead.
“Have you been drinking, Dad?” I asked amiably.
“Not too much,” he answered with equanimity. “Not enough, I should say,” he added in a lower voice.
“Hear, hear,” I murmured, taking a slug of my pink cocktail. Given that (A) the man I loved, etc., etc.; (B) Verdi’s Requiem was playing in the background, and (C) my party was being held at a funeral home, I’d decided to (D) ring in my special day in the company of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.
Irritated that she’d failed to insult my dad, Mom shot me an evil look. I snapped to attention. “This party is lovely, Mom,” I lied, giving her a big smile.
Mollified, she gave me a little smile. “I’ve always thought this was the most beautiful building in town,” she said. “Well, better go check on Mr. Paulson.” With that, she bustled off to check on the wake in the next room.
Misinski’s Funeral Home was an impressive building, a large Victorian with the first floor serving as the business end, the second and third floors as living quarters for Mom and, recently, my brother, Freddie. I’d grown up here. The basement, of course, was where all the yucky work was done. To my mother, there was absolutely nothing odd about having a birthday party next door to a wake; this funeral home had been in her family for three generations, and the whole death is a part of life philosophy was indelibly tattooed on her soul. So what if at age three, Freddie wouldn’t take his nap anywhere but in a casket? So what if Mom used to store the Thanksgiving turkey in the same fridge that kept the clients fresh?
Outside, the sun was shining, as Vermont was enjoying her two weeks of summer. The sky was rich and blue, the air fresh with the scent of pine. In here … not so much. The funeral home was like a time bubble in which nothing ever changed. The smell of lilies, the sounds of sad, classical music, the sight of the heavy, dark furniture … the caskets … the dead people. I sighed.
“So how’s my pretty girl?” Dad asked. “You got my check, right?”
“I did, Dad. Thank you so much! And I’m doing great.” It was always my habit to be cheerful around my parents, even when that meant lying through my pearly whites.
“Can I tell you a secret, Poodle?” Dad asked, waving at someone on the far side of the Serenity Room.
“Sure, Daddy,” I answered, putting my head on his shoulder.
“Now that I’ve retired, I’m going to get your mother back,” he said.
“Get her back for what?” I asked, assuming this was a revenge thing.
“Get her back as in woo her. Court her. Seduce her.”
I straightened abruptly. “Oh. Yeah, um … no. In case you forgot, she … uh … she hates you, Dad.”
“No!” He grinned. “Well, she might think she does. But your mother is the only woman I ever loved.” He gave me the wink that served him so well. Dad was a good-looking guy, silvery hair, dark eyes, dimples. I looked a lot like him, minus the gray. (Which is just around the corner! Betty Boop sobbed. And Mark’s with someone else!)
“That’s not a good idea, Daddy,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.
“Why isn’t it a good idea?” Dad asked, unsettled by my lack of enthusiasm.
“Maybe because you cheated on her when she was pregnant with Freddie. I’m just throwing that out there, of course.”
He nodded. “Not my best moment, I’ll admit. The cheating, I mean.” He paused and finished off his drink. “But you understand, Callie, sweetheart. It was a mistake, I’ve spent twenty-two years paying for it, and it’s all water under the bridge. She’ll forgive me. Hopefully.”
“You really still love her, Dad?”
“Of course I do! I never stopped.” He gave me a squeeze. “You’ll help me, right?”
“Ooh. Not sure about that. The wrath of Mom … you know.” Having Mom mad at you was the emotional equivalent of standing in the path of a category five tornado … lots of big things flying around ripping great chunks out of you.
“Oh, come on, Poodle,” Dad cajoled. “I thought we were the same. We’re romantics, aren’t we? God knows I can’t ask Hester.”
“True, true.” After all, Dad’s bad example was the reason my sister specialized in getting women pregnant without benefit of the physical presence of a man. “But, Dad … really? Do you really think you can get past all that … stuff?”
For a second, the expression on my father’s eternally smiling face flickered. “If I could do it all again,” he said quietly, looking at his drink, “things would be so different, Callie. We were happy once, and I … well.” His eyes went dark, like a light was turned off.
“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered, unable to stanch the sympathy that swelled in my heart. I was eight when my parents divorced, aware only that my world was falling apart. Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father … but he’d