finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.
“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.
“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.
At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.
“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”
Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.
“Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a fucking funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.
The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.
“Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”
Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”
Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.
The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.
“So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.
“Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.
“You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”
I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.
“He’s really not,” Fleur echoed.
“Callie, I’m sorry. I hate him. He dumped you, made up some bullshit line about timing, and now he’s seeing another woman! Ass. Wipe.” She glared at Fleur and me over her gold-rimmed glasses.
“Okay, you have a point,” I conceded. “But those are just the details. Mark’s … he’s …” I sighed. “Kind of perfect.”
“Christly, you’re defending him,” Annie muttered. “You’re pathetic.”
“You sound like my grandfather,” I said.
“Right, well, not everyone gets to marry their little Prince Charming from third grade, yeah?” Fleur said to Annie. “For the rest of us, there’s a limited pool. Mark’s pretty great compared to what-all else is out there. And if he’s the love of Callie’s life, I say go for it, Callie. Take no prisoners.”
“Well, I think you can do much better,” Annie said loyally. “And Fleur, I forget. How long did you live in England?”
Fleur narrowed her eyes. “A good bit of time,” she said tightly.
“You just have to get out there, Callie. Find someone else,” Annie said.
“Or better yet,” Fleur said, “win him back. Remind him of how fab you are. Find some man, make Mark screamingly jealous and bam! You’re back in.”
Though I’d thought the same thing earlier, I said nothing.
“Nope. Leave him in the dust, Callie,” Annie countered. “You deserve better. Write that down and tape it to your mirror. ‘I deserve better than the ass-wipe formerly known as Mark.’”
“You need to get laid, Calorie?” my brother asked, appearing at the back door. “My buddies back at school think you’re hot. You could be a cougar, how’s that?”
“I’m too young to be a cougar,” I said. “I’m only thirty! Besides, I want someone who doesn’t live with his mom.” I turned to my friends. “Is Gerard Butler single?”
“Setting your sights a bit high,” Fleur murmured. Hmmph.
“How about Kevin Youkilis?” Freddie suggested, joining us. “Then we could get Sox tickets.”
“Nah,” Annie said. “He has a lightbulb head. Consider your nieces and nephews, Freddie. Oh! How about the center-fielder, the cute one. Ellsbury? Now he’s hot!”
As my friends and brother suggested increasingly ridiculous choices for my new boyfriend, my brain was busy. Annie was right. I had to get over Mark. For months now, a stone had been sitting on my heart. I’d shed a lot of tears over Mark Rousseau, lost a lot of sleep, eaten a lot of cake batter. Somehow, I had to move on. Work would be hell if I didn’t shake loose from the grip he had on my heart. I most definitely didn’t want to keep feeling this way, alone in a love affair meant for two.
Even if he’d felt like The One. Even if I’d always thought we’d end up together. Even if he still had a choke chain on my heart.
CHAPTER THREE
UPON RETURNING HOME that night, I tripped over an appendage, an all too common experience for me. “Noah,” I called out, “if you don’t start picking up your legs, I’m going to bludgeon you with one of them.”
My grandfather’s rusty voice came from the living room. “That’s right. Pick on the poor cripple.”
“You think I’m kidding, old man?” I asked.
Bowie, my husky mutt, came leaping into the kitchen, singing with joy and canine love, his tail whacking me, great clumps of fur falling to the ground. “Hello, Bowie,” I crooned back at him in my special dog voice. “Yes, I love you, too! Yes, I do! I love you, handsome!” When Bowie had licked me, nipped my chin and turned in a dozen or so frenzied circles, he raced back into the living room. I picked up Noah’s leg and followed my faithful dog.
“The doctor said you need to wear this,” I said, bending to kiss my grandfather’s bearded cheek.
“Fuck the doctor,” Noah said amiably. His stump was propped on some pillows.
“Watch your language, Grumpy,” I said. “Is your leg giving you trouble?”
“My lack of leg is giving me trouble,” he retorted. “But no more than usual.” He rubbed the stump idly, not taking his eyes from the television screen.
Noah was a boat builder, the founder and sole operator of Noah’s Arks (a name I’d thought up when I was four and something I was still pretty proud of). His boats were the stuff of legend—beautiful wooden rowboats, kayaks and canoes, each one made from Noah’s design, by Noah’s hand, selling for thousands of dollars apiece. Up here in the Northeast Kingdom, where the rivers ran wild, he was pretty much a god.
Unfortunately, he’d suffered a small stroke two years ago. Even more unfortunately, he’d been holding a running radial saw at the time, and the result was a cut so bad that his leg had to be amputated just above the knee. At a family meeting, the doctor had recommended an assisted living facility for seniors. Noah, who’d