All I Ever Wanted Page 5

  “Jenna, you can go into Room 3,” Carmella said. “Aimee, Room 2.” Jenna stood up, still cradling the sleeping puppy, and shot me another confident smile. Aimee also rose, hips swinging in a passable runway walk as she strolled down the hall. I heard the rumble of a masculine voice, then Aimee’s giggle.

  I sat and waited, the minutes ticking by slowly. This could work, I reminded myself. Men love us. Ball Python Woman was next, and frankly, I was glad. That snake had been staring unblinking at Bowie. I may not be big enough to eat you, the creature seemed to be thinking. Yet.

  From where I sat in the waiting room—the coffee service was gone, much to my disappointment—I couldn’t see Dr. McFarland. And okay, clearly I wasn’t exactly original in bringing in my doggie for a quick once-over. But a girl had to try.

  Ruh-roh. Here came Jenna, looking quite miffed as she held the now awake and squirming puppy. She scowled at Carmella as she settled the bill, then caught my eye. “May as well go to Dr. Jones in Kettering from now on,” she grumbled. “This guy’s a dick. Didn’t even give me the time of day.” With that, she stomped past me to the door.

  “Bye,” I said. Hmm.

  A few minutes later, Aimee came out with her Chihuahua, who still seemed extremely stressed. Aimee handed her credit card to Carmella, sighed loudly, then caught my eye. “Good luck,” she said flatly. “If you’re here for why I think you’re here, that is.”

  “Thanks,” I said, frowning.

  Finally, it was my turn. I brushed a clot of Bowie fur from my skirt (I’d craftily worn white as camouflage), squared my shoulders and walked down the hall.

  “Hi, Callie!” It was Earl, a tech who’d worked here for ages.

  “Hi, Earl!” I said, giving him a hug.

  “Don’t tell me Bowie’s sick,” Earl said.

  “Oh, just a little,” I said, blushing.

  “Ah,” he said knowingly. Too bad Earl was in his sixties. I’d always loved him.

  I went to Exam Room 4 and took a seat on the hard little wooden bench. Dr. Kumar used to have pictures hanging up…that series where the dogs are playing poker or pool. Those were gone now, but the walls had been painted a nut brown, which was kind of nice. Otherwise, the place was as bland as any veterinarian’s exam room—metal table, small fridge for the vaccines, scale and a poster about tick-borne illnesses. It all made me kind of sleepy. Bowie seemed to share the sentiment—he yawned and flopped down at my feet, panting rhythmically.

  Being at the vet’s brought back a lot of happy memories, a few sad ones as well. We hadn’t been allowed to have pets as kids…we tried having a cat when I was about nine, but it had crept into an occupied casket one day and reappeared during the wake, much to the horror of the family of the departed, so Mom sent Patches to live on a nice farm.

  But I always loved animals, and when I was fourteen, Dr. Kumar let me come work here cleaning cages and, as I got older, washing dogs. When a pet died, Dr. K. would sometimes ask me to handwrite the Rainbow Bridge poem so he could mail it to the owner. Ah, the Rainbow Bridge. Oh, blerk, I was getting all choked up just thinking about it.

  The Rainbow Bridge poem says that when your pet dies, he goes to a wonderful, sunny place full of meadows and woods and doggy and kitty friends. He’s young and healthy again, and very happy. There’s a beautiful rainbow bridge nearby, but your dog never crosses it. No. He just plays and eats steak. But then one day…one day, your pet goes on alert. He sees something in the distance. He starts to tremble. Can it be? He breaks into a run. He runs and runs and runs…toward…you! Yes, it’s you, you’ve died and you’re coming to heaven, and for all these years, your pet has been waiting for you. He runs to you and licks your face and wags and wags his tail and you pet him and kiss him and hug him. You’re so, so happy to see your old friend…and then, finally, you and your beloved pet cross the Rainbow Bridge together into heaven proper to live for all eternity.

  I seemed to be sobbing. “I love you, Bowie,” I squeaked, leaning down to pet my pup. Bowie was only three, so hopefully he and I would have a long, long time before I had to think about any rainbow bridges. Bowie licked my cheeks happily and sang me a little song—Rurrrooorah. “I love you, good doggy,” I repeated wetly.

  The door opened and I quickly blew some dog fur off my lips. “Hello,” I said, wiping my eyes hastily as I looked up.

  Oh, shit. Shit on a shingle. Shit on rye.

  It was the guy from the DMV. The Jesus, lady, get a grip guy.

  He was studying Bowie’s chart and didn’t see me at first. Then he said, “Hi, I’m Ian McFarland,” and looked at me. His expression froze. “Oh.”

  “Hi,” I muttered, feeling my face ignite.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine. Well…I was crying a little. You know that poem about the Rainbow Bridge? I was just thinking about it…well. Got a little weepy! You know how it is.” I wiped my eyes again, then fumbled in my purse for a tissue. Crap. Didn’t seem to have one.

  “Here.” His expression stony, Ian McFarland once again handed me a handkerchief.

  “Thanks,” I said, standing up. He took a quick step backward, as if my emotional diarrhea might be catching.

  He wasn’t particularly good-looking…well, maybe he had a rough appeal. Sort of a Russian gangster look with sharp cheekbones, short blond hair and Siberian blue eyes. The overall effect was…let’s see. Disapproval. Great. This guy did not look like a tenderhearted vet who’d cry over the Rainbow Bridge or ask me to dinner. He looked more like the type who’d know how to kill me using only his little finger.

  “Hi,” I said again, remembering that I should probably speak. “I’m Callie. Callie Grey.”

  At the sound of my name, Bowie whined and thumped his tail as if telling me I was doing great. Dr. McFarland glanced at the chart. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked. Bowie, sensing a belly rub somewhere in the very near future, rolled over and offered himself. And oh, how adorable. My dog was…you know. Excited. Interested. Aroused.

  Tearing my eyes off the display of canine amour, I swallowed. “Um…well, Bowie ate something this morning. Which is not uncommon. Bowie, get up.” He was neutered, of course, but just because he couldn’t father any cute little puppies didn’t mean he didn’t have urges, and apparently Dr. McFarland was his type. My dog didn’t move, just lay there, exposing himself.

  “What did he eat?” the vet asked.

  “Uh, the newspaper? But he does that a lot. He’s probably fine.”

  “You should be more careful about where you leave the paper.” He made a note on the chart—Bad pet owner, I imagined—then looked up at me. Yep. Disapproval. “How’s he acting?”

  Horny? “Um…he felt, well, he seemed to be a little, ah…blue? Not himself? So…” I smiled weakly. Roooraahroh! Bowie sang, wagging his tail.

  The vet glanced at Bowie, then shot me a look that bespoke gobs of cynicism.

  I swallowed. “I just figured it’s never the wrong thing to do, you know, double-check on your dog, see if everything’s okay. He seemed a little…down.”

  Bowie took this as a cue to flip to his feet in that agile and speedy way huskies have. He stared at me with his wide, different-colored eyes, tilting his head and giving a single yip, as if saying, And then? And then? What happened next, Mom? I love this story! It smells good here! Can I have some meat?

  “He seemed down,” Dr. McFarland repeated.

  “Off. He seemed off.” I looked at the floor.

  He sighed, then set the chart down on the counter. “Miss Grey,” he said, folding his arms and giving me the full power of the Arctic stare. He paused for a moment. “Let me share something with you. You’re the eighth woman this week to come in with a vague complaint involving a pet eating something he shouldn’t have.” He paused. “Seven of those women were single. And as I seem to recall from our morning together at the Department of Motor Vehicles, you’re single as well.”

  D’oh! as Home
r Simpson would say. “Wow. Someone has an ego,” I murmured, pulling on Bowie’s leash as he inched closer and closer to Dr. McFarland’s leg.

  “Two of the dogs supposedly ate dishcloths. When I told the owners that this was cause for concern, as cloth can be very damaging to an animal’s intestinal track, they rather abruptly amended their stories. A parrot may or may not have eaten a plastic toy. One cat allegedly ate a ring. When I recommended an X-ray, the owner found the ring in her pocket. And four dogs, Miss Grey, seem to have eaten a newspaper and were feeling a little off.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said brightly.

  He raised an eyebrow, slowly. Mr. Darcy could take put-down lessons from this guy. Jenna was right. He was kind of a dick.

  “You know what, Dr. McFarland?” I chirped. “You’re actually a little bit right. Here’s the thing.” I paused. He waited. I waited, too, for something good to come to me. “Bowie did eat the paper this morning. I’d been meaning to come see you anyway, and since my dog felt a little blue, I figured what the heck.” I cleared my throat. “See, the thing is, I used to work for Dr. Kumar, did you know that?” Dr. McStuck-Up shook his head, looking utterly uninterested. “I washed dogs, cleaned up, was generally helpful.”

  Dr. McFarland sighed and glanced at his watch.

  “Anyway, I work in advertising and public relations now…um, and I know how friendly and sweet Dr. Kumar was, and you have big shoes to fill and all that. So I was thinking maybe you needed some…I don’t know. A little help in getting the word out that you’re just as sweet as Dr. K. Because I’m guessing that even though you’re seeing a bump in the single-women-pet-owning population right now, business might die down a little.”

  Ah-ha! He frowned—frowned more, that is—and I kept talking. “You might not know this, but there’s another veterinary practice in Kettering, which is only fifteen minutes away, and it’s not really much farther for the people who live east of Main Street, so you know… I wondered if you might be interested in a little PR, so I figured I’d drop in and offer my services.”

  Well! That was as unexpected as pigs flying out of my butt, as my dear grandfather would say. Not bad, Michelle said. Though I don’t approve of lying, of course. “Why?” I asked. “Did you think I was checking you out?”

  Dr. McFarland regarded me steadily. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not looking for an advertising agency.”

  “This would be more public relations,” I said. Bowie wagged encouragingly and added a yip.

  “No, thank you,” the vet said. “Now. Would you like me to examine your dog or not?”

  “Sure!” I said. “Might as well, right?” He didn’t roll his eyes, but I sensed it was close. The vet knelt down next to Bowie, who immediately tried to mount him for a little dry humping.

  “Off,” Dr. McFarland said. Bowie obeyed, surprisingly, and licked the vet’s face, getting a little smile as a reward. A smile. Something hot and unexpected darted in my stomach. Dr. McFarland…Ian. Nice name. Ian McFarland. Yes. I liked it. Dr. Ian took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against Bowie’s side, gently holding my dog’s head with one hand so Bowie didn’t lick him again.

  “So, the women of Georgebury have been through, huh?” I said, just to show I was not one of them, the desperate hags of northeastern Vermont. “I guess you can’t blame them. Hard to meet people up here, I suppose. It’s funny, seven people with—”

  “Miss Grey?” He looked up at me with those blue eyes, and suddenly I felt that liquid, flashing heat again. Those were some very pretty eyes, and he was looking so deeply at me, as if maybe…maybe he kind of felt something? Something for me?

  “You can call me Callie,” I said, and my voice was a little breathy. “Short for Calliope. Homer’s muse.”

  “Callie, then.”

  Your name! He said your name! Betty Boop’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?” I sighed.

  “I can’t hear your dog’s bowel sounds if you don’t stop talking.”

  “Right! Bowel sounds. You keep going. Do what you need to do. You’re the doctor. Examine away. Good boy, Bowie.” I closed my eyes, closed my mouth and sat still, imagining the First Lady sighing yet again.

  After a minute, Dr. McFarland said, “Everything sounds fine.” He stood up and scribbled something else on the chart. “Try not to leave newspapers where your dog can get them. Please see Carmella on your way out.”

  “Right. Nice to meet you,” I said, blushing once again.

  “Same here,” he lied.

  I followed him out of the exam room. Bowie yipped, then lunged, causing me to crash into Dr. McFarland’s back. He turned, scowling. “Sorry,” I muttered, hauling Bowie back from the object of his interest—an unleashed and extremely beautiful Irish setter. When she saw us, she sat immediately and wagged her plumy tail.

  “Wow, that is one gorgeous dog,” I said. “Is she yours?”

  “Yes,” he answered. He eyed my whining dog the way a father eyes his teenage daughter’s boyfriend.

  “Bowie, stop,” I ordered, tugging on the leash. My dog was getting aroused once more. “What’s her name?”

  “Angie.”

  “Angie,” I immediately crooned in a whispery voice. The old Rolling Stones song was a favorite of mine, “‘Aaaangie, you can’t say we never tri-ah-ah-ied.’” Bowie joined right in with a whining howl, and Angie wagged appreciatively. Her owner said nothing. “Did you name her after the song?”

  “No. Her name is Four D Mayo’s Angel,” he answered in what I’m sure he thought was a patient tone. “I shortened it.”

  “Oh, so she’s one of those purebred AKC dogs, is that it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Apparently unable to stop talking, I kept going. “Bowie’s a mutt.”

  “Yes. I’m aware of that.”

  “Right. Because you’re the vet.” For heaven’s sake, Michelle said. Shut it, Callie.

  “Angie, go lie down, girl,” the good doctor said. His dog wagged at me once more, then walked off down the hall. Bowie crooned a mournful goodbye.

  “Well, see you arou—” I offered to Dr. McFarland, but he was already going into the next exam room to deal with the obese terrier and its owner.

  I looked at my dog, who stared back, ready to hear whatever gem I was about to impart. “That did not go too well,” I whispered.

  Up at the front desk, Carmella took pity on me. “Divorced,” she said. “Not over his wife, I think.”

  “Oh,” I murmured. “Too bad.”

  My trip to Humiliationville cost me $75. Michelle told me I’d learned a valuable lesson in not wasting other people’s time. Betty mourned the shoes that money could’ve bought.

  In the parking lot, Ball Python Woman was sliding her pet into the passenger seat, which made me wonder what the heck the snake did while she drove around. “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she announced as I opened the door for Bowie.

  “You’re telling me,” I answered.

  BACK HOME, I CROSSED New Vet off my list and checked my e-mail. Yesterday, when Annie was supposed to be getting ready for the new school year, she had instead screened several candidates, thoroughly enjoying her foray into Internet dating. This guy is gorgeous! she’d written, complete with a link to his info. Doug336. What did those numbers mean, anyway? That there were 336 Dougs in the world, all of them looking for love? That was a lot of Dougs. I sighed and turned to look at the framed photo I really should toss.

  It was taken at last year’s company picnic, two months before that fateful foray to Santa Fe. Mark had organized one of those team-building exercise retreat things involving paintball and physical exertion, and though there had been grumblings about why the heck we couldn’t have gone on a booze cruise instead, I’d had a great time. Especially during the Chicken Challenge. Oh, I loved the Chicken Challenge! It was basically a game of piggyback chicken in a lake, and guess who got to partner up with the boss? Me, that’s who, and Pete had snapped a photo of the two of
us, soaked and triumphant, me on Mark’s back, my arms around his lovely neck. That was a happy, happy day. I’d been so sure Mark was feeling it, too…

  Get rid of the picture, Michelle advised.

  I didn’t. But I dragged my eyes off it and clicked the link. “Okay, Doug336,” I said. “Let’s make a date.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I HAD KNOWN MARK SINCE I was a kid and, like most of the kids I knew, admired him from afar. I might have been pretty and friendly, but he was older by two years. He was the mayor’s son. He lived up the street, right on the town green, and not in a funeral home, but in a house where, rumor had it, he had an entire floor to himself. He was an only child, he was tall, he was athletic, he was handsome. In my young eyes, Mark Rousseau and Leonardo DiCaprio both had the same appeal and the same unattainability…they were fun to look at, sure, someone to swoon over…but someone you’d talk to? No.

  And then came Gwen Hardy’s fourteenth birthday party. Boy-girl, rec room, a closet…the classic scene. Despite the fact that several classmates were well into the world of horny teenage groping, I had not yet so much as held hands with a boy. Jake Fiore had asked me out in sixth grade, but I told him my parents were very strict and old-fashioned…not that my parents were paying a lot of attention, but because it seemed easier than negotiating the murky waters of adolescent love.

  Anthony Gates approached in seventh grade, and again, I flashed the parent card, apologizing profusely and telling him I thought he was an awfully nice guy, but my dad…gosh, but thanks so much, I was really flattered. (I mastered the art of the nice rejection early in life, as you can see.)

  The truth was, I believed in Love. After my father moved out, I resolved that Life Would Still Be Happy. I was helpful with my baby brother, cheerful in the mornings to counterbalance Hester. I made sure I always skipped out to my dad’s car when he came to pick us up for his nights and pretended to love bowling because he loved bowling. Made Mom tea when she came in from work. Always kept my room neat. Smiled when I felt like crying, and when I did cry, made sure I went into my closet so no one would hear.