All I Ever Wanted Read online

  “There’s really a market for human hair macramé?” I asked. “Um, I mean… Human hair. Wow.”

  Steee-rike three! I suppressed the urge to do that cool little punching thing the home plate umpires do, but come on! Doug336 of the human hair craft corner was not the kind of guy to replace Mark.

  Appetite slain, I tried to tune out Doug as he waxed rhapsodic about the strength and versatility of different types of hair…red, brunette, the rare natural blond. Glancing surreptitiously to my left, I saw that Ian was engrossed in an article. Nice way to spend a lunch, reading and eating, two of my favorite pastimes. And he’d ordered the pastrami, lucky bastard. It looked fantastic.

  Across from me, Doug laughed at something he said, and I snapped to.

  “So…” I paused, and curiosity got the better of me. “Where do you get the hair? From a salon or something?”

  “No, not a salon. I have my sources,” he said. His eyes rose to my head. “You have very pretty hair, by the way.” I swallowed. “Want to go back to my place?”

  “So you can scalp me?” Here I’d thought Louis was creepy! I couldn’t wait to call Annie.

  “No.” He laughed. “So we can fool around. My mom’s a heavy sleeper.”

  “Jeesh!” I blurted. “I’m sorry, Doug. This isn’t going to work. I’m sure you’re very…uh…creative and, um…fun, but I don’t think there’s a…a future here.”

  “Fine! Thanks for wasting my time.” Doug stood up and left, just like that, stomping like a sullen three-year-old. Heads turned. I wondered if anyone noticed his bracelet. Or his bald spot, which caught the light as he went outside.

  I glanced at Ian McFarland. He was looking at me with his icy blue eyes, the way you’d eye roadkill. “Everything all right, Callie?” he asked.

  “Oh, everything’s great, Ian,” I answered. “How’s your lunch? The soup was wonderful. Whoops, look at the time. Must run. Have a wonderful day.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  STEPPING INTO NOAH’S workshop was like entering a cathedral.

  The old mill building had once been part of the lumber industry on which Georgebury was founded. The ceiling was forty feet high, so the place echoed like a canyon. The walls were rough-hewn brick, the floor made from uneven, unvarnished wide-planked oak, worn smooth as glass and stained nut brown from more than a hundred years of footsteps. Along one wall was Noah’s workbench, lit by an old copper pharmacy light; in the corner was a hideous plaid recliner where he sometimes napped and which the health department really should condemn. Fifty feet long, forty feet wide, the room was suffused with the smell of a century and a half of wood.

  There were other smells, too, of course…polyurethane, smoke from the woodstove on the far wall, the pleasant, oily smell of Noah’s tools and occasionally that of wet dog, since Bowie stayed with Noah during the day. But lording over everything, the strong, wonderful scent of wood, cedar and pine and oak. Even when I lived in Boston, the smell of freshly cut wood had me turning to look for my grandfather.

  At the moment, Noah had three boats in various stages of completion. One was a kayak, the type that had made him quite revered in the world of wooden boat paddlers. Long, sleek and lean, the bow so slim that it would slice through the water, this one was for ocean racing. Another one was, in Noah’s terms, “for idiots like yourself, Callie,” by which he meant for people who enjoyed paddling around a lake looking at the pretty birdies and trees. Very hard to tip, that model, but still graceful and lovely. The third boat was quite pretty, too…this one was an Adirondack fishing boat, and even though it was only half finished, I could picture Jay Gatsby in it, casting a line over the side while he yearned for that shallow tramp, Daisy.

  “Noah?” I called. Bowie’s head popped up, and he yipped twice as he leaped to his feet, trotting over to see me. “Hi, boy,” I said, petting his big and beautiful head. “Where’s Noah, huh?”

  “Right here, right here,” my grandfather grumbled, emerging from the back room where he kept his supplies. “What do you want?”

  “I’m great, thanks! You’re so sweet to ask.” He rolled his eyes, unamused. “I just wanted to remind you, dear Noah, that everyone’s coming here for dinner, so you should come in and wash up.”

  My grandfather scowled—Santa with a pounding hangover. “Do I have to?” he asked. “Seem to remember I can’t stand half the people in my own family.”

  “Stop whining,” I said. “Yes, you have to. And it’s not half. It’s more like a third.”

  “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Who’s coming?”

  “The usual suspects,” I said. “Freddie, Hester, the girls, Mom.” I paused. “Dad.”

  “What?” Noah said. “Both your parents? Does your mother know?”

  “No,” I answered. “I figured it’d be better as a surprise.”

  “That son of mine is a fuck-up,” Noah grumbled, shaking his head. “And your mother! She’ll gut him with her fork. What are you thinking, Callie girl?” He ran a gnarled hand through his thatch of white hair and gave me a look.

  “Well, here’s the thing, Noah.” I took a deep breath. “Dad wants to get back together with Mom, and he asked me to help him out…”

  “He never should’ve left her, the stupid fool. I never even looked at another woman once I met your grandmother.”

  I smiled. “I know,” I said. “But Dad’s…well, he’s trying, anyway.”

  “He’s still goin’ over jackass hill, if you ask me,” Noah said, referring to my father’s eternal adolescence.

  “Well, he’s always been a good father,” I said. It was true. If you discounted the cheating-on-Mom part, that is.

  “A good father loves his children’s mother,” Noah said.

  “Okay, well, everyone’s still coming.”

  “I’ll take dinner in my room.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” I said firmly. “This is a family dinner. Even Freddie’s coming.”

  “Speakin’ of jackass hill,” Noah grunted. “Hasn’t he finished college yet?”

  “No. He’s taking a year off to figure out what he wants to do, as he’s told you eighteen times. Hester’s coming with the girls, and of course, me, your favorite. So you’re eating with us.” I steered him out of the shop and into the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken greeted us warmly.

  “I still have sanding to do,” he objected.

  “You know I’ll do it for you later, old man. No excuses. You’re eating with us.”

  “You’re so cruel, Callie,” Noah said, sitting down to unstrap his leg. “Bowie, your mama, she’s a mean one.”

  I straightened from checking the chicken. “Mean? Didn’t I just clean this entire house, including that terrifying abyss you call a bedroom, where, by the way, I found four dirty plates and six glasses, not to mention the bottle of Dewar’s you think I don’t know about. Don’t I cook you dinner every night, old man? Don’t I sand your boats when you complain that your arthritis hurts when we both know that you really just hate sanding? And get that leg off the table.”

  “All right, all right, I take it back,” he said. “You’re not half-bad.”

  I HOSTED A FAMILY DINNER about once a month, though I alternated parental invitations. Still, my mother didn’t object when she came through the door an hour later and saw dear old Dad standing there, grinning sheepishly at her as he hugged my brother. No. She smiled, which was much more terrifying.

  “Tobias,” she said in a mellifluous and deadly tone. If a cobra could speak, I’m sure it would sound exactly like my mom.

  “Eleanor,” Dad said. “You look beautiful tonight.”

  “Attaboy, Dad,” Freddie said, helping himself to some wine. “Flattery’s a good place to start.” Apparently, Fred was in on the plan as well.

  “Thank you, Tobias,” Mom said. “You yourself look—” she scanned him up and down “—very well. How’s the syphilis?”

  “I don’t have—” Dad began sharply, then remembered he was wooing his lady love. �
�I’m 100 percent healthy,” he said in a gentler tone. “How are things with you?”

  “Wonderful,” Mom answered, not blinking. I swear the air temperature dropped five degrees.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Calliope!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for having us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “So nice to include…your father.”

  “I’m scared,” Freddie whispered, grinning at me. “Hold me, Callie.”

  “Would you like some wine, Mom?” I offered.

  “Absolutely.”

  “How are things at the funeral home?” I asked, hoping to score points with a subject near and dear to her heart.

  “Wonderful,” she said, her tone a bit less terrifying. “Louis just did a reconstruction on a man who was hit by a rogue tire iron. His head looked like a bowl of SpaghettiOs.”

  “What exactly is a rogue tire iron?” Freddie asked, fascinated. “Shit, that must’ve been a mess!”

  “Oh, it was,” Mom said, warming to her subject. “You couldn’t even tell where his—”

  “Stop!” I yelped. “Please, Mom!”

  “Callie, how can you be such a wuss when you grew up in a funeral home?” Mom wondered. “Death is in your blood, after all.”

  “Death is not in my blood,” I said impatiently. “And it’s not like I got to choose where we lived.”

  “Anyway,” my mother said, giving me a cool look before turning her attention back to her son. “His face was—”

  “Oh, look, Hester and the girls are here!” I announced. “I’ll just run out and help.” With that, I galloped into the rainy evening.

  “Is that Dad’s car?” Hester said, heaving herself out of her Volvo with some difficulty, a reminder to me to go easy on the cake batter.

  “Hi, Auntie!” Josephine said, flinging her arms around my waist. “Want to braid my hair? Guess what? I’m in the school chorus! We’re singing ‘Greensleeves’! Braid my hair!”

  “That’s great, honey! I’ll braid your hair in a little while, okay?” I said, smooching my younger niece. “Hi, Bronte, sweetie-pie.”

  Bronte glared at me, her earbuds firmly in place. “Hi,” she grumbled. Ah, adolescence.

  “I’m so happy to see you. I love you. You’re gorgeous and brilliant,” I said.

  “Calm down, Callie,” she said, but she gave me a kiss and trudged inside, Josephine prancing at her heels.

  “Is that indeed Dad’s car, Callie?” my sister repeated.

  I sighed. “Yes. I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.”

  “Nice, Callie? As in, ‘It would be nice to have my kidneys torn out by a lion while I’m still alive?’ That kind of nice?”

  “Yes! Exactly what I was going for!” I answered. “Let’s not exaggerate, Hester. It’s not like they’re never together.”

  “Public events only,” Hester said. “With lots of other people to distract and confuse and block.” She looked at me in exasperation. “You’re an idiot, you know that? What are you doing? Trying to get them back together?”

  “No, no,” I said. “Well…Dad…um, never mind.”

  “Dad what? Is he dying?”

  “No! You and Mom…he’s not dying. He just…he wants to make amends with Mom, that’s all.”

  “Fuck,” Hester said. “Listen, why don’t I leave the girls here, and I’ll go and lie down on the highway and hope to get run over instead?”

  “Well, as fun as that sounds, get your ass inside and stop complaining,” I said. “I made a gorgeous dinner. Come eat.”

  My sister obeyed. I took a cleansing breath of the cool, damp air, said a little prayer for peace and followed her inside.

  Family gatherings were…um, let’s see, what’s the word I’m looking for?… Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served as referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.

  But Dad had asked, and even though his odds were probably that of a baby chick surviving a stroll across the Daytona 500 Raceway, I had to help him out. If I didn’t, no one would.

  For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer…I know, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.

  As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.

  “Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”

  “That’s beautiful, Grampy,” Bronte said.

  “So now you got an attitude, huh? I just started liking you,” Noah said.

  “I’ll get you another beer, Dad,” my own father offered.

  “Good, son. ’Bout time you did somethin’ useful with your life,” Noah returned. “Speakin’ of useless, Freddie, when the hell are you goin’ to graduate from that fancy-ass college of yours and stop bleedin’ your parents of their life savings?”

  “About five more years, Noah,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I just switched my major to parapsychology. I’m going to be a ghost hunter. What do you think?” Noah, not realizing that Fred was jerking his chain, sputtered on his fresh beer. Mom, though she usually defended Fred, didn’t comment, as she was willing my father to turn into a pillar of salt or something.

  “I love family dinners,” Hester grumbled.

  “Oh, me, too,” I said.

  “Hey, will you chaperone some Brownie troop field trip next week?” she asked. “I have a seminar in Boston.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “When is it?”

  “After school on Thursday,” Hester answered. “Josephine really didn’t want to miss it.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Where are we going? Cabot’s?” I hoped so. The creamery had a free cheese bar.

  “Uh…Josephine, where are the Brownies going next week, honey?” Hester asked. Josephine, who was rubbing Bowie’s tummy and sending clots of fur onto the just-vacuumed floor, jumped up.

  “It’s a farm, I think,” she said, leaping up to clutch my waist and beg. “Can you come, Auntie? Can you? Please?” Today she was dressed in a black-sequined unitard and a purple skirt with pink Crocs.

  “I sure can,” I said. I had oodles of vacation time socked away, and Mark, who had no nieces or nephews, had always been great about letting me do things with Bronte and Josephine. At the thought of Mark, my heart twisted. He’d kissed Muriel when he was leaving the office today. On the cheek. “See you later, babe,” he’d said. Not that I was eavesdropping. And Muriel’s face had flushed even brighter than her usual consumptive look.

  Babe. Mark had never called me babe. Honey, yes. But he called Karen honey, too, and she was basically a barracuda with legs. Once, he called me sweetpea, something so old-fashioned I’d melted (you’re not surprised, are you?). Dad used to call Mom Bluebird, because, he said, she made him so happy. At this moment, she was fingering her knife and looking at him with great speculation in her eyes.

  I herded my family around the dining room table, got drinks, fetched a clean fork for Josephine, who’d dropped hers, moved the centerpiece of zinnias and cosmos, which I’d picked that very evening, wiped up a spill and finally sat down. “This is nice,” I said. No one answered, as they were all halfway done already. Seven minutes later, it was official. Dinner, which consisted of my famous garlic-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with dill, homemade gravy, braised carrots and green beans almondine, all of which took me two hours of prep time, was consumed
in just under thirteen minutes. Setting the table had taken more time.

  “That was wonderful, Poodle,” my father said, twinkling at me.

  “I’ve got to get back to the shop,” Noah grumbled, pushing his chair back and hopping out of the dining room.

  “Where’s your leg?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

  “It’s under the table,” Josephine said, peeking.

  “So gross,” Bronte grunted, pushing her potatoes around her plate.

  “Maybe we can play Monopoly,” Dad suggested hopefully, beaming at my mother, who was staring at the tablecloth, lost in pleasant fantasies about dismembering her ex-husband. “Eleanor? I seem to remember you loved being the iron. Would you like to be the iron again?”

  “Is that your come-on line, Dad? It needs work,” Freddie offered, glancing up from the message he was texting.

  “Let’s play Wii!” Josephine chirruped. “Callie, can we play Wii?”

  “Who named that thing?” Mom asked, examining her manicure. Frequent exposure to formaldehyde made her fingernails quite strong and lovely. “Whenever I hear it, I imagine children playing with a urine-filled balloon.”

  Dad gave a booming laugh. “That’s funny, Ellie! How about that Monopoly? Bronte, sweetheart? Want to play with your old Poppy and Grammy?”

  “No,” Bronte mumbled, folding her arms across her nonexistent chest.

  “Fred, get off your ass and help Callie clean up,” Hester said, kicking our little brother.

  “You help her,” he returned amiably. “Your own ass is bigger, so you’ll probably be more help.”

  “I worked all day,” Hester said. “So bite me, you lazy little bastard.”

  “You get women pregnant all day long. Who’s to say I don’t do the same?” Freddie returned, raising his eyebrows innocently while Bronte snickered.

  Ah, family. Meanwhile, no one was helping me clean up, either. Chugging a little more chardonnay, I then took a cleansing breath and smiled. “It’s all good, it’s all good,” I whispered to myself.

  “There’s Callie, slowly going insane while we all watch,” Freddie said. I smiled, grateful that someone was paying attention. “Hey, Cal, you find someone to sleep with yet?” he added.