LITMIR.BIZ

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“No one’s really doing that these days, so I’ve cornered the market.”

      “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

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