LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I did research on joint degeneration and taught at UVM before taking over for Dr. Kumar.”

      I typed a few lines. “Okay, well, how about some personal stuff?”

      His eyes grew wary. “What do you want to know?”

      “Well, for starters, why did you move to our fair state?”

      He looked at his place setting, then adjusted his fork a millimeter. “I liked New England. And Laura was from Boston.”

      Ah, Laura. I was deeply interested in Laura. “Did you guys live in Vermont when you were married?” I asked. Do you still talk? Do you still love her? Did she break your heart?

      “Yes. Burlington.” He took a breath—clearly, this was not how he’d choose to spend an evening—but he forged onward. “But I spent one summer in Georgebury when I was a kid.”

      “Really?” The idea that Ian had been nearby was utterly thrilling.

      He nodded. “I stayed with my uncle.”

      “Who is he?” I asked. “Maybe I know him.”

      “Carl Villny. My mother’s brother. He died about ten years ago.”

      Villny. A Russian name, if I wasn’t mistaken. Suppressing a smile (Was your uncle a Soviet mole, perchance?), I shook my head. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” I paused. “So you liked it up here, and after your divorce, you moved back?”

      He nodded.

      I waited for more. Smiled firmly. It worked.

      “Right,” he said. “Um … I moved a lot when I was a kid, as I told you. My, um … my mother is a doctor, and she works in a lot of third world countries.” He paused. “I think we moved fifteen, twenty times. I lived all over.”

      “Holy guacamole,” I said. “Now that is an unconventional childhood!”

      “Yes.” He adjusted his cutlery again. “Don’t put that on the Web site.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s not relevant.” His jaw looked a little knotty.

      “Well, here’s the thing, Ian,” I said. “If people feel they know you a little, they’ll trust you more.”

      He shifted. “Right. But don’t put that on the Web site.”

      I shrugged. “All right. Well, why do you love animals?”

      He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of a vapid question, don’t you think?”

      I gritted my teeth. “Not to your clients, Dr. McFarland! Can you please scrape up an answer?”

      He sighed. Looked at the table. Looked back at me. “They’re loyal. Next question?”

      My turn to heave a sigh. “Here. Why don’t I just put my laptop away and you can pretend I’m your sister and we’re just having a chat, okay?”

      “No.”

      “Why?” I demanded. “If you want me to do this for you, you’re going to have to help.”

      “I can’t pretend you’re my sister.”

      It might’ve been a cute line, if, for example, it had been said by someone else. But in Ian’s case, the meaning was quite literal. Rolling my eyes, I put the laptop away and gave up for the moment.

      Our server brought us dinner—trout almondine for me, with this little stack of green beans and a risotto that smelled like heaven; grilled salmon and mashed potatoes for Ian. We ate in silence for a moment or two.

      “Here’s what we can do,” I said. “If you don’t want to talk about yourself that much, we’ll just say you spent a summer here as a kid, fell in love with Vermont, were so excited when the chance came to move here permanently. We’ll put up a really great picture of you and Angie, the smokin’ hottie vet and his best girl.” This got a small smile. Hello! That little flash was quite … delicious. However, I was in professional mode and barely noticed (snort). “And then we’ll ask for pictures of your clients and their pets. We’ll have to get releases, but that won’t be a problem. We’ll have a section called ‘Ask Dr. McFarland,’ where people can write in asking why Rover chews Mommy’s best shoes, and you can answer in a friendly and approachable tone.” I paused, took another bite of the delicious trout. “With me so far?”

      “Yes,” he said.

      “I also think you should hold a pet fair,” I said, warming to my subject.

      “What’s a pet fair?” he asked.

      “It’ll be like an open house at your practice. People bring their pets, you give away dog and cat and gerbil treats, maybe have a trainer there to give out tips.”

      “That sounds good,” he said.

      “And one of those agility courses. Bowie would rock that,” I said. “Maybe Noah could rig up a little cart, and Bowie could pull … nah, insurance issues, forget that. Oh! You could have a pet psychic, too!”

      “I don’t believe in pet psychics,” Ian said.

      “That doesn’t matter. It’ll be fun. Maybe we could get a state trooper to come with one of the K-9 dogs. We could do animal tattoos for the kiddies, face painting, have a balloon guy make those little poodles … This will be great, Ian!” I was practically bouncing in my seat, I was so excited. Ian could walk through the whole thing like a beneficent duke or something, and everyone could see that he wasn’t stiff and remote, just a little shy. “What do you think?” I asked.

      “It sounds …” terrifying, I imagined him saying. “It sounds great, Callie,” he said, surprising me. “I never would’ve thought of something like that.”

      Well! A flush of pride rushed to my cheeks. “We should do it soon. Winter comes fast up here.” At that moment, my phone buzzed. “Oh, sorry, let me get this,” I said. “It might be Noah needing something.”

      It wasn’t. It was a text from Annie. Glad you’re feeling lustful toward the vet. Go get him, girl!

      “Is it your grandfather?” Ian asked.

      He was leaning forward, a small frown of concern on his face. He had beautiful hands, Ian McFarland did. Capable. Strong. Gentle. “He’s fine,” I said, my voice a bit breathy. I felt my heart roll over in a slow, pleasant wave. “Just … he’s great.” Wouldn’t mind feeling those hands on me, no sir. I sat up a little straighter and told my inner Betty to pipe down. “So, Ian, are you seeing someone?” I heard myself say. Michelle Obama sighed wearily.

      Ian froze for a second, and well did I recognize that deer in the headlights look, oh, yes. “I’m not interested in a relationship at this time, but thank you,” he said, in what was clearly a much-rehearsed line.

      “No, no! I’m not asking for myself … it was more of a PR thing. You know, if you had a girlfriend, I’d … but it’s a moot point, right? Okay. Moving on.” My face was broiling, of course.

      Rescue came from an unlikely source.

      “Callie! How lovely to see you! And how lucky, too, since you never come by anymore. We’ll sit right here. Near our daughter.”

      My parents, led by Dave, stood in front of me.

      “Hi, Mom. And Dad! Oh! Hi, you, guys!” I stood up and hugged my parents, Mom first so she wouldn’t kill me, then Dad, who felt a little damp. Mom looked the way she always did when Dad was around—cool, disdainful and mildly disgusted. Dad, on the other hand, twinkled desperately.

      “How’s my Poodle?” he chortled, cupping my face in his hands, as in Clearly we did something right, Eleanor, so please don’t hurt me. “Isn’t she beautiful, Ellie?”

      “Mom,

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