LITMIR.BIZ

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As I approached, Muriel’s voice cut through the crowd. “It’s just that she’s so smug.”

      My footsteps halted.

      “No, Mure, she’s really not,” Mark said. “She’s just more experienced. You’ll get there.”

      “Then why does she have to gloat? I mean—”

      Gloat? I didn’t gloat! Not one bit (which had taken some serious self-control, let me tell you!). “Hey, guys! How are you?” I said, lurching back into action.

      Mark’s face lit up. “Callie! What are you doing here?”

      “I had a drink with a friend,” I said. “Hi, Muriel.”

      Two spots of red burned on her white, white cheeks, practically melting them.

      “Do you want to join us?” Mark said easily.

      “Sure. Just for a sec.” I pulled up a chair and sat. “Heard it was a little tricky at Hammill today.” I may have heard Muriel hiss, and I turned to her magnanimously. “I thought the squirrel idea was pretty cute. Not bad for the first time out.”

      “Gee. Thanks,” she replied, acid practically dripping from her mouth.

      “If you ever want to bounce some ideas off me, my door’s always open,” I said.

      She narrowed her eyes to glittering slits. “Thank you.”

      I took a deep breath. You’re behaving very well, Michelle affirmed. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. Have a great night.”

      “Thanks, Callie,” Mark said, his eyes warm. “See?” I heard him say as I walked away. “She’s not out to get you, sweetpea.”

      The last word hit me like a poison dart, and I had to force myself to keep going. Sweetpea. Mark had called me that once. In Santa Fe, in front of an antique jewelry store, when I’d paused to admire a charm bracelet. Come on, sweetpea. We have better things to do than shop. A hundred points for guessing what those better things were, but here’s a hint. Hotel. Bed. Two consenting adults.

      So. Muriel was sweetpea now.

      Freddie and I hung out for another couple hours, as neither of us had other plans. We ordered burgers, I switched to water, Freddie guzzled beer and we watched the Red Sox lose to the Angels in the tenth. M&M left in the sixth, I noted. They were crap fans. Didn’t even care about the Sox. Not that I really did, either, but still.

      “I’ll drive you home, pal,” I said, as my newly legal brother was tipsy.

      “I’ll walk,” he slurred.

      “Nah. I’ll drive you. But I won’t tuck you in. You’re on your own from the driveway on.”

      “‘Kay. Thanks, sissy.”

      Five minutes later, my brother had made it through the front door of the funeral home, and my forced good cheer dropped with a thud. The street was quiet; it was nearly midnight, and Georgebury wasn’t exactly known for its nightlife. For a few minutes, I just sat in my silent Prius and breathed.

      Sweetpea.

      Then, my heart both stony and sore, I put Lancelot into reverse and headed out again. But not toward home. Silencing my inner First Lady, I headed down Main Street, past Georgebury Academy. Took a left onto Camden Street and just before the hill veered steeply downward, came to a stop. Turned off my headlights and sat there.

      Lights were on downstairs, warm and mellow. I rolled down my window. There was a chill in the air … autumn came fast to Vermont. Despite what the calendar said, summer had already left us. The slight breeze carried a snatch of music toward me … I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded … sophisticated. Jazz, maybe.

      Then someone turned off a light in the kitchen, where, one time, I’d cooked dinner for Mark. A person passed by the living room window. Mark. He stopped, turned and looked back. Then Muriel’s wraith-like figure passed by the window. She pushed back some hair, then leaned over and clicked off a light, enshrouding the downstairs in darkness. A few seconds later, an upstairs light went on. Mark’s bedroom.

      Their bedroom.

      My throat was thick with tears, and self-disgust churned in my stomach. Why did I still love him? After the hell he’d put me through this week, I just shouldn’t. Why couldn’t I get over him? What had been lacking between us? Santa Fe had been the happiest time of my life. Why wasn’t it enough for Mark? What did he see in Muriel deVeers, who had all the warmth of one of the bodies in my mother’s basement, that he hadn’t seen in me? If I was so irreplaceable, if he was still using that velvet voice on me, why wasn’t I the one in that house right now?

      Callie, get a grip. You are parked on his street, alone, while he’s upstairs with another woman. Is this who you want to be? a voice asked. And this time, she didn’t even sound like Michelle Obama.

      She sounded a lot like me.

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      “EASY THERE, GIRL, we’re not in this for exercise,” I warned Annie as she paddled vigorously.

      “We’re not?” Annie asked.

      “Nope. This is scenery appreciation only. Oh, look! A loon! Hi, loon!”

      It was Saturday morning, a week after my little spying gig, which had left a bad taste in my mouth for quite a few days. A paddle on a lake was just the sort of soul cleansing I needed, so when Annie called this morning, begging me to get her out of the house before she (in her words) “slaughtered every living thing,” I suggested kayaking. Then, of course, when I zipped over there, I had to pry her off her child as she covered Seamus’s ridiculously cute face with kisses, then made out with her husband in the front hall. “You people disgust me,” I said, finally dragging her off.

      “Bye, Callie,” Jack called.

      “Don’t you have a twin?” I’d asked. “No? Then save it, bub.”

      Alas, Annie was a jock … as opposed to my lackadaisical paddle, she was quite the little engine that could, propelling us along at a good clip and expecting me to keep up.

      “It’s nice to have human company,” I said, turning my head a bit so Annie, who was in the back, could hear me.

      “Bowie’s not jealous?” she asked.

      “Of course he is. I had to give him three chew sticks and a pancake.”

      Kayaking … at least, this type of kayaking, was just breathtaking. The let’s-see-if-these-rapids-will-kill-me type … not for me. But Annie and I were just circling Granite Lake, following the shore, where small waves slapped at the rocks in a rhythmic, soothing beat. A snapping turtle broke the surface a few feet away, then ducked back under the water with barely a ripple.

      Today, the air was soft, the sky gray and gentle. It had been chilly at first, but now that we’d been at it a while, we were warmer. The lake was spring-fed and so clear I could see to the bottom, which was lined with the rocks that gave the lake its name. Surrounding us was a nearly unbroken wall of green—pines and hemlocks, maples and oaks. Overnight, the leaves would start to turn … the few tinges of yellow and red that had been flirting with us since August would suddenly engulf the foliage in fiery, heart-stopping color that would light up our countryside, a shock of beauty so intense it dazzled the eyes and made you wonder how you’d last another year without it.

      “So how are your parents?” Annie asked.

      “Um … hmm,” I said, taking yet another opportunity to stop paddling and turn to talk to my friend. “How to answer that. Let’s see. The Tour of Whores made its second stop, apparently. I wasn’t there this time—thank you, Jesus—but according to Hester, this particular home wrecker was blind, and when Mom saw the white cane and guide dog, she just lost heart. Left the table and had Dad buy the woman

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