LITMIR.BIZ

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with us.

      “The office is closed tomorrow,” Mark announced, waving a slice of garlic and sausage in the air. “Yankees–Red Sox at Fenway, and even though I had to mortgage my house to get the tickets, you’re all worth it.”

      Cheers broke out, though Karen was the only true baseball fan. Field trips like this were something Mark had done from the beginning of Green Mountain Media. Once we’d spent the day at Ben & Jerry’s (heaven, I tell you). Another time we’d gone skiing (or, perhaps more appropriately for some of us, drinking in a picturesque lodge while Mark and Karen skied). We’d been to Fenway once before, and it had been wicked fun.

      After work, I swung by the funeral home. Mom didn’t mention the Bette Davis debacle, and neither did I. She and Louis were engaged in a mutual praise-fest over the restoration work on a particularly gruesome case involving a man and a wood chipper (enough said, don’t you think?), so I endured that as long as I could, then kissed my mom’s cheek and left them to their work. Dropped by home, got Noah’s dinner ready, called my dad and found myself at the bowling alley an hour later.

      “Poodle!” Dad cried when he saw me. I could see he was back to channeling George Clooney.

      “Hi, Daddy,” I said, giving him an extra big smooch on the cheek.

      “Don’t you look pretty!” he exclaimed, and I smiled and gave a little twirl. If Dad was George Clooney, then I was Audrey Hepburn (well, a somewhat plumper Audrey) with a cute ponytail, pedal pushers and a white shirt tied at the waist. “Stan, doesn’t my daughter look gorgeous?” Dad called to his buddy, who was joining us.

      “So gorgeous,” Stan called, winking at me as he reverently removed his bowling ball from its case.

      “You doing okay, Daddy?” I asked.

      “Of course!” he said. “Sometimes it feels good to get things off your chest, know what I mean? But your mother’s got a lot invested in being the martyred ex-wife. I was hoping that things could be different. Gave it my best shot. Que sera, sera.” He sang the last bit, took my hand and twirled me. “Now come on, pretty girl. See if you can knock over a few pins.”

      I chose a sparkly pink ball (to match my personality) and lobbed it with great enthusiasm and zero skill. Dad chuckled and put his arm around me as we watched the ball head inevitably for the gutter.

      AROUND FIVE THE NEXT EVENING, we were all jammed into Karen’s minivan, full of Fenway franks, Cracker Jacks and beer. “Those fucking Yankees!” Karen cursed, leaning on her horn as we sat in the sea of cars exiting Boston. “A total waste of fantastic fucking seats, Mark. Eleven to two. It’s just wrong.”

      “I didn’t think it was a waste,” Damien said. “That Jeter has the best ass in baseball. And I heard a rumor he’s gay.”

      “He’s not gay,” I said. “I got a totally hetero vibe when he looked at me.”

      “You wish,” Damien sneered. “He was looking at me.”

      “I’ll fight you for him,” I offered.

      “You’d win,” Mark said, smiling as he checked his iPhone.

      Yes. Mark and I were sitting next to each other. Pete and Leila, already entwined around each other, had claimed the seats furthest in the back and were, from the sounds of it, snogging. Damien conveniently suffered from carsickness, so he always got the front. Which left Fleur, Mark and me in the second row, Mark between us two girls.

      “This was a great day, Mark,” I said. “Thank you.”

      “Yes, thanks. Brilliant idea,” Fleur quickly seconded.

      He put his phone back in his pocket. “Good to be with my people,” he said. His dark eyes slid to my face, and he smiled that crooked grin, then winked.

      My face warmed, and to hide my blush, I turned my head and looked out on Commonwealth Avenue. Mark chuckled.

      Twenty minutes later, my boss’s head was on my shoulder, his soft, curly hair tickling my cheek.

      “How men can sleep anywhere, anytime, is beyond me,” Fleur said, shifting. The minivan was called mini for a reason.

      “You okay back there, Callie?” Karen asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

      Everyone in this car knew about my crush. Everyone was also kind enough to say nothing, though Fleur raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine. I’ll just give him a good shove if I get uncomfortable,” I answered easily.

      “I’ll give him a good shove if he keeps Muriel around,” Damien grumbled.

      “Stop it,” I murmured.

      “Seriously,” Damien said, turning around in his seat to whisper. “She’s such a self-important little bitch.” Fleur’s ears pricked up, and she leaned forward to join in.

      “Damien. Stop,” I said. “What if Mark hears you? What if God hears you and puts a black mark next to your name? Okay? So shut it.”

      “I hate moral people,” he said, turning around. “You’re so boring.”

      “I’m telling Dave you were mean to me,” I said, grinning. “You know your boyfriend adores me.”

      He turned around and smiled, his usually supercilious expression gone in place of a big smile. “Thanks for helping with that,” he said.

      “You’re welcome. Buy me something fabulous.”

      “You got it.”

      And then I was alone again, sort of, breathing in the smell of Mark’s shampoo, telling my heart to wise up, despite it natural inclination to do otherwise.

      ON SATURDAY, I SURVEYED my vast collection of fab shoes, wondering if bringing seven pairs on an overnight trip might be excessive, when Noah bellowed up the stairs.

      “Got a second?” he asked. “I need some help in the shop.”

      “Sure,” I called, glancing at the clock. Ian was coming at two, and it was only quarter after twelve, so I went downstairs, Bowie pattering after me, his steps light, looking up at me as if I were the most fascinating person in the world. Or as if I were about to give him some bacon, which was more likely.

      Noah was working on a sea kayak, a long, beautiful boat with a razor-sharp bow and thin body. It looked like a suicide machine to me, but to each his own.

      “Okay, just slide it down the side here,” Noah instructed, feeding me the piece of mahogany, which was so long it quivered.

      “You don’t usually put trim on your kayaks, do you, Noah?” I asked, doing as I was told.

      “No. But this flatlander wanted what he wanted, and he was dumb enough to pay me three grand extra, so here we go. Now can we drop the chatter and get this done?”

      “Yes, Noah. And don’t forget I’m going to a wedding and I still need to pack.”

      Ian had e-mailed me last night with our schedule, a rather matter-of-fact list of information. We’d be staying at the Capitol Hotel, a beautiful old place that was actually a former account of mine. (The grace of yesterday, the convenience of today.) I was glad Ian had chosen it … not that there was a lot to choose from, even in our capital city. Montpelier was only about an hour from Georgebury, but if Ian wanted to put me up in a gorgeous hotel, I wasn’t about to talk him out of it. Just come as my friend. The memory brought a smile to my face. I would. I’d be a great friend.

      “So who’s gonna feed me while you’re gone?” Noah asked.

      “No one. I expect to come home tomorrow and find your withered little skeleton, sitting all alone at the table, still waiting for dinner. If only you could walk or talk or use the phone or make your own damn dinner … wait a minute! You can!”

      Noah growled, but beneath his white beard, a smile lurked. “You’re a smart-ass, anyone

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