LITMIR.BIZ

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God in heaven, Noah, what the hell were you thinking?” I yelled, my entire body shaking wildly. Bowie barked, backing me up. “I thought you were a serial killer! You scared the life out of me!”

      “Did I?” Noah snapped. “You’re kiddin’ me. And what if I was a killer, huh? Your pillow gonna save your life, dumb-ass?”

      “You … I—” My heart still thundered away, so hard my head buzzed. “What the hell are you doing in my bathroom, anyway?” I asked.

      “What the hell are you doing home so early?” he countered.

      “I left work a little … wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. “Who else was screaming? It wasn’t just me, was it?”

      “None of your business,” Noah answered, but his cheeks reddened.

      “Is someone else in there?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

      At that moment, Jody Bingham appeared from the bathroom, damp and … okay … wearing my bathrobe. “Hi, Callie,” she said calmly. “Sorry we scared you.”

      In the distance, I heard the sound of sirens. “Well, I’m sorry I called 911,” I said.

      WHEN THE POLICE, THE EMTS and the volunteer fire department (half of whom were River Rats) had listened to my story four or five times, wept tears of mirth and ascertained that my grandfather was not a threat to my safety, they finally trooped out.

      “Always great to see you, Noah,” Robbie Neal, president of the River Rats, said, shaking my grandfather’s hand.

      “Get outta here, Mister Man,” Noah grumbled.

      Robbie winked at me. “Sorry for your troubles, Callie,” he said.

      “Not as sorry as I am,” I returned. He closed the door behind him, already pulling out his phone to share the love.

      “Noah, Jody, once again, I’m wicked sorry,” I said. “But maybe you’ve learned an important lesson about not using other people’s bathrooms, huh?” I stirred the soup I’d whipped up during my little police interrogation. Jody and Noah sat at the kitchen table, looking rightfully sheepish.

      “We weren’t doing anything too …” Jody paused. “Nothing that improper, Callie,” she assured me. “Your grandfather’s leg hurt, I suggested he take a little Jacuzzi, and the tub’s in your bathroom.”

      “Uh-huh. So, Noah, the next time your truck’s in the shop and you feel like getting a booty call, maybe you could leave a note?”

      “What’s a booty call?” he asked.

      “What do you think?” I muttered, still a little ticked off. One does not often see one’s grandfather naked in one’s bathroom, after all. And thank the merciful Christ for that.

      “A booty call is when you visit someone for sex,” Jody said matter-of-factly. “Callie’s teaching us hip-hop. It’s very enlightening.”

      “So,” I said, bringing the pot of soup to the table and going back for a pack of Ritz crackers and some cream cheese, “how long have you two been … getting it on?”

      “Oh, we’re not really getting it on,” Jody said fondly. “Just two kindred spirits, right, Noah?”

      “Let’s not get hysterical,” he muttered, but his cheeks were pink, and when Jody reached across the table to hold his hand, he didn’t pull away.

      At that moment, the back door opened, and in poured the entire rest of my family—the parents, the siblings, the nieces.

      “We just got a call from Robbie Neal,” my father said, his forehead wrinkled with concern. “He said there was a break-in involving a … a pervert, honey?” Dad came right over to me and gripped my upper arms.

      “There was,” I confirmed. “And it was terrifying.”

      Once again, I told the story of Naked Grampy, which was sure to become a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie.

      “That is so nasty,” Bronte said, her face a little gray.

      Freddie was rocking back and forth, wheezing, Hester wiped tears from her eyes, Josephine played with a one-armed Barbie. And my parents sat next to each other on the bench.

      There was enough soup for everyone, and I whipped up a little peach crumble while we were all talking, and despite the fact that work sucked and I’d almost had my grandfather arrested for a sex crime, it turned out to be the nicest family meal we’d had in a long, long time.

      Maybe ever.

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

      THREE DAYS LATER, realizing I’d crushed any fledgling romance between Ian and me, I was fighting the blues. I wanted to call him, but kept losing my nerve. I thought about posting a question on his Web site … Dr. McFarland, if a guy kisses you and then, through no fault of your own, you run into an old boyfriend, how do you get things back on track?

      But all the dating manuals and Web sites warned fiercely against such an act. According to Slicing the Carotid: Fatal Mistakes Women Make in Relationships as well as Why the Man You Love Hates You, the very last thing I should do was pursue. Men are genetically predisposed to be the hunter/gatherers, one book said. Think of yourself as the woolly mammoth. Let the hunt come to you. I wasn’t sure about that advice, knowing just what happened to the woolly mammoths, but I got it. Besides, Ian had my home, office and cell numbers, my e-mail, my Facebook page and my street address. He was ignoring them all.

      In other news, eCommitment showed that I’d had some interest from a fifty-three-year-old lumberjack with two ex-wives, seven children and nine dogs. Clearly, I’d run through all the available men in northeastern Vermont. Human Hair was looking better and better.

      On Tuesday, Annie and I met for lunch at Toasted & Roasted, which was mobbed with senior citizen leaf peepers, and it was only because I’d danced with Gus at our eighth-grade mixer that we got a table. After hearing about my godson’s triumphs in the classroom, athletic field and dentist’s office, I brought my friend up to speed on my lack of a love life. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call him?” I asked, toying with my soup.

      “Give him some space.” She took a bite of her French dip sandwich and chewed wisely.

      “I hate space,” I muttered. “I’m much better at smothering, pestering and stalking. Space sucks.”

      “Trust me,” she said, smiling. “I know everything.”

      By Thursday, I decided that Annie in fact knew nothing and stalking was indeed the way to go. Hence, I decided to take my kayak for a little spin that evening on Granite Lake. Wasn’t like I’d never kayaked here before, was it? Sure, Ian’s dock was on the far side of this same lake, but that was hardly my fault. I’d been kayaking here long before any vet moved in.

      I unloaded the boat, got my paddle from Lancelot’s hatch and clicked on my life vest. “In you go, Bowie,” I said. My dog leaped neatly into the front seat of the kayak, pleased as punch.

      Twenty minutes later, I sighted Ian’s dock. He wasn’t there, and his house was too far to see from the water. Too bad. I’d rather hoped he’d be sitting out here, mooning after me. I bobbed there a moment, the waves slapping the side of the kayak. Then, with a gusty sigh, I turned my trusty vessel around and headed back. But the fresh air and exercise soothed my soul a little nonetheless; it was hard to be blue with Bowie, who sat in quivering attendance upfront, his head turning sharply whenever he sensed a fish or a turtle or an amoeba.

      Vermont was at its most beautiful this week, the height of leaf season, the foliage so pure and brilliant it was almost a physical sensation. The early October evening was soft, the setting sun cutting in golden shards through the gray clouds. In just a few weeks, all this would be gone, just an achingly beautiful memory ‘til next year, and the long, white winter would be upon

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