Along Came Trouble(24)

Carly smoothed her hands over her bump. “Me, too.” Picking invisible lint off the black camisole that stretched over her stomach, she flicked it into the air. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“What a mess, huh?”

“Yeah.” What a terrible mess. Jamie wounded but flippant in L.A., Carly wounded and bitter here, and Ellen suffering from a weird combination of reckless, angry lust and deep mortification every time she thought about Caleb. Which was every four seconds or so, all morning long.

She’d thrown herself at him, and he’d responded with Better if I don’t. Of all the painfully innocuous ways to be turned down—like she was a piece of cheesecake or a third beer. Nah. Thanks, but I’m good. Better if I don’t.

Probably last night had been nothing out of the ordinary for him. No doubt women swooned into him all the time, and he had to pluck them off him, like ticks. Just one of life’s hazards when you were Caleb Clark.

Whereas she was so ridiculously smitten, she’d spelled his name with Henry’s alphabet blocks. C-A-L-E-B.

Mama spelled?

Nothing, Peanut. Mama’s being silly.

“So what’s the story with Caleb?” she asked.

Silly, silly Mama.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Carly’s mouth. “Which story do you want?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned him, but he said you’re old friends. Are you two close?”

“I guess so,” Carly said with a shrug. “I’ve known him forever. I would’ve sworn you’d met him. He helped carry all Nana’s stuff out to the truck when we moved her into the assisted living place. Weren’t you around for that?”

“No, we were out visiting Jamie that weekend.”

“Oh. Well, Caleb’s a good guy to have around. Nana loves him. I guess I do, too, in a known-you-forever sort of way. I don’t, like, pour my heart out to him or anything. I didn’t tell him about Jamie.”

“Why not?”

Carly wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t think he’d approve. He and your brother—I can’t see them hanging out and watching football together, you know?”

The idea amused her. Caleb was such a man’s man, solid and sure of himself. Jamie had a whole different sort of appeal. He was carefree, a guy who’d spent his adulthood recording albums and doing tours and getting fawned over for it. Whereas Caleb had been guarding convoys in Iraq.

The thought of Caleb in fatigues, with a gun, sent a frisson of excitement through her, which only amplified her mortification. She’d been married to a poet, and now she was the kind of woman who got hot flashes thinking about a guy with a bazooka. Soldier kink. She was hopeless.

They reached the cross street that marked their arrival downtown. Two blocks long, Camelot’s minuscule business district featured a market, a deli, the college bookstore, and a pub on one side of the path and a bank, the post office, and a handful of other, less vital businesses on the other.

Nothing much to it, but it met the residents’ needs, and it had charms urban life lacked: Old-fashioned post-office boxes with bronze doors and hand-painted numbers on their little glass windows. A deli that served perfect tuna-salad sandwiches. Caleb Clark.

“What was his rank?” she asked.

As they waited for a car to pass, Carly peered at Ellen’s face and broke into a delighted smile. “Wow. I had no idea you even . . . You are a complete goner for Caleb. That is fantastic.”

“No, I’m not.” They crossed and moved onto the sidewalk.

“You totally are.” Carly elbowed her in the ribs. “He was asking me about you, too. Want me to pass him a note, find out if he likes you?”

“Shut up. Forget I said anything.”

“’Nother cracker, Mama.” Ellen fished one out of the sleeve and passed it back. They were nearly to the college bookstore, an all-purpose emporium that had the best coffee in town.

“He was a sergeant, I think,” Carly said. “Sergeant first class? Is that a thing? I don’t know.” She flapped her hand, dismissing the whole idea of being expected to remember military ranks. “I’m a pacifist.”

Sergeant First Class Caleb Clark. Yum.

Carly saw whatever shameful expression this thought put on Ellen’s face and laughed. Ellen rolled her eyes, an adolescent affectation that did little to hide how vulnerable the conversation made her feel. How pitiably excited.