All I Ever Wanted(26)

“I have a housemate, too,” Doug answered. “She’s kind of a shrew, but it’s her house, so what can you do?”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I said. “Are you looking for another place?”

“Well, it’s my mother, so I’m stuck.”

Strike one. “Why don’t you move?” I asked.

“I’m broke,” he said with a deprecating smile.

Strike two. Not to be financially prejudiced, but a broke thirty-three-year-old who lives with his mama…the positive indicators were not exactly raining down. Mark and Muriel, Michelle Obama reminded me. You’re moving on, remember? Right. Plus, the surly vet had just sat down nearby, and for obvious reasons, I wanted him to see me interacting successfully with a male of my own age.

“So what do you do for a living, Doug?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ian unfolding the Wall Street Journal. Before Doug could answer, my mother and Louis approached, brown bags in hand.

“Callie, are you on a date?” Mom asked, not bothering to keep the shock and horror from her voice.

“Hello,” Louis said, standing much, much too close to our table. Doug and I both looked up. “I’m Louis. Calliope’s special friend.”

“He’s not,” I said. “Mom, Louis, this is Doug. Doug, my mother, Eleanor Misinski, and Louis Pinser, her assistant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Doug said.

“What are your intentions toward Callie?” Louis said in that silky, serial-killer voice. “Is this serious? Should I be concerned, Calliope?”

“Okay! Bye now,” I said. “Bye, Louis. You may go. Off with you now.”

My mother took Louis’s arm and pulled him back a few steps. “I hope you have fun,” she said in that sympathetic and somber tone she used at work. She sighed tragically—poor woman, had her daughter learned nothing?—and guided Louis out the front door.

I took a deep breath and refocused on my date. “Sorry,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “You were about to tell me what you do for a living.”

“I’m an artisan,” he said, his face lighting up. “I use organic materials in unexpected applications to try to get people to pay more attention to our natural gifts.” It was clearly a recitation Doug used often. He leaned back in his chair and grinned.

“Oh,” I said. “Ah.” I tried not to hold the whole granola/artisan/crunchy Vermont thing against him…after all, you couldn’t go forty feet in this state without tripping over a potter or a weaver or a sculptor. My own grandfather was quite an artisan, though I was fairly sure Noah would stick a fork in his eye before using that particular label.

“So what do you actually make?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup. Ah. Broccoli and cheese. Delicious.

“I make plant holders out of human hair,” Doug said, and I choked. Grabbed a napkin and wheezed away, coughing, tears in my eyes, swallowing convulsively. My eyes dropped to his bracelet. Blerk! It was hair! Someone’s hair! I wheezed harder, horror and hilarity thrashing in equal measure.

“Wow,” I managed. Ian McFarland shot me a glance, and I tried to smile, gave him a feeble wave.

“You okay?” Doug asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said, finally getting my breath back. “So. Human hair. Wow.”

“I know,” Doug said proudly. “No one’s really doing that these days, so I’ve cornered the market.”

“There’s really a market for human hair macramé?” I asked. “Um, I mean… Human hair. Wow.”

Steee-rike three! I suppressed the urge to do that cool little punching thing the home plate umpires do, but come on! Doug336 of the human hair craft corner was not the kind of guy to replace Mark.

Appetite slain, I tried to tune out Doug as he waxed rhapsodic about the strength and versatility of different types of hair…red, brunette, the rare natural blond. Glancing surreptitiously to my left, I saw that Ian was engrossed in an article. Nice way to spend a lunch, reading and eating, two of my favorite pastimes. And he’d ordered the pastrami, lucky bastard. It looked fantastic.

Across from me, Doug laughed at something he said, and I snapped to.

“So…” I paused, and curiosity got the better of me. “Where do you get the hair? From a salon or something?”

“No, not a salon. I have my sources,” he said. His eyes rose to my head. “You have very pretty hair, by the way.” I swallowed. “Want to go back to my place?”

“So you can scalp me?” Here I’d thought Louis was creepy! I couldn’t wait to call Annie.

“No.” He laughed. “So we can fool around. My mom’s a heavy sleeper.”

“Jeesh!” I blurted. “I’m sorry, Doug. This isn’t going to work. I’m sure you’re very…uh…creative and, um…fun, but I don’t think there’s a…a future here.”

“Fine! Thanks for wasting my time.” Doug stood up and left, just like that, stomping like a sullen three-year-old. Heads turned. I wondered if anyone noticed his bracelet. Or his bald spot, which caught the light as he went outside.

I glanced at Ian McFarland. He was looking at me with his icy blue eyes, the way you’d eye roadkill. “Everything all right, Callie?” he asked.