All I Ever Wanted(48)

“You know a lot of people,” Ian commented, shaking out his napkin and putting it in his lap.

“You will, too,” I said, taking a sip of water. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. And you should join the River Rats. They’re a…” I made quotation marks with my fingers… “rowing club.”

“Yeah, join up, hottie!” Shaunee called. “We’ll corrupt you!”

“Yes, they’re great,” I said loudly, “if you like lazy, drunken revelers with no purpose in life other than trying to drown themselves.”

“Yeah!” my compadres cheered, toasting each other and high-fiving. I smiled. “Callie, we’re going over to Whoop & Holler,” Mitch Jenkins called. “Drop by later if you get a chance.”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. I watched fondly as the eight or nine Rats jostled their way out of the bar, then glanced over at Ian, who was watching as well. “They’re really a fun bunch,” I said.

“Rowing club?” he asked.

“Drinking club, more like it, but yes. They go whitewater kayaking a few times a month, go drinking a few times a week. In October, they hold this funny little regatta.” I took a sip of water. “They love my grandfather. It’s a little cultish, actually.” Mark was a member of the River Rats, though in name only. I wondered if Muriel would join. I sure hoped not.

Ian nodded, then picked up one of the leather-bound menus. Not much of a talker, this guy. We perused our menus in silence, though I kept darting looks across the table. The whole grumpy Russian thing was really starting to grow on me.

“So, Ian, why don’t we get started?” I said once we’d ordered. “I figured we’d do a Web site, and there’d be a section called ‘About Dr. McFarland,’ which is pretty standard. So.” I slid my laptop out of its case and popped it open. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I went to New York University for undergrad, Tufts for veterinary school,” he said.

“Yes, I read your diplomas. What else?”

“I did research on joint degeneration and taught at UVM before taking over for Dr. Kumar.”

I typed a few lines. “Okay, well, how about some personal stuff?”

His eyes grew wary. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, why did you move to our fair state?”

He looked at his place setting, then adjusted his fork a millimeter. “I liked New England. And Laura was from Boston.”

Ah, Laura. I was deeply interested in Laura. “Did you guys live in Vermont when you were married?” I asked. Do you still talk? Do you still love her? Did she break your heart?

“Yes. Burlington.” He took a breath—clearly, this was not how he’d choose to spend an evening—but he forged onward. “But I spent one summer in Georgebury when I was a kid.”

“Really?” The idea that Ian had been nearby was utterly thrilling.

He nodded. “I stayed with my uncle.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Maybe I know him.”

“Carl Villny. My mother’s brother. He died about ten years ago.”

Villny. A Russian name, if I wasn’t mistaken. Suppressing a smile (Was your uncle a Soviet mole, perchance?), I shook my head. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” I paused. “So you liked it up here, and after your divorce, you moved back?”

He nodded.

I waited for more. Smiled firmly. It worked.

“Right,” he said. “Um…I moved a lot when I was a kid, as I told you. My, um…my mother is a doctor, and she works in a lot of third world countries.” He paused. “I think we moved fifteen, twenty times. I lived all over.”

“Holy guacamole,” I said. “Now that is an unconventional childhood!”

“Yes.” He adjusted his cutlery again. “Don’t put that on the Web site.”

“Why?”

“It’s not relevant.” His jaw looked a little knotty.

“Well, here’s the thing, Ian,” I said. “If people feel they know you a little, they’ll trust you more.”

He shifted. “Right. But don’t put that on the Web site.”

I shrugged. “All right. Well, why do you love animals?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of a vapid question, don’t you think?”

I gritted my teeth. “Not to your clients, Dr. McFarland! Can you please scrape up an answer?”

He sighed. Looked at the table. Looked back at me. “They’re loyal. Next question?”

My turn to heave a sigh. “Here. Why don’t I just put my laptop away and you can pretend I’m your sister and we’re just having a chat, okay?”

“No.”

“Why?” I demanded. “If you want me to do this for you, you’re going to have to help.”

“I can’t pretend you’re my sister.”

It might’ve been a cute line, if, for example, it had been said by someone else. But in Ian’s case, the meaning was quite literal. Rolling my eyes, I put the laptop away and gave up for the moment.

Our server brought us dinner—trout almondine for me, with this little stack of green beans and a risotto that smelled like heaven; grilled salmon and mashed potatoes for Ian. We ate in silence for a moment or two.