All I Ever Wanted(7)

“I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my br**sts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

“Ah. Well. That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I’m so…it’s been a crazy…you know. Work. Stuff. What’s that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer, where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

“No, you can’t straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

Bronte turned to me. “Don’t you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

“Um…Mother knows best?” I suggested.

“You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer’s muse. No sympathy on the name.”

“And I was named after the slut in The Scarlet Letter,” Hester said. “At least you have a cool author’s name. Which, once again, I didn’t even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could’ve had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she’d adopted both her children. Bronte’s biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she’d hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

“Well, I’m changing my name to Sheniqua when I’m sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

“I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

“Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We’d love to stay…”

“…but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.

“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”

Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.

“Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a f**king funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.

The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.

“Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”

Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”

Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.

The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.

“So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.

“Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.

“You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”

I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.