Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
Читать онлайн книгу.
Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father … but he’d already been punished for so long. Hester had barely spoken to him for years, and my mother kept the emotional knives sharpened, as was her right. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t in me to hate my father. His infidelity was a mystery best left unexplored. To the best of my knowledge, and despite his Cary Grant charm and crinkly eyes, Dad had been alone ever since he left my mother. Certainly, I had never met a girlfriend or heard a tale of even a dinner companion. Indeed, it seemed as if Dad had been atoning since before Freddie was even born.
“She loved me once,” Dad said quietly, almost to himself. “I can make her remember why.”
Yes. Squirreled away, separated from the memories of Mom sobbing on the couch or spewing curses at my father as my infant brother screamed his way through five months of colic, were a few little gems. Mom sitting on Dad’s lap. The two of them dancing in the living room without benefit of music when Dad returned from a long business trip. The sound of their laughter drifting out from behind their bedroom door, as comforting as the smell of vanilla cake, fresh from the oven.
“Will you help me, Poodle?” Dad asked. “Please, baby?”
I took a deep breath. “You know what? Sure. It’ll be an uphill battle, but sure.”
Dad’s expression changed, and he once again became a sparkly George Clooney. “That’s my girl! You’ll see. I’ll get her back.” He smooched my cheek, and I couldn’t help smiling. Twenty-two years should be enough time served, right? Dad deserved another chance at love.
And so did I. Dammit, so did I! Betty Boop stopped crying and seemed to look up at me. Really? Honest and true?
“Want another drink?” my father asked, and without waiting for an answer, trotted to the makeshift bar in the back.
Suddenly, I felt better. My father was going to try again to reclaim the love of his life. I should try, too. Mark had chosen me once … maybe I’d been too … sappy or clingy or whatever during those five weeks. I’d been mooning after him ever since Santa Fe. Maybe, just by going back to myself, that cheerful, smart, likable person I was, Mark would see that I was the one for him, not Muriel. And if he saw me with someone else, maybe that would be the kick in the butt he needed.
The—what had the man at the DMV called it?—ah, yes, the emotional diarrhea had been purifying. Life was good, as the T-shirts said. Or it could become good, right? I could find someone else. Even if Mark didn’t want me—I winced, but kept going—if that was true, then I’d find someone else who did. I would! No more Debbie Downer, no more Bitter Betty. I was Callie Grey, after all. Former prom queen, I’ll have you know. Everyone liked me. They really did.
“Doesn’t it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.
“So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.
The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”
The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot’s!).
“Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”
“Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).
Louis Pinser was my mother’s mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she’d had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I’d overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I’m so sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me very attractive. All the weird ones did.
“I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. 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.