Good for you, Mrs. Obama cheered. I didn’t feel so triumphant. Christ, what if he fired me right now? I never talked like this! I never had to.
Mark stepped closer to me. Unlike the rest of us, he didn’t have glass walls. My heart rate kicked up, and I felt my cheeks prickle with heat. “You’re right,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry. About a lot of things, Callie.”
My throat tightened in helpless anger … and other things. Sorrow. Heartache. Memories of feeling so stupid for so long. Don’t cave now, the First Lady urged. You’re doing great.
“Look at me, Callie,” Mark said softly.
Ah, shit, Michelle sighed. Here we go again.
Mark’s eyes were ridiculously appealing. Dark, dark brown with thick, long lashes. It wasn’t fair. I totally understood the old expression, damn your eyes. As if reading my mind, Mark smiled, just a little bit, and that was what broke me. For a flash, it felt like we were back in that closet in Gwen Hardy’s basement, and a hot wave of longing surged over me. It just wasn’t fair.
“No one can replace you, Callie,” he said quietly. “No one.”
I took a shaky breath. Confusion and anger and, yes, hope—dopey, immortal hope—churned around in my heart. “I appreciate that,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “But I’m not sure this is going to work for me, Mark.”
“Don’t you even think about it,” Mark said, taking my hands. “Trust me. Things will settle down. Muriel will find her place. Be patient, okay? Please?” His thumbs rubbed the backs of my hands—gently, slowly, before he let go. “Now I’ve made my best girl cry,” he murmured, going over to his desk. “Let me find you a tissue or something.”
He’s using you, Michelle told me.
The thing was, I already knew.
MARK AND MURIEL LEFT FOR their meeting with Hammill Farms at 9:00 on Friday morning. Damien went, too, to help set up the presentation and take notes. The morning seemed to last forever. I fussed, I did busywork, I e-mailed clients and subcontractors, I deleted old files. I could barely sit still.
Finally, around two, they returned. The rest of us fell silent, waiting for the verdict while pretending to work. Our first indicator was Muriel, who stomped down the hall in her tight black skirt and slammed the door to her office. She didn’t spare me a glance. Mark and Damien came along next and went straight to Mark’s office, closing the door behind them.
A half hour later, Damien crept out of Mark’s office. A few minutes later, he sent me an e-mail. Callie shoots, Callie scores. Hammill went with your original idea.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER WORK THAT DAY, I dragged Damien to the Whoop & Holler, ye olde Vermont townie bar. “I’m not sitting there,” he said, giving our booth a disdainful once-over. “I’ll get crabs.”
“Oh, stop,” I said. “We couldn’t go to Elements, because Dave works there, and since you guys are still broken up …” Damien sighed, and I continued. “Besides, I’m meeting someone here later.” Another attempt at eCommitment’s offerings. “And,” I continued craftily, before he could insult me over my anemic love life, “they have the best apricot sours ever.”
Damien’s perfectly groomed eyebrows bounced up at the mention of his favorite drink. “Okay. For you. On this day of days,” he said, sitting down gingerly.
“Two apricot sours, Jim!” I called, doing a double take when I saw my brother at the bar. “And don’t serve Freddie! He’s underage!”
“You little shit,” Jim said, cuffing Freddie. “How dare you come in with a fake ID!”
“I turned twenty-one in April!” my brother yelped. “My own sister might not remember, but it’s still true!”
I paused and did the math. “Oh, that’s right, Jim. Sorry!”
Freddie gave me the finger and grinned.
When our drinks came, Damien took a sip and then, mollified by the yumminess, told the whole story, with plenty of embellishment and snark, just as I’d hoped.
First, John Hammill had been surprised not to see me, as he was under the (correct) impression that I was the genius of the operation. Secondly, he’d been confused and slightly disturbed by Muriel’s idea.
“It was a cartoon, Callie,” Damien said, slurping more apricot sour. “Of a squirrel, okay? So her little squirrel, which is apparently named Squeaky the Squirrel, climbs up on a barrel of syrup, jumps in and starts lapping it up. And then comes this scary little high-pitched voice, and I’m pretty fucking sure it was Muriel … ‘So good even a squirrel will eat it!’”
“What does that even mean?” I asked, covering my mouth in horror.
“Who the fuck knows?” he said, laughing so hard he practically choked. I couldn’t help joining in. “So John says, ‘I’m really uncomfortable with this … who’d want to buy syrup when a rodent’s been swimming around in it? What are you gonna do next? Rats?’ And M&M, they give each other these looks, like they can’t fucking believe he took a pass.”
“So what happened after that?” I asked, sucking up the last of my girly-girl drink through a straw.
“So Mark said something like, ‘Well, we do have another idea,’ and shows yours, and John practically wets himself, he loves it so much. Came out of his chair when he heard that you already got Terry fucking Francona to agree.”
I sat back against the booth. “That’s great. I’m so glad John liked it. He’s such a good guy,” I said, pleased beyond words. Still, the fact didn’t escape me that I’d just spent the past three days frantically working, all on a Muriel whim. That was not cool. Not at all.
“So. You win, Callie,” Damien said, slurping down the rest of his drink. “What next?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know, Damien,” I admitted. “Do you …” I hesitated. “Do you think Muriel’s going to … last? With Mark, I mean?”
Damien sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s not the one I’d pick for him, that’s for sure.”
I didn’t say anything else. Annie had just come in, and she’d skin me if she knew I was talking about Mark’s love life. She was here to eavesdrop on my meeting with Ron, my latest attempt at finding The One. I wasn’t always sitting around mooning after my boss, my vet and other emotionally unavailable men.
Damien glanced at his watch. “Well. Must run. I have much better plans than hanging out here with you and these townies. No offense, of course. Toodles!”
“You’re going to get beat up if you don’t stop saying that,” I advised. “And I’ll be leading the mob, carrying a pipe.”
To my surprise, he kissed my cheek. “Thanks for the drink, Callie. And well done. Oh!” He looked over at the door. “Is that the someone you’re meeting? He’s looking around, has a desperate, furtive, rat-like demeanor …”
“Shut it, Damien,” I muttered. I looked over and waved. As if electrified, Annie hurtled over, followed closely by Freddie.
“Hi,” she said. “Is that him? The guy you waved to? Is he cute? He’s not bad. At least he’s tall.”
“Go sit where you can eavesdrop,” I instructed. Annie took the booth directly behind me. “Come, Fred,” she ordered. “Sit. Stay.”
“He