“You and Michelle Obama,” I muttered, then, in a normal voice, said, “The thing is, Mom’s just torturing him. She’s like a shark who just … I don’t know … just ate a walrus, sees a baby seal and eats that, too. Not because she’s hungry … just because she can.”
“She has a right to be mad, Callie.”
“Twenty-two years of being mad?”
“I don’t know,” Annie said, huffing away behind me. “If Jack even thought of cheating on me, I’d slice him up good.”
I grinned. “I love when you talk all tough like that, you gangsta, you.”
“Get paddling,” she retorted. “Or I’ll slice you up, too.”
I turned back around and obeyed. A thumb-size mosquito whined near my face, taunting me before coming in for the pint or so of blood it would take. The water sluiced gently against the bow of my kayak. Our speed was pretty good … certainly much better than when Bowie and I went out, since the stubborn beast refused to help.
“Oh, look!” Annie said, nudging me with her paddle. “A man!” She pointed into the distance. Sure enough, a human figure was visible on a dock about a hundred yards away.
“Let’s kidnap him and force him to marry me,” I suggested.
“Okay!” Annie laughed. “Ooh. I think he’s drawing! That’s so hot, don’t you think?”
“Only if I’m naked and wearing the Heart of the Ocean and Jack Dawson is intently sketching me mere hours before his hypothermic death in the North Atlantic,” I said with a happy sigh.
“You’ve got to stop watching those sappy movies.”
“I will not! And don’t get sanctimonious on me, young lady! Didn’t your own husband use the phrase You complete me during his marriage proposal? Hmm?”
“I still regret telling you that,” she murmured. “Let’s go check him out.”
As we drew near, we could see the figure more clearly. It was indeed a man. And not just any man. It was Ian, sitting cross-legged on an old wooden dock, Angie at his side. And yes, he was drawing, a sketchpad on his lap. He looked up as we approached.
“Hi!” Annie chirped.
“Hi, Ian,” I seconded.
“Hello.” He watched as we pulled up to the dock, our intentions clear—to interrupt his lovely morning.
“Ian, this is my friend, Annie Doyle. Annie, the new vet, Ian McFarland.”
“Hi there,” she said, making me blush furiously, because Annie had this voice, you know? The voice she used when a particularly good meal was served … that oh, God, yes, yes, come to me, fettuccine Alfredo type of voice. “It’s … really nice to meet you.” I considered smacking her with my paddle.
“Are you drawing, Ian?” I asked.
Ian glanced down at his pad, the pencil that he held in his hand, then back at me. Wow. Those are some powers of deduction. “Yes.” Angie’s tail wagged.
“Can we dock here for a sec? I could really use a good stretch,” Annie said, subtle as a charging wildebeest.
Ian hesitated a second. “Sure.”
We paddled up to the dock. Ian came down to steady the kayak as we twisted and lunged our way out.
“So!” Annie said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you live around here, Ian?”
“Yes. Over there.”
He pointed to the woods. A little path twisted through the pines and over the granite rocks. I could make out a clearing, but not a house. “Is this your dock?” Annie asked. It would probably be easier if she just asked for a financial statement. Knowing her, that would be next.
“Yes. It’s mine.” Ian’s eyes flicked over to me.
“So Callie tells me she’s doing a little work for you, Ian,” Annie said, nodding approvingly. “She’s the best. So talented. You’re very lucky to have her. She’s great.”
“That’s enough, Annie,” I said. “I didn’t know you drew, Ian.” I could’ve put that on the Web site. Hobbies include painting, drawing and being too polite to get rid of intrusive visitors. “That painting in your office … your work?”
He looked at me, mildly surprised that I guessed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“I love that picture,” I said. “Nice and juicy with all that squishy paint.”
“She doubles as an art critic,” Annie said with mock seriousness. Ian smiled. My uterus twitched in response. Dang. To cover my blush, I knelt down to pet Angie, who wagged politely.
“You know what?” Annie said abruptly. “I have a soccer game! Actually, Seamus—my son, Ian—he has a soccer game. But I have to go to it! I forgot! So I’m just gonna call Jack and he can come and get me! Okay?”
“I thought Seamus and Jack were going to the movies,” I said.
“No, he has a soccer game,” Annie ground out, widening her eyes at me as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Hi, Jack, sweetie, can you pick me up? No, I’m fine. I just remembered the game. The game. Never mind. I’m at … what’s your address, Ian?”
“75 Bitter Creek Road,” he answered, glancing at me. “Will you be able to get back alone?” he asked, looking down at the kayak.
“Sure,” I said, resigned. Annie was matchmaking, a disastrous hobby of hers that had resulted thus far in zero happy couples and two estranged cousins.
“Shall I just scamper down this path and wait for my husband at your house, Ian?” Annie asked, snapping her phone shut.
“Please. No scampering,” I said.
Ian didn’t seem to know what to say. “Uh … Sure. I’ll show you the way.”
Annie beamed and started off. “So, Ian, tell me about yourself,” she said merrily, then proceeded to fill him in on the wonder that was me. “Callie and I have been friends since we moved here when I was in fourth grade. She came right up and said hi, and the rest is history!”
The path from the lake was lovely, just wide enough for two people. The clouds had blown off, but the pines were so thick here the sunlight only broke through in patches, spilling gold on the forest floor. Ian’s dog padded silently beside me. “How are you, Angie?” I asked, petting the dog’s silky head. “Are you a beautiful girl?” She wagged her tail in confirmation that yes, indeed she was. “‘Angie … Aaaangie. Ain’t it good to be ali-i-i-ive?’” I sang in a whisper. It was, after all, our tradition.
Ahead of me, Annie was yakking away. Ian rubbed his neck with one hand, trying to answer Annie’s prying questions, such as …
“So, Ian, are you married?” My friend blinked up at him.
“I’m divorced,” he said, glancing back at me as if in a plea for help.
“How sad!” Annie sang. “How long has it been?”
“Two years.”
Annie turned and pulled a gruesome face meant to indicate joy and hope. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a special some—”
“Look! A deer!” I barked. The deer fled, white tail flashing as it leaped neatly into the woods. I took the opportunity to trot up to Annie and pinch her. Hard. “Stop it,” I mouthed.
“What are you talking about?” she mouthed back, then said aloud, “Is this your place? It’s beautiful!”
Ah. We were here. I stopped in my tracks.
The