She stopped short and whirled around. “I’m not changing it,” she snapped. “It’s perfectly fine the way it is.”
Eyes wide, Thom didn’t say anything more. Well, all right then. She went into the guest bedroom and slammed the door.
Whose idea was it to meet at Nora’s for Sunday brunch, anyway? . . . Oh yeah. His. He must have been out of his mind when he’d suggested it. Casey wanted to meet with Celia, just to talk about her possibly taking photos at the farm’s grand opening, or if she wanted to relax and enjoy herself at the party, she could recommend someone he could hire. He was already thinking of making sure the county newspaper received some photos to publish (since there were all of three people who worked on the paper, it was hardly a sure thing that one of them would make it to the party).
But meet at Nora’s? On a Sunday morning? For brunch? Insanity. He opened the door, the bell jangling, stepped inside . . . and that was as far as he got. He found himself mashed up against Artie Packer’s back and unable to move another inch. The diner was absolutely jammed, the hungry townspeople in the waiting area eyeballing the lucky diners who already had tables, silently willing them to hork down their eggs and Belgian waffles faster and give up their seats.
Casey craned his neck, looking for Celia. She wasn’t there yet.
“What do you need, sweetpea?” Mrs. Rousseau called from her prime seat at the front of the waiting crowd, on the end of the padded bench closest to the cash register.
“Hey, Mrs. Rousseau. I’m good. Just waiting like everybody else.”
“Hogwash,” Mrs. D’Annunzio declared, readjusting her grip on the voluminous purse that filled her lap. “He’s got a date, I can tell.”
Her husband, the deli owner, looked around eagerly. “Is George back?”
“No, silly. I’m talking about Celia.”
Mr. D’Annunzio huffed. The D’Annunzios were a family divided, he on Team George and she on Team Celia. From what Casey heard, things had gotten pretty ugly at the dinner table once or twice.
Casey figured it was best to change the subject. “Just wanted to have some breakfast like everybody else. Might be a bad idea, though. I’ll go across the street to the bakery and—”
“You most certainly will not!” Mrs. Preston called from a nearby table where she sat with her beau, Harvey. “Casey, you come sit with us. We were just about to have another cup of coffee.”
Everyone in the waiting area groaned.
“Well, you all just have to wait your turn,” she declared to the crowd. “I was an early bird, and I got the worm. It’s not my fault you slept in.”
“Slept in? How about went to church?” Mrs. D’Annunzio sniped. “Unlike
some
people?”
Mrs. P whuffed and started to retort, but Harvey said, “Don’t bother the boy, Melissa. He obviously wants to sit with Celia when she gets here.”
“But she’s not here yet, and I want to hear all about the
wedding plans.
”
At the “W” word, a hush seemed to fall over the entire diner. Casey felt himself going red. Faces turned toward him expectantly. Hurriedly, he stammered, “Oh, Mrs. P, there is no wedding. It was just a joke.”
“A
joke?
I certainly hope not. That’s not funny at all. Poor Celia—”
“Celia knows. Just . . . don’t believe every text you receive, okay?”
After a moment’s silence while everyone absorbed this, random comments popped like bubbles all around him.
“Well, thank goodness. I never could see them together.”
“I liked George better anyway.”
“No, no. Celia’s a good girl. He should marry Celia.”
“Such a shame, no wedding—and me with a new hat.”
“He should run from the both of them. I would, if I were him.”
“Well, you’re not young and handsome and don’t have two pretty girls to choose from, you old fart, so keep your opinion to yourself.”
“They should get a move on with this relationship thing. They’re not getting any younger, you know.”
Casey bit his tongue so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if he drew blood. Maybe he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, maybe he was tense because the grand opening was less than a week away. Maybe he wasn’t used to all this unwarranted—and unwanted—attention. But now he truly understood what bothered George about the town. Here it was, in 3-D surround-sound Technicolor. In his face. And he was getting more and more irritated by the second.
“Oh, look—there’s Celia,” Mrs. P said. Before Casey could intercept her and suggest they go somewhere else, Mrs. P called, “Celia, honey, really, was that wedding thing with Casey a joke? He says it was and—my goodness, I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds here—he says you knew. But dear, if you didn’t—”
“Okay, enough!”
It took Casey a second to realize the last outburst came from him. Everyone in the diner was staring at him, most of them openmouthed. Good God, they’d reduced him to shouting. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t.
“That is just about enough. I can’t believe you people. George was right. You just can’t leave well enough alone. She left because of you, and she’s not coming back. You’re
that bad.
Just . . . just lay off, all right? Stick to your . . . your cross-dressing”—he tried not to glance at Skip, failed, but quickly looked away—“your . . . chicken banging”—he did the same to Charlie Junior’s wife, over in the corner—“and your sugar-daddy hunting”—here his glance flew to Mrs. P—“and all that
other
stuff I
never
wanted to know about, but
now
I do. And lay off George. And me.
And
don’t get up Celia’s nose. I mean it.”
Casey stumbled to a halt, adrenaline rushing through him, his heart racing, his hands shaking. Every eye in the place was on him. It was dead silent; even the busboys had stopped rattling plates and utensils.
Then Pete from the hardware store piped up. “Who’n’a hell is banging chickens?”
Casey didn’t answer. He just wanted out. He spun on his heel, pushed his way through the crowd by the door, brushed past Celia, and escaped to the street. No one followed him. They were probably all too stunned. What just happened? He didn’t know, and it looked like the rest of the town didn’t, either.
He paced on the sidewalk, glancing back at the diner only to see everyone inside erupt into animated discussion. He’d never acted that way—
never
. He’d always been calm, cool, collected, courteous Casey Bowen. Nicest kid in town, grown up to be a nice guy. And now he’d blown everything all to hell . . . Oh crap. Everything?
He stuck his head back in the diner. When the customers saw him, they fell silent again.
“Uh . . . just a reminder . . . hope to see you all at the Bowen Farms kickoff gala Friday night,” he said weakly, then ducked out again.
Like anyone was going to come, now.
Chapter 27
Snark. Snark, snark, snark. George used to have it. And now she didn’t. She really had gone soft. And she blamed her stint in Marsden for her loss. God, why did she ever go back there? Look what it got her. She couldn’t post heartless things on her blog and judge people indiscriminately for laughs anymore. Not to mention she almost got creamed on Route 9 on her way to the Natick Mall because she’d become too polite in traffic. Where was her edge? And would she get herself killed, literally or professionally, before she managed to recover it?
She heaved a sigh, took a gulp of tepid, sludgy tea that had been sitting on the table for far too long, and read another message from a DoLlies. She’d been sitting at the dining room table, staring at her laptop, for the better part of an hour, and couldn’t come up with one catty retort for any of them. Dang, this was serious. If she didn’t get it together, she was going to lose her readers. And when her stats dropped, so did her ad revenue. And her finances were in dire enough straits already.
“Come on,” she muttered. “Snark. Make it so . . . Oh, great. Now I’m talking to myself.”
She had to produce something, and fast. It was nearly time for Thom to get home from work, and the last thing she wanted was for him to find her working on her blog. In addition to making suggestions for changing the look and feel of the blog, he’d developed a tendency to read over her shoulder and offer unsolicited advice about specific entries. Her smackdown the other day hadn’t lasted very long. God, he was dense sometimes. If she heard one more comment along the lines of “Um, you might want to . . .” or “Was that supposed to be the funny part?” or “I’m not sure that makes much sense—maybe you want to look at it again?” or (the worst) “Just a little suggestion . . .” she was going to deck him.
Then this:
Dear George,
I have a big problem, and I hope you can help me with it. When I was a teenager, I had a huge crush on a girl who was a couple of years younger than me. I was pretty sure she liked me too.
She was amazing—and nothing like all the other girls. We ran in different circles—she was an intellectual, while I was more the sporty type. Still, we weren’t kept apart by this, but because I was so intimidated by her. Oh yeah—and I also stayed away from her because her older sister threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t. I told myself she was too young—that was my way of making an excuse not to date her. I deeply, deeply regret it. I feel like we wasted so many years when we could have been together.
Recently she came back into my life, and I decided not to waste the opportunity. However, this time she didn’t want me. She does like me—she even agreed to go out on a date—but meddling mutual friends drove her away.
I should say this to her in person, but because I need to get it out, I’ll say it here: I love her. I want us to be together. George, how can I get her back? I’ll follow any advice you might have. I don’t want to waste one more day.
Sincerely,
Feeling Down
George sat, openmouthed, for so long she lost track of time. The only thing that snapped her out of her reverie was the jingle of keys and the front door opening.
“Hey, I’m home. Where are you?” Thom strolled into the dining room before George could slam her laptop shut. “Wow, working again? I had no idea that blog of yours was so time-consuming.” He kissed the top of her head, which felt like an anvil landing on it, and then read the letter on the screen. “Wow, a love-struck dope. Hope you’ve got a good answer for him. Hey, what’s for dinner?”
George shook her head as if to clear it. “Uh . . . what?”
Thom gave her a quizzical look over his shoulder as he headed down the hall. “I said what’s for dinner?”
“Right.” She read the letter again, then realized Thom had said something. “What?”
“Are you okay?” he called from the bedroom. “You’re not sick, are you? If you are, I don’t want you sneezing all over the kitchen. I can’t afford to catch anything.”
“N–no. I’m fine.”
“So.” Thom came back in without his suit jacket, but still in his work clothes, his sleeves rolled up a couple of times. “Not sick, then? But no dinner?”
George closed her laptop slowly. “You know what? It’s time for me to go.”
Thom settled himself on the couch, rested his left ankle on his right knee, and grabbed the remote. “Grocery shopping?” he asked, staring at the television.
“Away. Permanently.”
That got his attention.
DoLlies! I’m here! I swear!
I’m sorry I haven’t been trotting out my innermost feelings very often. But I guess that could be a good sign. After all, I started this blog to get my head straight after my breakup with Lucifer, and it—and other things—have helped so much that I haven’t felt the need to bare my soul like before. I didn’t feel very angsty for quite a while there.
And then things happened.
You know I’ve always been upfront about my misadventures in love, including those less-than-stellar times when I did a little backsliding, felt a little (or a lot) insecure. And I am here to tell you that, despite the fact that I’m practically shouting “It’s a miracle! I’m healed!” (or nearly so), I am not beyond some Very Bad Days once in a while. Yes, I can still get messed up, and I’m here to share the latest—but don’t despair! Everything comes out right in the end this time. Or, well, it will, anyway. I think. I hope.
Remember when I told you I was spending the summer in my hometown? Well, that came to an abrupt end when I had to go back to Boston to collect my Beanie Award (koff koff, see my giant banner, above, trumpeting my win). And I ended up staying with Lucifer.
I know, I know. Bad idea. I don’t suppose pointing out that it was a guest-room-only situation will make it all right, will it? Didn’t think so. Why did I do it? Because I thought enough time had passed, we could be friends, blah blah blah. Riiiiight. I can practically see your eyes rolling. Go ahead and be smug; you’re right, I was wrong. Things started out okay, nice and polite, but pretty soon Lucifer was back to his usual obnoxious behavior.
But wait! Here comes the good part: I didn’t fall for it. Lucifer did his best to hypnotize me, and this time I refused to stare at the shiny pocket watch. He thought I was a goner (again) and he could make me cluck like a chicken or whatever, but—oh hell, screw the metaphor, I’m bored with it—in short, I refused. I looked at him and saw nothing but what made me run screaming from him in the first place, nearly a year ago.
I
am
healed, DoLlies! I am Lucifer-resistant. I am also outta there and on my way back to my family and my hometown. And speaking of family . . . a little while ago my sister (someone I respect immensely) told me that I’m one of the strongest people she knows, and I should never be afraid of anything. She’s right. I’m strong enough to not be sucked in by Lucifer, and I’m also strong enough and brave enough to know not only that I don’t want him, but also what I
do
want.
What do I want? Heh. Let me take care of a few things first, then I’ll get back to you on that. More later.
“This means nothing—
nothing
—you got that? I’m here because . . . because I just feel like it. Because I said I’d be at the grand opening. Because . . . shit, give me the baby.”
“Not with that potty mouth—”
“Screw the potty-mouth shit, Sera, and
give me my niece
.”
George dropped her bag in the foyer and yanked a burbling Amelia out of her sister’s arms. She peppered the baby’s cheeks with kisses while Sera and Jaz exchanged a knowing look. George didn’t care what they knew, or thought they knew. She had her niece in her arms, she was back amid the clutter of her old family home—but, thank goodness, no squalor, as they’d managed to keep the place clean while she’d been gone. And she was within five miles of Casey.
“I’m taking Amelia; Sera, bring my bag up. I hope nobody touched my bedroom while I was gone.”
Nobody had. Not even the items she’d left on the bed. She stared down at the three large, white letters she’d so carefully placed in the center of the comforter—the ones that had once spelled–DEN, but she had rearranged to spell END just before she’d left.
“Jesus, how maudlin can you get?” she muttered, sweeping them onto the floor. She sat down on the bed with Amelia, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Okay, kid. Tell me everything. What have I missed?”
Amelia squealed and grabbed George’s nose in one damp fist.
“Will you calm the hell down?”
“Not even remotely possible.”
Darryl heaved a sigh and shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”
“It’s perfectly natural for me to be nervous. This is my whole life here. So much is riding on—”
“Casey, man, shut up. You’ve planned this whole weekend within an inch of its life. Your people won’t even breathe unless it’s on the schedule. The caterers are here, set up, ready to go. They’re aces. Paulie’s here with the wine—now, I don’t know if
that
was a good idea.”
“Trying to be a good neighbor,” Casey muttered.
“Do ‘good neighbors’ yell at the whole town very often?”
“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit.”
Big D chuckled. “Wish I’d been there to see it. Trust me to miss the one time Casey Bowen melts down and blows everything to hell by telling everyone in Marsden where to get off.”
“Nobody’s coming, are they, D?”
“Now, you really think one freakout—
one
—in your entire life is going to make everyone hate you?”
“Yup.”
“Have a little more faith than that, man.”
But Casey couldn’t. So far the only people who’d arrived were his employees. They were scattered around the newly completed gallery space, scarfing down the food and drink merrily, but a crowd of only a dozen people—the ones he saw every day, the ones he paid—didn’t make a grand opening gala. Not by a long shot. Casey started wondering how he could shut down early and still save face. But then he’d opted out of the whole “saving face” thing last Sunday. He was going to have to suck it up, keep company with his crew, and stop looking out the barn windows for headlights of arriving cars out in the twilight.
He glanced around. “Do we have enough ice? Maybe I should get more in the house—”
Darryl silently appealed to Jill, who put a calming hand on Casey’s arm. “Relax. The caterers have got it covered.”
“Maybe I should make sure they know how to use the oven—”
“Casey?” Nestor came up to him, faced him squarely.
Casey ran a hand through his hair. “What?”
“Stop.” Nestor never had been a man of many words.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not—”
He heard a noise by the door and glanced over his shoulder. There was Celia, in a lovely ivory embroidered dress, and behind her stood Ray and Nate, their wives, and several other people from town. Even though they had been in the diner on Sunday. Darryl nudged him, an I-told-you-so gesture, and Casey let out a breath, felt his shoulders relax. He crossed the room to welcome his guests. Out in the deep dusk, he saw other people coming down the path from the parking area, and more headlights sweeping across the back lawn as cars eased up the drive on the far side of the house. And he finally allowed himself a smile.
“You look too nice. There is no way you’re taking Amelia tonight.”
“But—”
“George,” Sera snapped, “she will drool on you, probably with a cracker crumb mash added to it for texture, and that’s not attractive. We’re her mothers. Leave the baby to us, and go be fabulous.”
George fidgeted in her dress and ridiculous heels. So many years of never dressing up, and now it seemed she was shoehorning herself into one fancy outfit or another almost weekly. This time, though, it wasn’t so much formal wear as “knock Casey’s socks off” attire. She’d decided on a little teal number with a form-fitting halter top and swingy skirt, but now she felt like she was showing too much leg. Of course, when she’d expressed this concern, Jaz had said, “There’s no such thing.” So there was that. And it was too late to change now, anyway. And she didn’t have another appropriate dress even if she wanted to switch. She doubted Audra would open up Suzette’s after hours—or any time, really—just for her.
She took a deep breath before stepping inside Casey’s new gallery. In contrast to the twilight blanketing the rest of the farm, the former barn was glowing with light, from the fairy lights in the trees outside to the track lighting bouncing off the stark white walls inside. Through the new windows she saw quite a few people in the gallery and more streaming in, Sera’s pottery in the spotlight looking glorious, Paulie eagerly pouring his lighter fluid—er, wine—and polite townspeople bravely sipping it, and . . . well, there was Celia. Of course she’d be there. She was hard to miss, in a clingy yet demure dress with cute cap sleeves and a scoop neck. Next to her . . . Casey, absolutely delicious in a striped dress shirt and dark charcoal pants, one hand in his pocket, laughing at something Nate was saying.
Sera poked her between her shoulder blades. “Will you get in there?”
“Ow! Quit it!”
“Well? Are you going or not?”
“Can I have the baby? I feel better when I’m holding the baby.”
“You are such a baby yourself. No security blankets. Get in there.”
George didn’t move. Jaz finally said, “Do you want Amelia to get cold out here?”
That finally did it. “Okay, okay, let’s go.”