Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ The bastard! He looked like the stick-up-the-butt type … dressed in a suit (and you know, please—this is Vermont). He had a boring military-style haircut, cold blue eyes and disdainful Slavic cheekbones. I turned back around. Clearly he didn’t understand what love felt like. Love gone bad. Love rejected. My tender and loyal heart, broken.

      That being said, maybe he had a point.

      “I’d better go,” I whispered to my sister. “I’ll call you later, Hes.”

      “Okay. Sucks that it’s your birthday today. But listen, if it’s having babies you’re worried about, don’t bother. I can get you pregnant in a New York minute. I know all the best sperm donors.”

      “I don’t want you to get me pregnant,” I blurted.

      “For God’s sake,” muttered Mr. Slavic Cheekbones. The older woman who’d been cuckolded looked questioningly at me.

      “My sister’s a fertility doctor,” I explained. I closed my phone and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “She’s very successful.”

      “Oh, that’s nice,” my dairy farmer friend replied. “My daughter did in vitro. She’s gawt twins now. Foah yeahs old.”

      “That’s wonderful,” I said wetly.

      “Next,” droned the robot. Shuffle shuffle shuffle. The man behind me sighed again.

      Images of Mark flooded my mind—our first kiss when I was only fourteen. Years later at work, him bending over my computer, his hand companionably on my shoulder. Getting nearly drunk on maple syrup just last week at a farm we were pitching. Our first kiss. The fateful airplane ride to Santa Fe. Did I mention our first kiss?

      Hot tears leaked out of my eyes, and I sucked in a shuddering breath.

      Suddenly, a neatly folded handkerchief appeared at the side of my head. I turned. Mr. Intolerance of the Cruel Cheekbones was offering me his handkerchief. “Here,” he said, and I took it. It was ironed. It may have been starched. Who did that anymore? I blew my nose heartily, then looked at him again.

      “Keep it,” he suggested, looking over my head.

      “Thank you,” I squeaked.

      “Next,” one of the drones called from behind the counter. We shuffled forward once more.

      An eternity later, I finally had a new license. Insult to injury … for however many years, I would look like an escaped lunatic … mascara puddled, face blotchy, smile wobbly and insincere. So much for my spiffy outfit.

      As I fished my keys out of my bag, I saw the older woman standing near the exit, putting on those vast black sunglasses old folks wear after cataract surgery. My heart went out to her … at least my husband didn’t cheat on me. Leave me after forty-two years. Crikey.

      “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked.

      “Who, me?” she asked. “No, sweethaht, I’ve gawt work to do. Good luck with everything, though.”

      On impulse, I gave her a hug. “Norman’s an idiot,” I told her.

      “I think you’re one smaht cookie,” she said, patting my back. “That boyfriend of yaws doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”

      “Thanks,” I answered, tears threatening again. My new friend gave me a wave and went out to her car.

      My phone bleated. Mom. Great. “Happy birthday, Calliope!” she sang.

      “Hi, Mom,” I answered, wondering if she’d pick up anything from my leaden tone. She didn’t.

      “Listen, I have news. Dave just called. Elements burst a pipe and flooded.”

      Being housed in a 150-year-old industrial building, Elements was somewhat prone to this type of thing. “That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood anyway.” At least I wouldn’t have to endure a birthday party. I could just go home and eat cake batter.

      “Don’t be silly,” Mom trilled. “I’ve already called everyone. We’re having your party here.”

      My heart sank. “Here? Where do you mean, here?”

      “At the funeral home, honey. Where else?”

       CHAPTER TWO

      “HARD TO BELIEVE you’re thirty,” my mother said that evening, giving my hand a little squeeze. “Mr. Paulson’s family is receiving visitors in the Tranquility Room,” she added as a well-dressed couple halted in confusion upon seeing my birthday balloons.

      “How can our little girl be thirty, Eleanor, when you don’t look a day over twenty-five?” my father murmured from my other side, giving me a bear hug and nearly causing me to spill my second cosmo. Mom ignored him, as was her custom lo these many years since their divorce. Dad took it like a man. “Callie, I fell in love with you at first sight. You were such a beautiful baby! Still are! So beautiful!”

      “Has … your father … been drinking, Callie?” my mother asked, not deigning to look at dear old Dad. “If so, please ask him to leave.” In this house, your father was synonymous with that shithead.

      “Have you been drinking, Dad?” I asked amiably.

      “Not too much,” he answered with equanimity. “Not enough, I should say,” he added in a lower voice.

      “Hear, hear,” I murmured, taking a slug of my pink cocktail. Given that (A) the man I loved, etc., etc.; (B) Verdi’s Requiem was playing in the background, and (C) my party was being held at a funeral home, I’d decided to (D) ring in my special day in the company of Grey Goose and cranberry juice.

      Irritated that she’d failed to insult my dad, Mom shot me an evil look. I snapped to attention. “This party is lovely, Mom,” I lied, giving her a big smile.

      Mollified, she gave me a little smile. “I’ve always thought this was the most beautiful building in town,” she said. “Well, better go check on Mr. Paulson.” With that, she bustled off to check on the wake in the next room.

      Misinski’s Funeral Home was an impressive building, a large Victorian with the first floor serving as the business end, the second and third floors as living quarters for Mom and, recently, my brother, Freddie. I’d grown up here. The basement, of course, was where all the yucky work was done. To my mother, there was absolutely nothing odd about having a birthday party next door to a wake; this funeral home had been in her family for three generations, and the whole death is a part of life philosophy was indelibly tattooed on her soul. So what if at age three, Freddie wouldn’t take his nap anywhere but in a casket? So what if Mom used to store the Thanksgiving turkey in the same fridge that kept the clients fresh?

      Outside, the sun was shining, as Vermont was enjoying her two weeks of summer. The sky was rich and blue, the air fresh with the scent of pine. In here … not so much. The funeral home was like a time bubble in which nothing ever changed. The smell of lilies, the sounds of sad, classical music, the sight of the heavy, dark furniture … the caskets СКАЧАТЬ