But when I ask him—“so you’re married?”—he shakes his head quickly and distastefully.
Oh, right. He never did believe in “contracts,” as he liked to say.
“I’m living with someone,” he says. “Can you believe it? Me, the raging commitmentphobe.”
“No, I really can’t believe it,” I say, wondering if he got that phrase from me—because I really thought I only called him that behind his back. Among other things I doubt he’d call himself.
“Go figure. I guess the key is just to find the Right Person.”
“Absolutely,” I agree, the Wrong Person—for Will, anyway.
But that’s okay, because the wrongness is mutual. What on earth did I ever see in this guy? Is it me, or did he change? Because he seems so very…
“Jerry and I met last year doing HMS Pinafore.”
…very gay, for one thing.
He goes on, “We just clicked, from the moment we first met.”
“You and Jerry,” I say, just to make sure I heard him right.
“Yes. One look at Jerry, and it was as if my whole life just fell into place.”
So they were right all along. And I didn’t believe them. For all those years, I did my best to ignore my brothers and my work friends and Kate, all of whom were absolutely convinced that Will was gayer than Dumbledore.
As far as I know, they based their assumption on a series of clichés: his impeccable appearance, his affinity for show tunes and his appreciation for imported cheese and designer linens.
I had actually slept with the man on those designer linens, which I liked to bring up as evidence that Will was a straight arrow.
Looking back, though, I have to wonder if the passion might have been as one-sided as the rest of the relationship proved to be. I mean, Will was my first. What did I have to compare him to? Who’s to say he wasn’t phoning it in while fantasizing about George Clooney?
I guess I really was an unwitting beard for all those years.
Speaking of beards…
“Will, look, I found it,” a male voice says.
Well, well, well, isn’t this refreshing?
We’ve just been joined by a man I can only assume is Jerry. Whom Will curiously neglected to mention happens to be an Amish Warlock.
Yes, I’m serious. The guy has a big, bushy chest-grazing beard and he’s dressed all in black, including black suspenders over a black turtleneck exactly like Will’s, and a big, broad-brimmed black hat with a rounded—as opposed to pointy—crown. He’s holding a cookbook, most likely chock-full of shoofly-pie recipes.
Needless to say, he isn’t at all what I’d expected from Will. I’d have expected him to be drawn more to the buff, boyish actor type, much like himself.
“Tracey, this is my friend Jacob,” Will says.
Jacob? I guess he must have said Jacob and I somehow heard it as Jerry, earlier when he was talking about his live-in love.
And it’s funny because back when we were dating, he always used to introduce me as his “friend,” too.
Here but for the grace of God go I, I think as I shake the Amish Warlock’s hand and Will introduces me as his “old friend Tracey.”
Old friend, new friend, girlfriend, boyfriend.
I’ll admit, as little as I care about Will, I can’t help but find some kind of profound satisfaction at this belated revelation about Will’s true sexual orientation.
At least this explains why he was so immune to my feminine wiles and charms for all those years.
Then again…it doesn’t explain Esme, or the many other women he slept with while he was supposed to be in a relationship with yours truly.
“Hi, how’s it going?” Jacob flicks a disinterested gaze over me, apparently decides I’m not a viable threat, and turns back to Will.
“You have to get this for Jerry,” he says, putting the cookbook into Will’s professionally manicured hands. “It has the spelt-bread recipe she wanted.”
Wait—Jacob isn’t Jerry?
Wait—Jerry is a she?
Is she Jerry Hall?
Or Gerry?
“Great, she’ll love it,” Will tells Jacob, oblivious to my profound Noun (both Pro- and Proper) confusion. Turning to me, he says, “Jerry’s a vegan.”
A vegan with a vagina. And here I thought—
“She’s turned me into one, too.”
“A vegan?” Sans vagina, I presume.
Will nods. “She says she wants us to live to a ripe old age together.”
“My sister-in-law Rachel is a vegan,” is my lame response.
Will clearly doesn’t care. Jacob doesn’t care, either.
Even I don’t care.
Awkward moment of silence. Which I, of course, feel obligated to fill. See, I like to make everyone comfortable. Even Will. It’s one of my most annoying faults.
“So how’s your career?” I make the mistake of asking Will, thus changing the subject to his all-time favorite.
“It’s terrific.”
Of course it is.
He is now going to reveal that he’s starring in some obscure revival and manage to make it sound like a Tony nod is imminent. When I was young and insecure and infatuated, I was as convinced as Will was that he’d be the next Michael Crawford.
“Where in Westchester did you say you bought your house?” Will asks.
“Glenhaven Park,” I say, wondering why he wants to know and what that has to do with his latest starring role.
“Ours is in Scarsdale,” he tells me offhandedly, “and the nursery is in Larchmont.”
This is how well I know Will: my first reaction is that he and Jerry Hall obviously have a kid, whom they keep in a separate town because apparently, she hates children as much as Will does.
“You should stop by sometime,” Will goes on. “It’s called Tigerlily.”
I probably shouldn’t be surprised that he refers to his own child as an it, but I am. Even Bunhead came around, and she was merely talking about a doll in the first place.
“How old is she?” I ask Will, emphasis on the she.
“How old is whom?” asks Will, emphasis on the whom.
“Tigerlily.”
There’s a pause.
Then he laughs. Hard.
Will reaches out and fondly ruffles my hair as one might do to a lovable half-wit.
Turning to Jacob, he says, “She thinks Tigerlily is a person.”
“She’s not?”
“No! Tracey, you’re such a dope,” he says with considerably more affection than he’s ever had for me in the past.
Before I can respond with appropriate indignation, he goes on, very patiently, “I told you, it’s a nursery.”
Nursery, nursery…
Oh! Nursery!
As in landscaping and flowers.
Not as in baby.
I am a dope.
Then again…
“You have a nursery?” I ask Will.
“Of course.”
Of course?
Since when does Will of course have a nursery?
“It’s a nice little business,” he goes on, and adds, gesturing at his friend, “Jacob works with me.”
Yes, I’m sure the Amish Warlock is a tremendous help with things like harvesting grain and conjuring herbal potions.
“What happened to the acting?” I ask Will, who dismisses the question with a wave of his hand.
“I outgrew it,” he says, as if we’re talking about Tonka trucks.
Outgrew it? Ha. It’s far more likely that one too many bad reviews sent the nonlegendary Will McCraw slinking past the footlights into obscurity.
“Maybe you can do some community theater someday,” I can’t resist saying. “I’m sure there must be one in Scarsdale.”
Will squirms visibly.
Jacob checks his watch. “Wow, look at the time.”
Are we late for a coven meeting? Or a barn raising over at the Stoltzfus place?
“Well, listen, Will, it was gre
at seeing you,” I say, “and Jack and I will definitely send our landscaper down to check out your nursery.”
No, we don’t have a landscaper.
But I love letting Will think we do.
I try to figure out a way to work a personal chef into the tail end of the conversation. Or a butler. Will has always wanted a butler.
Too late. “Great seeing you, too,” Will says, giving me a brief, affectionless hug and an air kiss.
Smiling to myself, I watch him disappear into the stacks with his gaunt friend.
In a perfect world, Will would be a raging homosexual with a live-in male Mennonite lover, and I would be fully made up and wearing skinny jeans, with good hair.
Still, there’s nothing quite like seeing Will McCraw again, even after all these years, to remind me that while my world isn’t perfect, it turned out much, much better than I ever imagined during that slightly single summer so long ago.
CHAPTER 17
It’s official.
I, Tracey Spadolini Candell, am a suburban housewife.
I don’t have to go back to work—not yet, maybe not ever, if I don’t want to.
After all that wrangling, Jack’s stepmother gave up and his inheritance came through in July. There are a few more details to work out before we actually get a check, but it will be more—much, much more—than we ever imagined. Enough to pay off the mortgage completely, if we want to.
We’re not sure yet if we’re going to do that, or invest it. We’re going to talk to some financial advisers and figure it out.
It’s October now, and I’ve been busy with the house. I got all the wallpaper stripped off and Jack painted on the weekends. Even the old icky brown cupboards. They’re white now. They look a lot better.
We want to have the floors refinished, too, but we can’t. I’m afraid of the fumes.
I haven’t seen Raphael since he and Donatello got back from their Disney trip a few weeks ago. I haven’t seen Latisha in over a month, or Buckley—who’s holed up now in Beverly Hills, writing his screenplay—in three.
Mitch, we’ve seen. A lot. He was taking the train up here to visit us just about every other weekend over the summer. But not as much since he started dating this girl, Jen, around Labor Day. Jack’s met her. He predicts an engagement.
I haven’t seen Kate since the day she left my house to fly to Mobile. She’s still there, and I have a feeling she’s never coming back. She says her parents help her with little Katie, and anyway, Billy doesn’t seem to care that his daughter and wife—soon to be ex—are over a thousand miles away.
I miss Kate.
I miss them all.
My mother has a little kit the doctor gave her. Every morning, she’s supposed to prick her finger with it to check the sugar levels in her blood. I asked her if she does it. She said she does. I asked my sister. She said she doubts it.
But I hear Ma walks to mass every morning, though. It’s only a few blocks, but my sister said she’s lost a few pounds and looks good.
Jack and I are driving up to Brookside for Columbus Day weekend so I can see for myself. He’s taking off Friday so we can beat the traffic. He hasn’t had a vacation day all summer, but he likes his new job.
My niece Hayley turned three. Jack and I sent her a bunch of Polly Pocket dolls that were no taller than my thumb, made of plastic and on sale at the Toys “R” Us a few miles away. She loves them.
I haven’t been back to Bug in a Rug since we moved in. My friend Kim, who told me about the Toys “R” Us, said she refuses to shop there for her son, Aidan.
Oh—right. I actually made a friend here. Remember the blue It’s a Boy balloons on the mailbox down the street? That was Kim’s house. I met her one day when she was pushing her stroller and I was out on our porch, rocking in my new rocking chair.
She used to be a vice president at IBM. Now she’s a stay-at-home mom.
I didn’t think we’d have much in common, especially since Kim has a baby, but it turns out we do. A lot more than I have in common with Cornelia Gates Fairchild and her circle of Yoga Moms. I met them for coffee once and knew instantly they weren’t my type.
Kim is, though. And like I said, we have a lot in common. She has a fixer-upper, too. And an Italian family. And a commuting husband who works in publishing—Jack likes him a lot. We’ve been trying to get together with them for dinner, but one time their sitter flaked out, and the next, the baby got sick.
Oh, remember those seeds I planted by the back door?
A bunch of plants came up there. I couldn’t tell what was what, and the deer chomped away at most of it before I could figure it out.
The guy at the nursery—no, not Will’s—told me that if you soak cotton balls in coyote urine (which you buy at the local hardware store) and hang them in the garden, the deer stay away. I’ve been doing that religiously, and it really does work.
The nights are getting colder. The weather forecast says there will be a hard frost before the week is over. I haven’t gotten any flowers yet, but there are buds on some of the plants. No tomatoes either, but there are hard green ones on the vine, which I bought at the nursery. Not Will’s.
I check them every day. This morning, I found one that was just barely turning orange, so I picked it. I put it on the kitchen windowsill to ripen. If I get one tomato, I’ll be happy.
And next spring, I’ll start earlier. If I can.
I may not be able to, though, because the thing is, I’m due in March. Right on Saint Joseph’s Day.
Of course Ma said if it’s a boy, and he’s born on the nineteenth, we need to name him Joseph.
We’ll see.
Maybe I’ll be early.
Or late.
It really is all about the timing.
Keep reading for a sneak peek of The Summer of No Attachments
By New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster
A story of second chances, found family, and rescued animals!
CHAPTER ONE
Ivey Anders shoved back a wayward curl and gently secured the dog against her body so it couldn’t move while her tech, Hope Mage, carefully clipped away the twisted wire. The poor thing, a stray by the looks of it, had gotten itself tangled pretty tightly and one hind leg was in bad shape. Ivey wanted to get it to the clinic where she could properly assess the damage.
Mud caked the fur, making it difficult to find any other injuries just yet, but there was one astounding fact Ivey couldn’t ignore.
Behind her, the homeowner groused that the dog had likely been stealing eggs from his chicken coop.
Voice calm, temper mostly in check, Ivey said, “You didn’t hesitate to call me, did you, Marty?” It was well-known that Marty was not a fan of dogs, or cats for that matter, and mostly considered them a nuisance. However, they’d come to an agreement some time ago. Marty, who owned a fair amount of wooded acreage, was supposed to call her if a stray showed up, and she, as the local vet, would take care of the “problem” for him.
Laura, his wife, was quick to say, “I called.” Defiant to Marty, she added, “Soon as I heard the poor thing, in fact.”
Which didn’t mean much. The animal might have been there for hours. Possibly more than a day, though Ivey couldn’t bear the thought of that.
“She’s pregnant, you know.” Refusing to take her eyes off the dog and unwilling to raise her voice since it might frighten the animal more, Ivey said, “If she took an egg, it would have been from starvation—and you already know I would have compensated you for it.”
Affronted, Marty grumbled, “I wasn’t worried about one egg, just don’t want to lose my chickens.” He cleared his throat. “If it helps any, I was out here this morning and she wasn’t caught then. Afternoon I watered my garden, and that’s why there’s so much mud. So I doubt she was hung up there more than a few hours.”
The fist around Ivey’s heart loosened just a little. “That helps tremendously, Marty. Thank you.”
More times than she could count, Ivey
had taken on problems with stray animals who needed special love and care. It didn’t matter that she’d been working as a veterinarian for years now, seeing all manner of hurt, neglected, or just plain ill animals. She still loved them all, and when one hurt, she hurt with it.
“No thanks necessary,” Marty complained, his tone gruff with insult. “Not like I’d let an animal suffer.”
Ivey had a feeling their definitions of suffer varied a bit, but she realized this mattered to him, and she was too grateful to quibble so she just nodded.
“Almost got it,” Hope murmured, and with one last clip, the wire loosened. “There.” Fingers gentle, she disentangled the dog’s leg, exposing a painful wound.
Ivey murmured to the small animal all the while, cooing softly, petting and holding her secure. The second she was able to sit back on the muddy ground, she pulled the dog into her lap. With her face close to the top of the dog’s head, she whispered, “There now, that’s better, isn’t it? We’ll get you all fixed up, I promise.”
“Here.” Slipping off her zip-up hoodie, Hope offered it to Ivey to wrap around the dog. “Do you want me to get the carrier?”
Busy swaddling the dog, careful not to jar her, Ivey shook her head. “She doesn’t weigh more than ten or eleven pounds. I’ll carry her to the truck and we’ll see how it goes.” Feeling mud seep into the seat of her pants, she realized she couldn’t get up without letting go of the dog. Lifting a brow at Hope, she said, “A little help?”
“Oh sure.” Hope caught her under one elbow, and Laura hurried forward to take the other, giving her the leverage she needed.
Marty stepped back to avoid getting muddy.
Carefully, the two women got Ivey on her feet. The thick mud was heavy on the seat of her pants, dragging on her stretch jeans that had loosened throughout the day. At least her rubber boots wouldn’t be ruined. Since they treated all sorts of animals, including those on farms, she and Hope each kept a pair at the clinic.
“Let’s go.” Plodding forward, Ivey led the way to the truck. Halfway there, the dog started panting. Concerned, she hastened her step, not at all worried about getting mud on the truck seats. “No need for the crate. Just get us back to the clinic.”
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