by Jayne Denker
George smiled at her sister. “You have it, I swear.”
“You’re not going to freak out when he comes over, are you?”
“He what?” George burst out before she could stop herself. “I mean . . . wouldn’t it make more sense for you to go there? See the space and everything?”
“It’s not ready yet. Nothing to see. Do you have a problem with him coming here?”
“Nope.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Not at all. But don’t be surprised if I stay out of your way.”
Sera snickered. “Chicken.”
“Go to bed, bee-yotch.”
When Sera was gone, George snuck a furtive glance at Amelia, hoping the baby would be fast asleep by now. Instead, huge blue eyes stared back at her. George heaved a sigh.
“You really are a stubborn kid, aren’t you?” she whispered. Amelia grinned back, around the two fingers she stuck in her mouth. “Fine. You asked for it.” She settled on the couch, her niece still on her shoulder, and opened her laptop with one hand. “Let’s see what’s in the ol’ inbox, shall we?” Amelia touched George’s lips with her drooly fingers. “Thanks for that. Okay, new messages, new messages . . . let’s try this one.
“‘Dear George,’” she read softly, as though reading Amelia her favorite fairytale, “‘I have a relationship problem.’ Well, you’ve come to the right place, honey. ‘When I was a teenager, I went out with the greatest guy in the world. The only problem was I didn’t know he was the greatest guy in the world at the time.’ Okay, par for the course. So what’s your problem? ‘I was young, I was stupid.’ Weren’t we all? ‘When he broke up with me, I let him. We’ve stayed friends, but we’re not close. Still, our mutual friends keep me informed of what he’s up to. I’ve heard he’s thinking of getting super serious with someone—and our friends say he’s so crazy about her he’d even marry her someday. When I found out, all these feelings came to the surface. I just can’t let him go any further with this new woman without telling him how I feel. Should I contact him and confess my feelings? I hope you say yes. Love and stuff, Desperately Doubting.’”
George turned to her niece. “Well. What do you think of that?” She was glad to see Amelia’s eyelids had drooped lower; they were almost closed. She sat back silently, waiting for the baby to nod off all the way, and started prepping her answer in her head. She knew exactly what she’d say, and she recited it quietly; she knew a few more seconds of soothing murmurs would knock Amelia all the way out. In a dippy, sing-songy voice that matched the message not at all, she murmured, “‘Dear Desperate Dunce, Please watch My Best Friend’s Wedding. Then watch it again, from the beginning, immediately. After you’ve watched it all the way through two times in a row, have a drink and examine how you feel. If you’re convinced your ex will leave the woman he now loves—enough to marry, don’t forget—and go back to your crazy ass, then you deserve everything you get if you contact him. Good luck with that. George.’”
Once Amelia was completely asleep, George placed her carefully in her crib, then fetched her laptop from the living room, settled into bed, and started the new DoLlies in Need post. She copied and pasted the message from Desperate into the text box and reread it. It sure sounded familiar. George was pretty sure it wasn’t really Celia. She wasn’t the type of person who would write to her, even anonymously, to share her deepest feelings (she’d probably be too afraid she’d be found out). But what was interesting was her own reaction. She honestly didn’t care whether it was someone she knew or not—she was going to answer the same way. And it wasn’t going to be the reply she’d come up with while she had been waiting for Amelia to fall asleep. She just couldn’t be that flippant, because now she was always keenly aware that there was a real person behind those pixels, with real feelings that could be hurt, with a real life that she could destroy if they took her advice to heart.
“Stupid neighbors,” she muttered to herself. “Cramping my style.” She heaved a sigh and typed a new response.
Dear Desperate,
It’s only natural to have second thoughts about an ex you regret breaking up with, especially when you realize he’s interested in someone else now and isn’t available for you anymore.
So the guy thinks he’s found his one true love? Take the high road and don’t get in their way, and even try dating other people to see if maybe there’s another guy out there who’d be a good fit for you.
But you know what? I’m on your side, girlie. And I say all is not lost. Take a wait-and-see approach. Be aware there may come a day when you find your ex is single again, with no sign of the alleged true love. Maybe they weren’t meant for each other like he thought. Maybe she wasn’t perfect. Maybe she had other things going on in her life, and she couldn’t sustain such an intense relationship, no matter how certain the guy was that it was meant to be. Maybe he was just infatuated—and that wears off.
Think Bruce Springsteen, his debacle of a marriage to that model chick, and Patti, who waited for him till he came to his senses. Like Bruce, maybe, just maybe, your guy will get over her and leave her behind, and once he wakes up, he’ll realize you’re better for him after all. And then everything will fall into place.
It could happen. And if it does, then definitely go for it.
Best of luck—I’m pulling for you,
George
As she scanned her post for typos and general readability, she refrained from sticking her finger down her throat. How saccharine. How . . . freaking compassionate. Cramping her style, indeed. What had happened to her? And would she ever be able to bring the snark again?
George published the DoLlies in Need entry and went back to her inbox. Despite the fact that it was nearly one in the morning, she wasn’t the least bit tired. Of course, this would bite her in the ass tomorrow morning, when Amelia would be up and raring to go at the crack of dawn, and George would be clutching her pillow and begging for five more minutes of oblivion, but she didn’t care at the moment. She had work to do and the silence in which to do it; she’d be crazy not to take advantage of the moment.
She scanned a few more messages that were candidates for future DoLlies in Need and Tales of Woe posts, then she came across a different sort of message.
Dear George,
Congratulations! We are happy to announce you are the recipient of a Boston Bean Web Award, in the category of Best Boston Blog, Snark Division. You and a guest are cordially invited to our awards dinner, which will take place September 5 at the Copley Plaza. We hope you’ll join us for this black tie event, dinner at 7 p.m., awards ceremony to follow. Don’t prepare a speech—this isn’t the Oscars—but please join us to collect your award. Please RSVP by . . .
George’s eyes bugged. Now, this—this was exciting. She’d heard of the Beanies, of course, but she never dreamed she’d win one. Recognition for a blog that had started out as a heaping helping of self-therapy meant for her eyes alone. Somewhere along the way it had boomed, and she’d been excited to see it grow, but she hadn’t thought about other people who were watching that growth.
An awards ceremony—now that was a big deal.
She could finally wear that damned gown to an actual event besides a deer whacking.
She . . . needed to go back to Boston.
George was stunned at the mix of emotions that suddenly engulfed her. She thought she’d be elated to have an excuse to go back. Just elated. But no—she actually felt pretty weird about it. Now the thought of going back there, knowing nobody, not having a job or a place to live, wasn’t all that enticing. She actually didn’t like the thought of leaving Marsden. She loved Amelia and Jaz and, God help her, even Sera, and it would hurt to be far away from them now. She had friends here, she knew the place, she had a warm and fuzzy feeling about the weird little town, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in . . . well, ever, to be honest.
Dammit.
It had happened, just like Casey said it had happened to him. Marsden had gotten its hooks in her, and now she wanted to st
ay. Good grief.
And . . . Casey. That was another matter altogether. She couldn’t stay here and expect to move on from him. And she needed him to move on from her—she allowed herself that little egotistical thought just because of how adamant Casey had been about her. He wanted to be with her, he was clear about that. But she couldn’t allow it. It was better for them to be apart—far apart. This was her chance to move on. So move on she would.
But before she could go anywhere, she had things to tidy up here. And there was no time like the present. She grabbed Celia’s memory stick from her nightstand, plugged it into her computer, and started downloading photos of Bowen Farms.
Morning—and Amelia’s familiar fretful snurfling noises through the bedroom wall—came all too soon. George groaned and covered her head with her pillow. Maybe today was the day Amelia finally self-settled, and she—and, consequently, George—would sleep till nine o’clock. Maybe monkeys would fly out of George’s butt.
She checked the clock; she’d slept for only a few hours. Her head thick with fatigue, she steeled herself to get up and go into Amelia’s room when she heard heavy steps on the stairs, footsteps in the hall, then whispering in the baby’s room. Amelia stopped whimpering and started gurgling. George’s tight shoulders relaxed. Sera or Jaz had her. That was a nice change. She heard the rocking chair beside the crib creak, and she started to drift off, lulled by the rhythmic sounds.
George almost let herself doze off again, but she shook herself awake. Amelia was her responsibility, at least for a little while longer. At that thought, she felt a pang of sadness. She really was leaving, wasn’t she? But not yet. She should still get in there and relieve whichever mommy had her. Even though Jaz was almost healed, she shouldn’t push herself, and didn’t Sera say she had an early meeting with Casey?
She slid out of bed, threw on a sweatshirt over her thin tank top, shuffled into the next room—and froze in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” she yelped.
Casey casually put a finger to his lips as Amelia stirred a little bit, her face planted in the crook of his neck.
She brought it down to a whisper. “What—what are you—”
But she couldn’t form the words she wanted. Come to think of it, what were words, again? Every logical thought deserted her in the split second she saw Casey Bowen, lounging in a wash of brilliant, early morning white-gold sunlight, smiling at her while her niece snoozed against his shoulder, looking for all the world like she belonged there.
Oh, no. No, no, no. She would not fall prey to this . . . this . . . blatant attack on her ovaries. A gorgeous guy holding a baby? It was the oldest trick in the book. She would not be suckered. She would not be so . . . so . . .
God, he was beautiful.
She told her ovaries to shut the hell up and go back to sleep.
It did absolutely no good. She felt her center go all gooey, and the more she watched him with Amelia, the gooier her insides got.
A really good guy, Sera had said. Much as she never liked to admit it, maybe Sera was right. Just this once. And speaking of Sera...
“Where’s my sister?” she hissed.
“Downstairs trying to make muffins,” he whispered back, making little circles on Amelia’s back with his fingertips. “I don’t think she can cook.”
“I could have told you that.” She gestured for Casey to hand her the baby, but he shook his head and kept rocking gently. “Why are you here so early?”
“Time’s a-wasting, woman. Our grand opening is coming up, and there’s still a thousand things to take care of, so Sera and I figured we’d get this meeting out of the way so we can both get to work, have a full day.”
“You’re both crazy.” George watched him carefully for another few moments. “Is your arm cramping up? Amelia’s pretty heavy.”
“Nah. She’s fine.”
“How . . . how’d you learn to do that?”
“What, put a kid to sleep? It’s not rocket science.”
“Oh yes it is. You have some sort of magic touch. Where’d you get it?”
“You mean a single guy, no frequent access to babies? I shouldn’t be—”
“Comfortable around them. Guys of your ilk usually run screaming from stuff like this.”
“Well, I’m not like other guys, am I?”
Truer words were never spoken, George thought.
“It just so happens,” he went on, “I used to help Celia babysit her cousins.”
“The twins?”
“The very ones.”
“Well, aren’t you versatile.”
Casey continued rocking Amelia, and George didn’t know whether to stay or go. She couldn’t leave him there with the baby drooling all over his shoulder, but she felt like a stooge standing there too.
“A thousand things to take care of, you said?” she asked. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Well, with your other family member’s track record with physical labor, I won’t ask you to tote hay bales or anything.”
“Thanks for that.”
“How about the Web site we talked about?”
George smiled. “It’s done.”
“Already?”
“I had some time,” she said. And some insomnia, she didn’t say. “Celia brought me the photos, and I pulled the text from your brochure. I’d like to add more, though. Some personal thoughts from you. I set it up so you could write the blog entries and post them yourself, cut out the middle man—that’d be me.”
“Oh.” Casey looked a little disappointed. “I—I thought you’d be doing it for me.”
“Yeah, well, I would, but I’m . . . going back to Boston.”
His face fell. “Really?”
“Yep.” She felt how he looked, but she tried hard to hide it. “Can’t stay here forever, right?”
There was a heavy pause, in which she could almost hear Casey thinking, Why not? Why not, indeed.
“So, uh, when are you leaving?” he rasped, looking away from her.
“Pretty soon. I have to get back in time for the Beanies. My blog won an award!”
She saw Casey swallow, his Adam’s apple working in his beautiful neck.
“That’s . . . great,” he said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
More silence. Then, “Well, we sure hope you won’t be as much of a stranger as before.”
Ah, the all-encompassing, town-wide royal “we.” Distancing. That was good, right?
“Sure.”
“Do you think you could make it back for the farm’s grand opening?”
She took a breath. “Um, maybe.”
“I’d really like to have you there, George.”
She nodded. Dang. Speck of dust must have gotten into her eye. “I’ll see. I—I’d better get dressed. You can put Amelia in her crib, you know. If she stays sleeping, great; if she wakes up . . . well, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Thanks for . . . helping her get a little more sleep, anyway.”
“Sure thing,” he whispered, turning his attention to the baby.
George ducked out of the room.
Chapter 24
Casey plucked a lump off the gummy muffin—was it supposed to be blueberry?—and stuffed it in his mouth. It stuck in his throat. He washed it down with a couple of gulps of coffee. At least the coffee was palatable. He made a mental note to encourage Sera to create only in her pottery studio. She was way better with clay than with food. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Some people were artists, some could cook. Big deal. Different strokes and all that. George did both pretty well, though, he recalled. He found himself longing for a piece of her apple pie. Or rhubarb. Did she make lemon meringue? Any kind, really. Anything but this muffin that might actually be made out of some of Sera’s leftover wet clay.
He wiped his fingers on his jeans. George had just come into the doorway a few minutes ago, cleared her throat, and hitched her head, beckoning her sister into the next room for a private conversation. N
ow he could hear heated whispers, and he had to force himself to stay in his chair instead of getting up and standing by the doorway to hear better. Whatever they were arguing about was none of his business.
Besides, now was not the time to try to figure out how he could be in the same room with George again. Once this morning was enough—actually more than his heart could stand. The way she’d looked when she came into the baby’s room, hair all tousled, not a scrap of makeup on her face . . . thank goodness Amelia was weighing him down like a sandbag; otherwise he wouldn’t have been responsible for his actions. He really wished he could see her first thing in the morning every day. Preferably waking up in his bed. He shifted uncomfortably. Not the time to think about things like that. Actually, never the time to think about things like that, according to George.
The sisters’ voices were getting louder.
“—just take off? Really?” Sera barked. “Real nice. Classy.”
George murmured something else, Sera stepped on it with her own angry words, and then George again. “—have to, Sera!”
“What about Amelia?”
“I don’t think she’ll notice!”
“—thought you’d changed. I thought you liked it here—”
“That’s got nothing to—”
“—everything to do with it! Goddamn, you’re just as selfish as you always were, aren’t you?”
Apparently Sera was so angry she’d forgotten her no-swearing rule. Now that was angry. Casey pushed away from the table, ready to intervene, but he stopped himself. None of his business, he reminded himself. Even if he wanted to know more about why George was leaving. And how soon. And whether it was permanent or temporary.
“I’m sorry,” George bit out.
“Sorry’s not good enough.”
“That’s all you’re going to get.”
“George.” Wow, that was startling—Sera’s voice actually dropped, and she sounded hurt instead of angry. “Come on. Tell me the truth . . . is it because of . . .”