My Favorite Mistake

by Beth Kendrick

  “So you know for sure it was Ian’s dog?” Flynn wanted to know.

  Dr. Shelbourne threw up her latex-gloved hands. “This is more of the famous Ian’s work? He must be quite a guy. Tell him he’s responsible for eighty percent of my paycheck today.”

  Flynn commenced pacing. “What did he say when the dog bit you?”

  “Well, nothing, because he wasn’t there. Only his wife.”

  He stopped pacing and resumed staring. “His wife?”

  “Yeah, it turns out he’s married. Come on, you need to keep up with the gossip mill,” I chided. “Skye begged me to go over to his house and find out what the hell’s going on, but his wife answered the door and she was really not very sensitive about the whole situation. So then the dog bit me, and she threw me out so I wouldn’t bleed on the carpet. Ian never showed up.”

  “That’s it,” he decided. “I’m killing him.”

  “No,” I corrected, “I’m killing him. You have to wait your turn.”

  But no one got around to killing Ian that afternoon. By the time Dr. Shelbourne finished with me, it was nearly five o’clock, so Flynn and I made a quick trip to Cannon Falls to pick up my antibiotics and dinner for the invalids.

  “Listen.” I cleared my throat as we returned to the clinic’s parking lot. “About this morning…”

  “Later.” He cut the engine and shoved one hand into the drugstore bag. “One thing at a time. Start the antibiotics.” He refused to meet my eyes while I fumbled with the child-proof cap.

  Changing the subject and ignoring me. How novel.

  We figured that Sally and Skye would need either heavy tranquilizers or nonstop refereeing to survive a night together in the same room. Flynn agreed to wait out in the hall while I poked my head in the door, armed only with contraband cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes.

  The overhead light was off, but I could see that the room was decorated in tones of unrelenting gray. A tall metal tray with a vase of daisies and a plastic water pitcher separated twin beds. The whole place reeked of industrial-strength cleansing fluid.

  I could make out Skye’s yellow curls and Sally’s very red hair gleaming through the dusk. The only sound was the drone of the TV on the far wall. Two pairs of eyes blinked owlishly at me in the fading light.

  Either they had already beaten themselves senseless and were resting up for round two, or I was missing something here.

  “Dinner? Anyone?”

  No response. I perched on the edge of Skye’s bed and tried again. “Nice flowers.”

  “Lars. He brought them by and now he’s opening up the Roof Rat for the night. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Ssshhh!” hissed Sally from her bed by the window.

  “We’re trying to concentrate,” explained Skye, battered and bruised but looking quite alert amid a pile of white linen.

  I followed their rapt gazes to the TV, which was tuned to the Home Shopping Network. A hypnotic female voice was extolling the virtues of what was, bar none, the ugliest piece of jewelry I’d ever seen in my life. Four enormous hunks of pink stone were set into a garish explosion of gold curlicues and diamond chips in what was presumably intended to be the shape of a butterfly. The gemstone equivalent of a black velvet Elvis portrait.

  “We’re going to buy it,” my sister whispered.

  I smiled and waited. But she was not kidding.

  “Neither of us can afford it on our own, so we’re going to split the cost and share it,” added Sally, regarding the butterfly with the same awed, solemn reverence as she would the lost Romanoff treasures.

  I looked from Skye to Sally to the TV. “Oh my ears and whiskers.”

  “I know! Isn’t it fabulous? Now, sshhh! Sshhh! I have to hurry up and call because we only have two minutes left!” Skye turned on me with her lost kitten eyes. “Thank God you’re here. Can I borrow your credit card?”

  “Skye…”

  She clutched at her arm sling. “Please! My Visa’s maxed out—I need yours. Please! We’ll pay you back! I promise.”

  “We will pay you back.” Sally chimed in with all of Skye’s conviction and a lot more authority. “In three easy installment plans, just like the screen says. But we have to buy it today. They’re almost sold out, and it is a very valuable piece.”

  “Pink tourmaline,” chirped my sister.

  I dropped the brown-bag dinner on the nightstand near Skye. She dug out a milkshake and sucked on the straw until her cheeks hollowed out like a Dickensian orphan. “We’re down to forty-five seconds and there’s only a few left! Please!”

  “How much is it?” I peered back at the TV. “Oh my God.”

  Sally put a calming hand on my arm. “I know that $569.99 sounds like a lot, but it isn’t, really. Not when you figure we’re splitting it two ways and paying you back in three installments.”

  So Sally Hutchins and my sister, dueling divas since the 1994 homecoming court, had been united by their newfound loathing of unctuous English professors and their love of tacky jewelry. I thought I could detect the hand of divine intervention modeling the merchandise on QVC.

  I handed over my wallet.

  “Oh, I love you, Faithie!” Skye blew me a kiss and lunged for the phone. “This is gonna be so cool. We’ll even let you borrow it sometimes! Wait. I can’t dial with one hand.”

  “Give it to me. I’ll do it.” Sally snatched the receiver away.

  She ordered the hideous bauble in my name and thoughtfully added on a 14-karat gold chain. I left when they started an argument over who would get to wear the butterfly first and headed back to the hallway, where the real battle with Flynn was still to come.

  “You’re still alive. That’s a good sign.” Flynn looked up from the newspaper and a cup of coffee.

  He always seemed so strong and comfortable in his own skin—he made even this sterile, blank hospital hall feel safe and familiar. I wanted to throw myself into his arms again, but that moment had passed.

  We were back to wary looks and long, uncomfortable silences.

  “Here. I got you a cup of coffee. Two sugars, no cream.” He handed it over.

  I took a seat on the hard plastic chair next to him. “Not only are those two not scratching each other’s eyes out, they’re making joint jewelry purchases. On my credit card. I guess five-hundred and seventy bucks is a small price to pay for world peace.”

  He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Skye always knows just how to handle you.”

  I watched the steam from my coffee unfurl into the atmosphere. “It makes me so angry, what Bob and Ian did. How can they not love that girl? How can they do that, just drop her and leave?”

  I nearly bit my tongue off as that sentence left my mouth, but he didn’t make any comment about my desperate bid for freedom this morning. Or ten years ago.

  “Has she heard from Bob yet?”

  “No. She’s barely mentioned him since I got here. It’s hard for us to talk about. Maybe even harder for her than for me. Everyone expects her to be the smiley, breezy one who doesn’t take anything seriously.”

  “Because that’s your department?”

  “So I’m told.” I took a sip of coffee. “I just worry that she’s gotten trapped underneath all that blond. People see her running around giggling and they don’t think she’ll be hurt after stuff like this. But you should have seen her eyes today when Sally told her about Ian. It broke my heart.”

  He reached over to grab my hand, but changed his mind at the last second and ended up giving me an awkward and somewhat stinging pat on the knee. “She’s stronger than you think. And she’s smart enough to know what she needs. Right after Bob left, she called me and asked for help.”

  “Which you, of course, provided.”

  “I could pitch in with the financial aspect, but she really needed more help on the emotional front. So I convinced her to call you.”

  I smiled. “You realize, of course, that her phone call—her collect phone call—cost me more than dinner at L’
Orangerie.”

  “Where?”

  “L’Orangerie.” I shook my head. “Los Angeles. Never mind.”

  “Well, I bet that the phone call and L’Orangerie put together are still cheaper than that necklace in there.”

  “You think it’s funny now, but wait until you see this thing. It’s like something Cher would wear to the Oscars.”

  I studied his face and realized I was still missing huge pieces of this puzzle. The fireworks between us had died down this morning, but now that the volatile explosions were gone, so was the spark. He was closed and unreadable, and I seemed to have misplaced my Psychic Male Decoder Ring.

  I gulped my coffee and tried to replace the sinking sensation in my stomach with reheated Folgers. “You were so great to help us out. To help me out this afternoon. I really appreciate that. But, and forgive me for pointing this out, you seem to be a bit standoffish now.”

  “I’m not a glutton for punishment.” He devoted all his concentration to refolding the newspaper.

  I turned both palms out. “I can see the anger and disappointment in your face every time you look at me.”

  “I’m not disappointed in you,” he said. “You are who you are.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. Listen, I don’t know what to say to you. “When I first got here, I was scared I was still in love with you, and I was scared I wasn’t. And I was so ashamed of myself. It was like a really bad country western song. I pretty much just wanted to throw up every time I saw you that first week.”

  “Good to know,” he said. I couldn’t bring myself to look up at his face, but his voice sounded like he was smiling.

  “And speaking of throwing up…”

  “Yes?”

  “About last night.” My entire face was probably Ferrari red. I should have let Ian’s dog finish me off when I had the chance.

  “Yes?” Of course he couldn’t make this easy for me.

  I swilled the final cold sips of my coffee. “I am really, really sorry.”

  He laughed out loud.

  I glared at him. “Knock it off, I’m being serious. That was so irresponsible and immature and just very unrefined. I suppose I’ve lost some of my charm for you, but I promise you it will never happen again.”

  He was still laughing. I think I preferred the grim stoicism.

  “May I ask what the hell is so amusing?” I demanded.

  “The look on your face when you were making the transition from Brunelleschi to, quote, ‘losing your charm’.”

  “I’m trying to apologize. Why must you torture me?”

  “I’m not torturing you.” He paused. “Right now. I had a great time last night. Between the tattoos and the architecture lecture, you were very entertaining.” He gave me a look which, under better circumstances, I would have classified as a once-over. “And you really should consider wearing that little gray dress more often.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Definitely. It makes up for a lot of character flaws.” He cleared his throat and went on. “And just so you know, I’ve seen you be a hundred times less charming than you were Saturday. Like the first night you were back in town, when you took one look at me and took off running.”

  I resumed communing with my Styrofoam cup. “That was different. There were many extenuating circumstances. Like the fact that you told me to quote, get out, unquote.”

  “Okay, then, what about when we were five and you threw a bowl at me and cut my chin open?” He pointed to a tiny white scar on his jawline.

  “You had that coming,” I objected. “How quickly we forget. You held me down and colored all over my face with a brown marker.”

  “And I did a fine job,” he retorted. “You looked like a very small, very cute lumberjack. Talk about charming.”

  “Yeah, well, your grandmother didn’t seem to agree.”

  “True.” He nodded. “You’re incredibly charming when you’re not leaving me in the dust.”

  The sugared coffee aftertaste turned bitter in my mouth.

  He slid a hand under my chin and nudged my face up to look at him. “I don’t know where you went this morning and I don’t know why you went, but I’m not angry.”

  I went very still. “Why not?”

  “Because I know how you work.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. You either have no reason for something, or you have a huge reason. When you leave me, it’s because you need to. It’s part of who you are. I accept that.”

  “Why do I suddenly feel hugely insulted?”

  “You shouldn’t. It takes two to tango. I’ve made plenty of mistakes in this whole thing.”

  I licked my bottom lip. “So what do you think now?”

  “I don’t know.” But he looked grim.

  I held my breath as I waited for the inevitable, for what I should have expected since our hit-and-run reunion in the back room of the bar.

  But then he pulled me closer, mindful of the freshly-bandaged dog bite between us, and kissed me.

  All my anxiety about the look in his eyes, and Skye and Ian, and my editor’s new assignment dissolved for a moment. I wrapped my nonmangled arm around his neck and kissed him back.

  I loved him. Without shame, without boundaries, without any clear idea of where this was all going. Not wisely but too well, and all that. I had no defenses left and I didn’t care.

  And by the time we came up for air, I realized that I should probably keep this little epiphany to myself. At least until I could take a stand on the nebulous matter of my future and the burning question of location, location, location.

  But all that could wait a few hours. I sighed and relaxed against him.

  He cleared his throat. “Someone needs to be at the bar tonight. I better—”

  “Shut up out there, you guys. We’re trying to watch this!” Skye hollered. I heard Sally murmuring, then Skye yelled, “Oh yeah, Faithie, come in here for a second. I need you to run an errand, like right now. Flynn, you stay out there.”

  “Oh, no.” I handed my wallet to him and stood up. “Do not, under any circumstances, let her at my MasterCard.”

  “Good luck.” He gave me a snappy salute. We’d figure out our new relationship soon enough. But first, back into the QVC abyss.

  21

  Fifteen minutes later, as per Skye’s request, I pushed open the front door of the Roof Rat and braved the gauntlet of raised eyebrows and stalled conversations. But I didn’t have time to deal with all the inquiring minds. Flynn had walked me to the car and sent me off with a promise that we would discuss That Which Needed Discussing tonight. We were going to ditch the inpatients as soon as I got back.

  The bar had a big crowd for a Monday night; apparently half the town had shown up in the hopes that Skye or I would be staging a scandalous sequel to our Main Street matinee.

  Someone even turned off the jukebox when I made my entrance. Very Old West.

  The men put down their glasses of Pig’s Eye and pushed back their John Deere caps. The women started fiddling with their jewelry and pretended to be looking at each other while they eyeballed at me.

  At first, I couldn’t account for the gawking. It wasn’t like I was a key player in this little drama. I was merely sister to the star. But just as I was about to chalk it up to desperate small-town gossip-mongering and proceed with Skye’s errand, I felt a puff of warm air on my back as the front door closed again.

  And the evening wind brought with it a whiff of Earl Grey.

  He wouldn’t. Ian would not have the gall to show up at my sister’s bar while she was in the hospital, sharing a room with his other girlfriend. I mean, the man had a Ph.D., right? He was indiscreet, not idiotic.

  But then I remembered Portia saying he’d been at a conference in Minneapolis all day. If he hadn’t gone home to his wife before coming here, maybe he hadn’t heard about Skye and Sally.

  The crowd had settled into a hungry silence. The Roof Rat had become Lindbrook’s Coliseum, and I was th
e gladiator du jour.

  “I’d recognize that hair anywhere. Fair Faith, are you all alone tonight?” I’d only heard him use that tone of voice with Skye.

  I whirled around, one hand on my hip. “What?”

  “Well, I don’t see Skye or Flynn about. We’ll have to entertain ourselves somehow.” He chuckled and clamped a dark wood pipe between his lips. Alistair Cooke on the prowl.

  Was he…was he flirting with me?

  I gaped at him. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Join me for a cup of tea.” He patted the seat beside him and wrapped a hand around my wrist. His skin felt dry and soft, like wax paper.

  I jerked away. “Listen, you…you Twins fan, you. Would you like to know why Skye and Flynn aren’t here? They aren’t here because they’re holed up with Sally Hutchins. At the Raylor Memorial Clinic. And would you like to know what they’re discussing?”

  His eyebrows skyrocketed and he pushed his chair back. “I can’t imagine—”

  “You are such a slut!” I said. A collective gasp from the crowd.

  He recaptured my wrist and forced a laugh. “My dear—”

  “How dare you treat my sister that way?”

  His gaze bounced around the bar as he realized we were currently center ring at the circus.

  “Back off, Faith.” Lars, who was stationed behind the bar, had finally registered an identifiable facial expression. He looked furious.

  “I will not back off! My baby sister is all mangled in the hospital, and I’m taking it out of his hide!”

  “I mean, back off so I can get at him.” Lars started out from behind the bar, rolling up the sleeves of his denim shirt.

  Ian fled into the night. He left his pipe, still smoldering, on the tabletop.

  In a blur of blond, Lars reached the door before it closed behind Ian. He moved with a shocking amount of speed for one so monolithic.

  I hesitated by the cash register, unsure if I should complete my assigned errand and rush back to Skye, or stay put and try to maintain order in the bar, or hurry out to see the beating to end all beatings.

  Some decisions get made for you.

  “Get him!” shrieked a tiny brunette, toppling her barstool as she raced out the front door.