I glanced at Ian McFarland. He was looking at me with his icy blue eyes, the way you’d eye roadkill. “Everything all right, Callie?” he asked.
“Oh, everything’s great, Ian,” I answered. “How’s your lunch? The soup was wonderful. Whoops, look at the time. Must run. Have a wonderful day.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
STEPPING INTO NOAH’S workshop was like entering a cathedral.
The old mill building had once been part of the lumber industry on which Georgebury was founded. The ceiling was forty feet high, so the place echoed like a canyon. The walls were rough-hewn brick, the floor made from uneven, unvarnished wide-planked oak, worn smooth as glass and stained nut brown from more than a hundred years of footsteps. Along one wall was Noah’s workbench, lit by an old copper pharmacy light; in the corner was a hideous plaid recliner where he sometimes napped and which the health department really should condemn. Fifty feet long, forty feet wide, the room was suffused with the smell of a century and a half of wood.
There were other smells, too, of course…polyurethane, smoke from the woodstove on the far wall, the pleasant, oily smell of Noah’s tools and occasionally that of wet dog, since Bowie stayed with Noah during the day. But lording over everything, the strong, wonderful scent of wood, cedar and pine and oak. Even when I lived in Boston, the smell of freshly cut wood had me turning to look for my grandfather.
At the moment, Noah had three boats in various stages of completion. One was a kayak, the type that had made him quite revered in the world of wooden boat paddlers. Long, sleek and lean, the bow so slim that it would slice through the water, this one was for ocean racing. Another one was, in Noah’s terms, “for idiots like yourself, Callie,” by which he meant for people who enjoyed paddling around a lake looking at the pretty birdies and trees. Very hard to tip, that model, but still graceful and lovely. The third boat was quite pretty, too…this one was an Adirondack fishing boat, and even though it was only half finished, I could picture Jay Gatsby in it, casting a line over the side while he yearned for that shallow tramp, Daisy.
“Noah?” I called. Bowie’s head popped up, and he yipped twice as he leaped to his feet, trotting over to see me. “Hi, boy,” I said, petting his big and beautiful head. “Where’s Noah, huh?”
“Right here, right here,” my grandfather grumbled, emerging from the back room where he kept his supplies. “What do you want?”
“I’m great, thanks! You’re so sweet to ask.” He rolled his eyes, unamused. “I just wanted to remind you, dear Noah, that everyone’s coming here for dinner, so you should come in and wash up.”
My grandfather scowled—Santa with a pounding hangover. “Do I have to?” he asked. “Seem to remember I can’t stand half the people in my own family.”
“Stop whining,” I said. “Yes, you have to. And it’s not half. It’s more like a third.”
“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Who’s coming?”
“The usual suspects,” I said. “Freddie, Hester, the girls, Mom.” I paused. “Dad.”
“What?” Noah said. “Both your parents? Does your mother know?”
“No,” I answered. “I figured it’d be better as a surprise.”
“That son of mine is a fuck-up,” Noah grumbled, shaking his head. “And your mother! She’ll gut him with her fork. What are you thinking, Callie girl?” He ran a gnarled hand through his thatch of white hair and gave me a look.
“Well, here’s the thing, Noah.” I took a deep breath. “Dad wants to get back together with Mom, and he asked me to help him out…”
“He never should’ve left her, the stupid fool. I never even looked at another woman once I met your grandmother.”
I smiled. “I know,” I said. “But Dad’s…well, he’s trying, anyway.”
“He’s still goin’ over jackass hill, if you ask me,” Noah said, referring to my father’s eternal adolescence.
“Well, he’s always been a good father,” I said. It was true. If you discounted the cheating-on-Mom part, that is.
“A good father loves his children’s mother,” Noah said.
“Okay, well, everyone’s still coming.”
“I’ll take dinner in my room.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” I said firmly. “This is a family dinner. Even Freddie’s coming.”
“Speakin’ of jackass hill,” Noah grunted. “Hasn’t he finished college yet?”
“No. He’s taking a year off to figure out what he wants to do, as he’s told you eighteen times. Hester’s coming with the girls, and of course, me, your favorite. So you’re eating with us.” I steered him out of the shop and into the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken greeted us warmly.
“I still have sanding to do,” he objected.
“You know I’ll do it for you later, old man. No excuses. You’re eating with us.”
“You’re so cruel, Callie,” Noah said, sitting down to unstrap his leg. “Bowie, your mama, she’s a mean one.”
I straightened from checking the chicken. “Mean? Didn’t I just clean this entire house, including that terrifying abyss you call a bedroom, where, by the way, I found four dirty plates and six glasses, not to mention the bottle of Dewar’s you think I don’t know about. Don’t I cook you dinner every night, old man? Don’t I sand your boats when you complain that your arthritis hurts when we both know that you really just hate sanding? And get that leg off the table.”
“All right, all right, I take it back,” he said. “You’re not half-bad.”
I HOSTED A FAMILY DINNER about once a month, though I alternated parental invitations. Still, my mother didn’t object when she came through the door an hour later and saw dear old Dad standing there, grinning sheepishly at her as he hugged my brother. No. She smiled, which was much more terrifying.
“Tobias,” she said in a mellifluous and deadly tone. If a cobra could speak, I’m sure it would sound exactly like my mom.
“Eleanor,” Dad said. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Attaboy, Dad,” Freddie said, helping himself to some wine. “Flattery’s a good place to start.” Apparently, Fred was in on the plan as well.
“Thank you, Tobias,” Mom said. “You yourself look—” she scanned him up and down “—very well. How’s the syphilis?”
“I don’t have—” Dad began sharply, then remembered he was wooing his lady love. “I’m 100 percent healthy,” he said in a gentler tone. “How are things with you?”
“Wonderful,” Mom answered, not blinking. I swear the air temperature dropped five degrees.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Calliope!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for having us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “So nice to include…your father.”
“I’m scared,” Freddie whispered, grinning at me. “Hold me, Callie.”
“Would you like some wine, Mom?” I offered.
“Absolutely.”
“How are things at the funeral home?” I asked, hoping to score points with a subject near and dear to her heart.
“Wonderful,” she said, her tone a bit less terrifying. “Louis just did a reconstruction on a man who was hit by a rogue tire iron. His head looked like a bowl of SpaghettiOs.”
“What exactly is a rogue tire iron?” Freddie asked, fascinated. “Shit, that must’ve been a mess!”
“Oh, it was,” Mom said, warming to her subject. “You couldn’t even tell where his—”
“Stop!” I yelped. “Please, Mom!”
“Callie, how can you be such a wuss when you grew up in a funeral home?” Mom wondered. “Death is in your blood, after all.”
“Death is not in my blood,” I said impatiently. “And it’s not like I got to choose where we lived.”
“Anyway,” my mother said, giving me a cool look before turning her attention back to her son. “His face was—”
“Oh, look, Hester and the girls are here!” I announced. “I’ll just run out and help.” With that, I galloped into the rainy evening.
“Is that Dad’s car?” Hester said, heaving herself out of her Volvo with some difficulty, a reminder to me to go easy on the cake batter.
“Hi, Auntie!” Josephine said, flinging her arms around my waist. “Want to braid my hair? Guess what? I’m in the school chorus! We’re singing ‘Greensleeves’! Braid my hair!”
“That’s great, honey! I’ll braid your hair in a little while, okay?” I said, smooching my younger niece. “Hi, Bronte, sweetie-pie.”
Bronte glared at me, her earbuds firmly in place. “Hi,” she grumbled. Ah, adolescence.
“I’m so happy to see you. I love you. You’re gorgeous and brilliant,” I said.
“Calm down, Callie,” she said, but she gave me a kiss and trudged inside, Josephine prancing at her heels.
“Is that indeed Dad’s car, Callie?” my sister repeated.
I sighed. “Yes. I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.”
“Nice, Callie? As in, ‘It would be nice to have my kidneys torn out by a lion while I’m still alive?’ That kind of nice?”
“Yes! Exactly what I was going for!” I answered. “Let’s not exaggerate, Hester. It’s not like they’re never together.”
“Public events only,” Hester said. “With lots of other people to distract and confuse and block.” She looked at me in exasperation. “You’re an idiot, you know that? What are you doing? Trying to get them back together?”
“No, no,” I said. “Well…Dad…um, never mind.”
“Dad what? Is he dying?”
“No! You and Mom…he’s not dying. He just…he wants to make amends with Mom, that’s all.”
“Fuck,” Hester said. “Listen, why don’t I leave the girls here, and I’ll go and lie down on the highway and hope to get run over instead?”
“Well, as fun as that sounds, get your ass inside and stop complaining,” I said. “I made a gorgeous dinner. Come eat.”
My sister obeyed. I took a cleansing breath of the cool, damp air, said a little prayer for peace and followed her inside.
Family gatherings were…um, let’s see, what’s the word I’m looking for?… Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served as referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.
But Dad had asked, and even though his odds were probably that of a baby chick surviving a stroll across the Daytona 500 Raceway, I had to help him out. If I didn’t, no one would.
For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer…I know, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.
As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.
“Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”