“Oh, Daddy,” I whispered, unable to stanch the sympathy that swelled in my heart. I was eight when my parents divorced, aware only that my world was falling apart. Years later, when Hester illuminated me as to the why, I was shocked and dismayed with my father…but he’d already been punished for so long. Hester had barely spoken to him for years, and my mother kept the emotional knives sharpened, as was her right. But for whatever reason, it wasn’t in me to hate my father. His infidelity was a mystery best left unexplored. To the best of my knowledge, and despite his Cary Grant charm and crinkly eyes, Dad had been alone ever since he left my mother. Certainly, I had never met a girlfriend or heard a tale of even a dinner companion. Indeed, it seemed as if Dad had been atoning since before Freddie was even born.

“She loved me once,” Dad said quietly, almost to himself. “I can make her remember why.”

Yes. Squirreled away, separated from the memories of Mom sobbing on the couch or spewing curses at my father as my infant brother screamed his way through five months of colic, were a few little gems. Mom sitting on Dad’s lap. The two of them dancing in the living room without benefit of music when Dad returned from a long business trip. The sound of their laughter drifting out from behind their bedroom door, as comforting as the smell of vanilla cake, fresh from the oven.

“Will you help me, Poodle?” Dad asked. “Please, baby?”

I took a deep breath. “You know what? Sure. It’ll be an uphill battle, but sure.”

Dad’s expression changed, and he once again became a sparkly George Clooney. “That’s my girl! You’ll see. I’ll get her back.” He smooched my cheek, and I couldn’t help smiling. Twenty-two years should be enough time served, right? Dad deserved another chance at love.

And so did I. Dammit, so did I! Betty Boop stopped crying and seemed to look up at me. Really? Honest and true?

“Want another drink?” my father asked, and without waiting for an answer, trotted to the makeshift bar in the back.

Suddenly, I felt better. My father was going to try again to reclaim the love of his life. I should try, too. Mark had chosen me once…maybe I’d been too…sappy or clingy or whatever during those five weeks. I’d been mooning after him ever since Santa Fe. Maybe, just by going back to myself, that cheerful, smart, likable person I was, Mark would see that I was the one for him, not Muriel. And if he saw me with someone else, maybe that would be the kick in the butt he needed.

The—what had the man at the DMV called it?—ah, yes, the emotional diarrhea had been purifying. Life was good, as the T-shirts said. Or it could become good, right? I could find someone else. Even if Mark didn’t want me—I winced, but kept going—if that was true, then I’d find someone else who did. I would! No more Debbie Downer, no more Bitter Betty. I was Callie Grey, after all. Former prom queen, I’ll have you know. Everyone liked me. They really did.

“Doesn’t it look so pretty, Auntie?” asked Josephine grabbing my hand. Today, my five-year-old niece was dressed like a tiny, trashy pop star, fishnet vest over leopard leotard, ruffled pink skirt and flip-flops.

“So pretty,” I answered, smiling down at her. “Almost as pretty as you.” She beamed up at me, showing me her adorable, tiny teeth, and I touched her button nose.

The Serenity Room was strewn with pink and yellow streamers. Matching balloons drifted lazily past the stained-glass window depicting Lazarus coming forth from the tomb, and a table holding my birthday cake sat up in front, where the casket usually went. Bronte had made a big sign that said, “Happy 30th, Callie!”

The room was filled with an array of friends and relatives, as well as a couple of rather confused-looking people who were probably here for the wake in the Tranquility Room. There was Freddie, my brother, who was taking a year off from Tufts University, where he seemed to be majoring in skipping classes and drinking. He raised a glass to me and I waved fondly. My sister, built like a strong rhino, towered over him in full lecture mode, judging from the glazed look in his eyes. Pete and Leila, my fused-at-the-hip coworkers, surveyed the cheese tray (thank God for Cabot’s!).

“Happy birthday, Calliope,” came a low and very silken voice behind me. My uterus seemed to shrivel as my blood ran icy cold. “You look very beautiful today. Perfect, in fact.”

“Thanks, Louis,” I murmured, immediately glancing around desperately for a sibling or parent or friend (or priest, just in case it was true and that Louis was a ghoul who needed to be exorcised by an agent of Christ).

Louis Pinser was my mother’s mortuarial assistant, and quite beloved by Mom and Mom alone. Since her children had all refused to go into the family business, she’d had to look elsewhere. Elsewhere (somewhere damp and underground, I imagined) yielded Louis, a tall, chubby man with a receding hairline, slightly bulging green eyes and the requisite deep and soothing (and terrifying) voice of a funeral director. Once I’d overheard him in the bathroom reciting, “I’m so sorry for your loss, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Needless to say, he found me very attractive. All the weird ones did.

“I’d like to take you out to celebrate properly,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to my breasts. He held up his drink to his mouth, and his tongue darted out, seeking but not finding the straw as he continued to stare at my boobs. Blerk!

“Ah. Well. That’s nice of you,” I said. “But I’m so…it’s been a crazy…you know. Work. Stuff. What’s that?” I pretended to hear something. “Yes, Hester? You need me? Sure!” With that, I bounded out into the foyer, where my sister had just gone, and took a few deep breaths. Being around Louis always made me want to run out into the sunlight and play with puppies.

“No, you can’t straighten your hair,” Hester was saying to her older daughter. “Next question?”

Bronte turned to me. “Don’t you think a teenager should be able to do what she wants with her hair?” she asked, hoping for solidarity.

“Um…Mother knows best?” I suggested.

“You try being the only black kid in school,” Bronte muttered. “Let alone having this stupid name.”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re talking to Aunt Calliope here, named for Homer’s muse. No sympathy on the name.”

“And I was named after the slut in The Scarlet Letter,” Hester said. “At least you have a cool author’s name. Which, once again, I didn’t even pick, as you well know.” Bronte had been seven when Hester adopted her. Though my sister was a fertility doctor and could’ve had her children the old-fashioned way (artificial insemination, that is), she’d adopted both her children. Bronte’s biological father had been African-American, her birth mother was Korean, and the result was a stunningly beautiful girl. But as Vermont is the whitest state in the union, she felt her difference keenly, especially since she’d hit adolescence, when looking like everyone else is so important. Josephine, on the other hand, was white and looked very much like Hester, which was pure coincidence.

“Well, I’m changing my name to Sheniqua when I’m sixteen,” Bronte said, narrowing her eyes at her mother and me.

“I love it,” Hester answered calmly, which caused Bronte to flounce off. My sister glanced at me. “You doing okay?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” I lied, though the question made my heart squeeze. “Much better. Thanks for listening earlier.”

At that moment, my mother came out of the Tranquility Room. “Did you girls happen to see Mr. Paulson?” she asked, referring to the man whose wake was currently under way. “Gorgeous work. That Louis is so talented.” She bustled off.

“Happy birthday, Callie,” said Pete, emerging from the Serenity Room, his lady love firmly welded to his side. “We’d love to stay…”

“…but we need to go,” finished Leila. She glanced nervously at the other room, where we could just glimpse Mr. Paulson in his casket.

“Thanks for coming, guys.” I smiled gamely.

“Callie, when does Muriel start?” Pete asked.

At the name, my face ignited. “Don’t know,” I said, feigning a lack of interest. The young lovers exchanged a look. Poor Callie. Let’s pretend we don’t know about her and Mark.

“See you Monday, Callie,” Pete said at the same time Leila murmured, “Have a nice weekend.”

Off they went, into the sunshine and fresh air. Before the door closed, a most welcome sight appeared.

“Come on outside,” my best friend said. “I have wine, and it’s gorgeous. We’re not sitting in a f**king funeral home on your birthday.” Despite the fact that Annie was a school librarian, she swore like a drunken pirate when young ears were not around, which made me love her all the more.

The air was dry and sweet outside, and Annie was indeed clutching a bottle and a few paper cups. She gave me a quick hug, then trotted around the side of Misinski’s to the pretty backyard of my childhood.

“Hallo, what’ve we got here? Nipping off? Abdicating the throne, Callie?”

Annie grimaced. “Hi!” I said. “Join us, Fleur. It’s so nice out.”

Fleur and Annie were both my friends. Well, Annie was in a different class, as we’d known each other for eons. But she’d married her childhood sweetheart at the age of twenty-three and had Seamus, my darling godson, a year later, and was blissfully happy. Fleur was single, like me, and we occasionally had drinks or lunch and commiserated over the single life. Due to three weeks spent in England during college, Fleur spoke with a varying British accent and could be quite funny. The two women didn’t quite like each other, which I found rather flattering.

The three of us sat at the picnic table Mom still kept under the big maple in the backyard, though to the best of my knowledge, no one ate out here anymore. A wood thrush sang overhead, and a chickadee surveyed us wisely.

“So. Fuck all about Mark and Muriel, eh?” Fleur lit an English Oval and took a drag, then exhaled in a stream away from Annie and me.

“Yeah,” I said, gratefully accepting the paper cup of wine from Annie.

“You’re better off without him,” Annie said firmly, handing Fleur a cup, then pouring one for herself. She’d endured a long e-mail from me earlier this afternoon with all the details of my misery. “He’s an ass-wipe.”

I sighed. “The thing is, he’s not,” I told Annie.

“He’s really not,” Fleur echoed.

“Callie, I’m sorry. I hate him. He dumped you, made up some bullshit line about timing, and now he’s seeing another woman! Ass. Wipe.” She glared at Fleur and me over her gold-rimmed glasses.

“Okay, you have a point,” I conceded. “But those are just the details. Mark’s…he’s…” I sighed. “Kind of perfect.”

“Christly, you’re defending him,” Annie muttered. “You’re pathetic.”

“You sound like my grandfather,” I said.

“Right, well, not everyone gets to marry their little Prince Charming from third grade, yeah?” Fleur said to Annie. “For the rest of us, there’s a limited pool. Mark’s pretty great compared to what-all else is out there. And if he’s the love of Callie’s life, I say go for it, Callie. Take no prisoners.”

“Well, I think you can do much better,” Annie said loyally. “And Fleur, I forget. How long did you live in England?”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “A good bit of time,” she said tightly.

“You just have to get out there, Callie. Find someone else,” Annie said.

“Or better yet,” Fleur said, “win him back. Remind him of how fab you are. Find some man, make Mark screamingly jealous and bam! You’re back in.”

Though I’d thought the same thing earlier, I said nothing.

“Nope. Leave him in the dust, Callie,” Annie countered. “You deserve better. Write that down and tape it to your mirror. ‘I deserve better than the ass-wipe formerly known as Mark.’”

“You need to get laid, Calorie?” my brother asked, appearing at the back door. “My buddies back at school think you’re hot. You could be a cougar, how’s that?”

“I’m too young to be a cougar,” I said. “I’m only thirty! Besides, I want someone who doesn’t live with his mom.” I turned to my friends. “Is Gerard Butler single?”

“Setting your sights a bit high,” Fleur murmured. Hmmph.

“How about Kevin Youkilis?” Freddie suggested, joining us. “Then we could get Sox tickets.”

“Nah,” Annie said. “He has a lightbulb head. Consider your nieces and nephews, Freddie. Oh! How about the center-fielder, the cute one. Ellsbury? Now he’s hot!”

As my friends and brother suggested increasingly ridiculous choices for my new boyfriend, my brain was busy. Annie was right. I had to get over Mark. For months now, a stone had been sitting on my heart. I’d shed a lot of tears over Mark Rousseau, lost a lot of sleep, eaten a lot of cake batter. Somehow, I had to move on. Work would be hell if I didn’t shake loose from the grip he had on my heart. I most definitely didn’t want to keep feeling this way, alone in a love affair meant for two.

Even if he’d felt like The One. Even if I’d always thought we’d end up together. Even if he still had a choke chain on my heart.

CHAPTER THREE

UPON RETURNING HOME that night, I tripped over an appendage, an all too common experience for me. “Noah,” I called out, “if you don’t start picking up your legs, I’m going to bludgeon you with one of them.”