Author: Kristan Higgins

“She has a right to be mad, Callie.”

“Twenty-two years of being mad?”

“I don’t know,” Annie said, huffing away behind me. “If Jack even thought of cheating on me, I’d slice him up good.”

I grinned. “I love when you talk all tough like that, you gangsta, you.”

“Get paddling,” she retorted. “Or I’ll slice you up, too.”

I turned back around and obeyed. A thumb-size mosquito whined near my face, taunting me before coming in for the pint or so of blood it would take. The water sluiced gently against the bow of my kayak. Our speed was pretty good…certainly much better than when Bowie and I went out, since the stubborn beast refused to help.

“Oh, look!” Annie said, nudging me with her paddle. “A man!” She pointed into the distance. Sure enough, a human figure was visible on a dock about a hundred yards away.

“Let’s kidnap him and force him to marry me,” I suggested.

“Okay!” Annie laughed. “Ooh. I think he’s drawing! That’s so hot, don’t you think?”

“Only if I’m naked and wearing the Heart of the Ocean and Jack Dawson is intently sketching me mere hours before his hypothermic death in the North Atlantic,” I said with a happy sigh.

“You’ve got to stop watching those sappy movies.”

“I will not! And don’t get sanctimonious on me, young lady! Didn’t your own husband use the phrase You complete me during his marriage proposal? Hmm?”

“I still regret telling you that,” she murmured. “Let’s go check him out.”

As we drew near, we could see the figure more clearly. It was indeed a man. And not just any man. It was Ian, sitting cross-legged on an old wooden dock, Angie at his side. And yes, he was drawing, a sketchpad on his lap. He looked up as we approached.

“Hi!” Annie chirped.

“Hi, Ian,” I seconded.

“Hello.” He watched as we pulled up to the dock, our intentions clear—to interrupt his lovely morning.

“Ian, this is my friend, Annie Doyle. Annie, the new vet, Ian McFarland.”

“Hi there,” she said, making me blush furiously, because Annie had this voice, you know? The voice she used when a particularly good meal was served…that oh, God, yes, yes, come to me, fettuccine Alfredo type of voice. “It’s…really nice to meet you.” I considered smacking her with my paddle.

“Are you drawing, Ian?” I asked.

Ian glanced down at his pad, the pencil that he held in his hand, then back at me. Wow. Those are some powers of deduction. “Yes.” Angie’s tail wagged.

“Can we dock here for a sec? I could really use a good stretch,” Annie said, subtle as a charging wildebeest.

Ian hesitated a second. “Sure.”

We paddled up to the dock. Ian came down to steady the kayak as we twisted and lunged our way out.

“So!” Annie said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you live around here, Ian?”

“Yes. Over there.”

He pointed to the woods. A little path twisted through the pines and over the granite rocks. I could make out a clearing, but not a house. “Is this your dock?” Annie asked. It would probably be easier if she just asked for a financial statement. Knowing her, that would be next.

“Yes. It’s mine.” Ian’s eyes flicked over to me.

“So Callie tells me she’s doing a little work for you, Ian,” Annie said, nodding approvingly. “She’s the best. So talented. You’re very lucky to have her. She’s great.”

“That’s enough, Annie,” I said. “I didn’t know you drew, Ian.” I could’ve put that on the Web site. Hobbies include painting, drawing and being too polite to get rid of intrusive visitors. “That painting in your office…your work?”

He looked at me, mildly surprised that I guessed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I love that picture,” I said. “Nice and juicy with all that squishy paint.”

“She doubles as an art critic,” Annie said with mock seriousness. Ian smiled. My uterus twitched in response. Dang. To cover my blush, I knelt down to pet Angie, who wagged politely.

“You know what?” Annie said abruptly. “I have a soccer game! Actually, Seamus—my son, Ian—he has a soccer game. But I have to go to it! I forgot! So I’m just gonna call Jack and he can come and get me! Okay?”

“I thought Seamus and Jack were going to the movies,” I said.

“No, he has a soccer game,” Annie ground out, widening her eyes at me as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Hi, Jack, sweetie, can you pick me up? No, I’m fine. I just remembered the game. The game. Never mind. I’m at…what’s your address, Ian?”

“75 Bitter Creek Road,” he answered, glancing at me. “Will you be able to get back alone?” he asked, looking down at the kayak.

“Sure,” I said, resigned. Annie was matchmaking, a disastrous hobby of hers that had resulted thus far in zero happy couples and two estranged cousins.

“Shall I just scamper down this path and wait for my husband at your house, Ian?” Annie asked, snapping her phone shut.

“Please. No scampering,” I said.

Ian didn’t seem to know what to say. “Uh… Sure. I’ll show you the way.”

Annie beamed and started off. “So, Ian, tell me about yourself,” she said merrily, then proceeded to fill him in on the wonder that was me. “Callie and I have been friends since we moved here when I was in fourth grade. She came right up and said hi, and the rest is history!”

The path from the lake was lovely, just wide enough for two people. The clouds had blown off, but the pines were so thick here the sunlight only broke through in patches, spilling gold on the forest floor. Ian’s dog padded silently beside me. “How are you, Angie?” I asked, petting the dog’s silky head. “Are you a beautiful girl?” She wagged her tail in confirmation that yes, indeed she was. “‘Angie… Aaaangie. Ain’t it good to be ali-i-i-ive?’” I sang in a whisper. It was, after all, our tradition.

Ahead of me, Annie was yakking away. Ian rubbed his neck with one hand, trying to answer Annie’s prying questions, such as…

“So, Ian, are you married?” My friend blinked up at him.

“I’m divorced,” he said, glancing back at me as if in a plea for help.

“How sad!” Annie sang. “How long has it been?”

“Two years.”

Annie turned and pulled a gruesome face meant to indicate joy and hope. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find a special some—”

“Look! A deer!” I barked. The deer fled, white tail flashing as it leaped neatly into the woods. I took the opportunity to trot up to Annie and pinch her. Hard. “Stop it,” I mouthed.

“What are you talking about?” she mouthed back, then said aloud, “Is this your place? It’s beautiful!”

Ah. We were here. I stopped in my tracks.

The woods thinned out to a backyard. The grass had recently been cut, the fresh, sweet scent filling the air. The house was a green two-story farmhouse with a beautiful gray slate roof…a classic New England design, but, if I wasn’t mistaken, recently overhauled. New windows, I thought. Fresh paint.

“This is very pretty, Ian,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said. “Um…would you like to come in?” It was clear he didn’t know how to avoid asking us.

“Sure! I’d love some coffee,” Annie said, shooting me another joyful look.

We walked around the side yard, which had a bank of mature lilac trees along one side. I could only imagine the smell in the springtime. Then we came to the front, and once again, I stopped short.

We were on the edge of a large field thick with goldenrod and late-blooming black-eyed Susans. Dragonflies dipped and skimmed, and finches flew in and out of the long grass. A stone wall ran along one side…a real stone wall, the Robert Frost variety, uneven and sincere. The gravel driveway led out to the unseen road—it would be hell to plow come winter, but who cared? About two hundred yards off was a large stand of maples, already topped in red. Ian would be in for quite a show in a few more weeks.

“Come on in,” Ian said. Did I mention he was wearing faded Levis? I suppressed a lustful sigh and followed him onto the porch, then turned to take in the view (of the natural scenery, not his ass, though both were compelling). The wide porch wrapped around on the western side. Perfect for sunsets. No railing, just an unobscured view of the field. A person could spend all day sitting on a porch like this, listening to the birds and the wind in the grass, the smell of pines rich and sharp in the air…

“You coming, Callie?” Annie chirped.

“Sure,” I said distantly, tearing my eyes off the view.

“This place is gorgeous!” she hissed. “And he’s not so bad himself! Oh, my God, those eyes!”

“Can you keep it down, please?” I asked. Ian was already inside.

“I wish I wasn’t married,” she murmured. “I’m serious. I’m leaving Jack.”

“Super. I’ve always had a thing for him. Now’s my chance,” I said, stepping into the house.

The interior of the house was pretty damn impressive, too. Clearly, an architect had done this, because it had that sleek, perfect feeling…smooth, shiny hardwood floors, streamlined bookcases, funky steel light fixtures. The overall effect was very modern, and maybe a little stark. And beautiful, because it was that, too. Expensive-looking furniture was well placed throughout, reinforcing the slightly chilly tone—I didn’t see a place where slumping and flopping could be executed too well, a far cry from the sofa I’d brought to Noah’s, which was aging leather and deliciously broken-in, a piece that seemed to invite a running start. But the house was beautiful.

And it was clean. Immaculate, even. I was a fair housekeeper myself, but not like this.

Off the great room was the kitchen, which had more steel light fixtures and slate countertops. Ian was already there, measuring out coffee beans.

“How long have you lived here?” Annie asked, gesturing me to heel.

“Not that long,” he answered, not looking at her. “Four months.”

“How old is the house?” she asked. Honestly, I was surprised she didn’t whip out her phone and start taking pictures.

“It was built in 1932,” Ian answered. “My uncle bought it in the sixties, and after he died, I bought it from the bank. Had it redone when I bought the practice.”

Dropping her hand so that Ian couldn’t see (and making sure that I could), Annie rubbed her fingers against her thumb. Money. She nodded at me and smiled. I sighed.

Angie’s ears pricked up as a car slowly came down the driveway, the gravel crunching under the wheels.

“Oh, drat, Jack’s here,” Annie said. “Well, great meeting you! Have to run!”

“What about your coffee?” Ian asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “Your husband’s welco—”

“See you soon!” she said, then hurtled out the door and ran toward Jack’s car.

“I thought she wanted coffee,” Ian said, staring out the window as Jack turned the car around and headed back down the driveway.

“She has psychological problems. Sorry about that.” I looked around the room again. “This is a very nice place, Ian.”

“Thanks,” he said, opening a cupboard. Inside looked like a Pottery Barn display—rows of neatly arranged mugs, all the same color and style, unlike my own motley collection, which ranged from the thick and uneven mug Josephine made me in preschool to an antique porcelain cup my gran had used each day for tea. Nope, Ian had only a row of mugs, six in all, pale green, very pleasing. Glasses, all the same model, six of each size, three sizes in all, stood like obedient soldiers.