Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  Callum glanced up, and she was a little shocked by the ferocity in his glare. “No, not at all,” he told her, then directed his attention back to the phone. “It is not. Not in any way—no. And I told you. I’ll talk to you soon. Fine. Fifteen then.”

  He ended the call, shut his phone off, and laid his napkin over his plate.

  “You’re not going to finish?”

  “Lost my appetite, sorry.”

  “Is it something to do with me—or Samantha?”

  “No . . . yes—not really,” he said. “Just my dad. He feels your and my ‘acquaintance’ is a conflict of interest.”

  “That sounds like a thought Samantha planted.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. He doesn’t need help thinking I’ve screwed up—wow, though, sorry—I’m not trying to be super negative here.”

  Jo held up her hand. “No apology needed. Family stuff. I get it.”

  They were quiet a moment and Jo kept eating—no way she wasn’t going to keep enjoying her food—but after a few more bites, she put her chopsticks down. “So you ended up working with your dad after all, hey?”

  “Yep.” Callum pushed his chair back and stretched. Jo tried to focus on his words, not the long, taut lines of his body. “Archer and Sons, a.k.a. him, me and Brian—only Cade was smart enough to escape. He threw ‘sons’ into the name practically the day we were born. You probably remember me complaining about him—and his expectations—ad nauseam.”

  Jo didn’t bother to deny it. “And you don’t like it anymore than you thought you would?”

  “It?”

  “Law.”

  “No”—he shook his head—“I don’t. And it’s funny, but very few people ever ask me that.”

  “Most people probably think you’re set for life, living the dream.”

  Callum huffed and stood up. “Well, the set for life part’s right anyway. What I was supposed to be was mapped out from day one.”

  Jo ate one last shrimp—so garlicky, so good—then got to her feet as well. She was done, too. “Do you want me to walk with you?”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “Another time then.”

  “Actually, yeah . . . that would be better. Is that all right?”

  “Of course.” Up close, without their fragrant lunches between them, he smelled like lemon peel and sugar. How did he always smell literally good enough to eat?

  They parted ways on the sidewalk, and Jo walked to the corner. Waiting for the light so she could cross the street, she glanced back just in time to see Callum pause in front of his office doors.

  She framed her mouth with her hands to amplify her voice. “Hey!”

  He turned, spotted her, and lifted his own hands in a silent question.

  “If not a lawyer,” she hollered. “What?”

  Callum shot a look at his office building’s door, shook his head lightly, and jogged over to her.

  The walk signal lit up, but she didn’t step forward.

  Callum leaned in, almost like he was going to kiss her. “A baker, practically forever, just like when we were together, if you can believe it.”

  Of course. Another way he hadn’t changed. Sugar and spice and everything nice.

  “Oh, I believe it,” she said.

  His mouth was inches from hers and the heat in his eyes made her giddy. “And I’ve wanted to do this again forever, too,” he said.

  His lips pressed against hers and she made a little “oh” sound—surprise then thrill zipping through her as his arms went around her and his tongue opened her mouth.

  They broke apart a minute or two later and for once she was speechless. Then he said, “Thank you,” which made her giggle.

  “My pleasure,” she said as he ran a finger along her jaw.

  A stocky man appeared on the sidewalk in front of Archer and Sons, arms crossed, glaring.

  “Um, is your dad, uh, still huge and scowling, and prone to wearing charcoal suits?”

  “And balding now?”

  “I think so . . . ”

  “Yep, that’s him,” Callum said.

  “From the look on his face, I’d say he definitely feels this is a conflict of interest.”

  Callum put his finger to her lips. “Well, he’s only half right. I’m definitely interested, but I don’t have any conflict.”

  He loped away in an easy stride, and Jo crossed the street, then smiled all the way back to her truck.

  Chapter 9

  Jo spent the next week laboring through her to-do list. For every one thing she did, another crucial need became more obvious. The bathroom was spic-and-span, but so old and worn it didn’t look clean. She priced out a renovation, planning on real stone tiles and natural wood that would call the river to mind, and felt a bit discouraged—especially since, realistically, the house needed a minimum of another two additional bathrooms besides.

  She sorted through a bunch more of the never-ending boxes of junk that filled the five spare bedrooms from floor to ceiling, loading discard items into her pickup, repacking and labeling things to be sold or given away. It was hard not to be discouraged when day after day, it looked like she’d hardly made a dint.

  On Friday, she enjoyed a late lunch of pumpkin soup and dark rye toast with lots of butter, took stock of what she’d accomplished and contemplated the remainder of the day. Two o’clock. She had a few hours before the light faded. She could take the truckload of stuff into town and drop it off at the Salvation Army, then stop by the Unemployment Office and see what jobs were posted. She had checked her funds online using the public library’s Wi-Fi the day before, and though she’d be okay for another couple months, thanks to Uncle Ray’s cash gift and her own paltry savings, she didn’t want to exhaust that money entirely.

  Man, she wished Samantha would soften up sooner rather than later. If she was going to open in the spring, she needed the ball rolling now. Every week of waiting pushed her opening date—and the opportunity to generate income—back that much further. And besides, it was excruciatingly difficult to refrain from just jumping in and starting the work, but she really shouldn’t push her luck. She probably shouldn’t even be living in the house, though so far Samantha hadn’t made too much of a stink.

  She wondered what Callum’s opinion on all this was—his real one, not his careful I’m-your-sister’s-hired-counsel shtick.

  And then, as always the past few days—heck, every other minute—when her thoughts ran to Callum, her body went to remembering. His chin grazing her cheek. The smell of him. The velvet softness of the initial pressure of his mouth, then its demand—

  She stopped the thought there. She was never going to get anything done this way. But even reminding herself of that, she couldn’t help but wonder one more thing . . . also again. Why hadn’t he called? Or, perhaps the more pertinent question: why hadn’t she called him? But she knew the answer to both those, didn’t she?

  He’d obviously kissed her on impulse, an impulse he now regretted—and she didn’t want to hear it and have her fantasy crushed. She didn’t regret their kiss. Quite the opposite, in fact. Just like in days of old, when it came to Callum Archer, she only wanted more.

  She traced her index finger back and forth across her mouth then sighed heavily, startling Hoover. He grunted and rolled over into a deeper nap. All this ruminating wasn’t helping her get on with her afternoon—but it did change her mind about going into town. She knew what she wanted to do instead. She’d worked hard all week. It was time to play.

  The river was a slate-colored ribbon, almost black beneath the trees shading the pool Jo was about to sink her line into. She was glad she’d worn gloves. Yes, the tips of her fingers were pink with cold since her woollies were nipped off below the knuckles for dexterity’s sake, but the rest of her hands were warm.

  She smiled at the red and white bobber floating serenely for the most part, but spinning out and away and back every so often as it caught a small current. A lot of people used weighted foam bobbers now, but
she liked the old school look of the little ball—and the memories it kindled. How many trout had she and Ray grilled over an open fire on this very spot of riverbank?

  Overhead a crow cackled and hooted. Laughing at her or with her? Either way, the sound made Jo grin.

  She gripped her rod between her knees for a moment, freeing her hands to pour hot chocolate from a dented stainless steel thermos. Life was so good here. Why had she ever left? Well, she knew why—but what would it have been like if she hadn’t?

  What if Callum hadn’t chickened out? What if she’d had the guts and the maturity to stick around and see what happened instead of fleeing? Would they have gotten married, after all? Had a whack of kids? Ended up with lives they loved instead of merely tolerated or survived? Maybe she wouldn’t have ended up getting conned—

  No, no, she would have. . . . Well, maybe not by Devin, specifically—but she would’ve made some other equally disastrous decision. It was just where her head was at, and anyway, there was no going back and remedying the past. There was only how you lived in the present—and what you hoped for and worked toward for the future.

  Her line jerked tight, and the bobber disappeared beneath the surface of the water. Shoot! She dropped her stainless steel cup, sending hot chocolate splattering, and yanked the rod up, hard. Then waited. The bobber reappeared. Double-shoot! The little fighter had escaped. She smiled. It never got old. A shame about her cocoa though.

  The crow above her chuckled again—no, wait. That wasn’t a crow. It was a human. Jo turned her head, studied the tree line, then swung her gaze to the space she knew opened up into road, though it was pretty much impossible to make out unless you knew where to look.

  “I thought I might find you here.” Callum’s voice came through the trees and though Jo couldn’t see him yet, her heart skipped.

  She wished she’d worn nicer clothes, but then again, if Callum really was remotely interested, he might as well get used to her in man pants and rubber boots. The look was, as Samantha would say, Jo’s signature style.

  “Hey,” she said, raising a hand as he stepped out of the bushes.

  “Any luck?”

  “No, but I can feel it turning around now that you’re here.”

  “Heh,” he said. “That’s a nice thing to say.” He smiled at her. She smiled at him. Yikes, they were the lamest people ever. Thank goodness Samantha wasn’t there to bear witness. And double yikes, she hoped Samantha wouldn’t read her feelings when they met up next.

  “I dropped by because you weren’t answering your phone, and I wanted to see if I could take you to dinner or something.”

  “I’d love to—” Callum’s eyes lit up, then dimmed as she continued, “but I already have plans with Samantha.”

  Callum made a face she didn’t quite understand, but didn’t have time to ask about because her bobber disappeared again. She yarded on the rod to set the hook. The tip strained down. “Oh, that feels like something all right.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No, no, not yet—thanks.” She reeled. The fish fought like crazy. She reeled in some more. There was a flash of silver under the water. A tail broke the surface with a splash. Her line spun. She reeled in again. The fish—a glittering beauty with a black-speckled back—came bucking and twisting out of the water.

  The small net Jo had brought with her appeared under her catch.

  “Thanks,” she said. A minute later the fish was laid out on a flat rock. Jo stuffed her gloves into her pockets, then pulled a knife out of its holder on her waistband. She drove the blade through the top of the fish’s spine in one quick, hard motion, then held it up for Callum to admire—but he looked a little green around the gills.

  “Not a fisherman?” she asked.

  “Not so much. A fish eater though.”

  She lowered her prize to the rock again, made an incision just beneath the gill plate, and cut until she felt the spinal column. She flipped the fish over and made a similar cut, but this time she cut right through, removing the head. Next, she held the fish belly up, inserted the tip of her knife into the little hole above its anal fin and cut along the body, opening a nice straight line between the fins.

  She pulled out the guts and air bladder, leaving them in a pile along with the head for her laughing crow friend—then scored the blood line running along the spine several times. Finally she grabbed a toothbrush from her tackle box and squatted by the river, sloshed the fish through the water, and briskly brushed the blood out of the small cavity until all that was left was lovely peach-pink flesh.

  She gave thanks in her head, slid the little five-pounder into her basket, and rinsed her hands at the water’s edge. When she straightened, Callum was staring at her.

  “What?”

  He shrugged.

  “No, seriously. What?”

  “I see why you and Samantha don’t get along.”

  Jo packed up her lures and clicked the tackle box shut. “And how’s that?”

  “I can’t imagine Samantha baiting a hook, let alone braining a fish she’d just caught and gutting it and cleaning it in five minutes flat.”

  “Under three, actually.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I can clean a trout in under three minutes.”

  “Impressive.” Callum laughed.

  “Darn tooting it is.”

  “‘Darn tooting’?”

  “Sorry. I slide into gumboots and a mac jacket and turn into a hick. And hey, just thank your lucky stars I used a knife.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Usually for a small trout like that I slide my thumbs into its mouth, lace my fingers in a locked position around its back, and break its neck.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “You wouldn’t fit in the pan. You’re safe.” Jo handed the net and tackle box to Callum, and gathered the rest of her stuff. In the fifteen minutes or so since he’d arrived, the light had already changed. Evening fell earlier and earlier these days. Too early.

  They took the road back, figuring it would be lighter than the forest. After a bit, she broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “My fish killing, cleaning, and subsequent neck-breaking conversation. Maybe it’s kind of gross if you’re not into it.”

  “Are you kidding me? Hunter-gatherer woman—totally sexy.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, but was flattered. Maybe he hadn’t meant his “You and Samantha are nothing alike” comment badly.

  They stopped and he helped her lift a large branch, broken and thrown by the wind, off the gravel road.

  “We’re far more similar than we are different. In fact, in a lot of ways, we’re exactly alike,” she said when they resumed walking.

  “I think so too—oh, wait, you mean, you and Samantha?”

  Jo nodded.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  They were nearing the fork in the road that led back to her place or away depending on the route chosen. He stopped moving.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “You couldn’t be more different. She’s all about name brands and flash. You’re all about home cooking and living off the land.”

  “Nope. We’re completely focused on the same thing—creating a home and building something to securely call our own. Just what that looks like to each of us is a bit different.”

  “A bit. You’re pretty generous toward someone you can’t stand.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jo was so flummoxed she dropped her rod. She scrambled to grab it, but the heavy vines and undergrowth immediately hid it from view.

  “You and Samantha hate each other. You’re nothing alike.”

  “Ah, sorry, no. Not at all.” Jo found the rod, straightened up, and searched his eyes. He was serious. She shook her head. “That’s the furthest thing from the truth. Yes, there’s this freaky issue about the estate and a question that needs resolved. Will Samantha be
brave and take a risk—”

  “And there’s no judgment in the way you worded that.”

  “Um . . . I don’t mean there to be. Yes, okay, we’re different in some ways, sure. But we love each other. Even when our parents were alive, in practical terms, we were each others’ only family save Uncle Ray—and we hardly saw him because he wasn’t that into kids.”

  “You mean because he was a drunk and the courts wouldn’t let him raise you?”

  “Wow.” Jo shook her head again and resumed walking—at a faster pace. “I’m confused. Did you come here to start a fight? I don’t get it.”

  “No, I came to invite you to dinner, only to find out you’re hanging out with the sister I thought you hated.”

  “So what’s setting you off? That I’m busy when you deign to drop in at the last minute, or that I don’t loathe my blood kin?”

  “Neither.” Callum practically scowled. “I just don’t understand why I have to be part of this mess then. If you guys are so lovey-dovey, why can’t you resolve this yourself? Why do I have to be dragged into it?”

  They’d reached the house, but hovered by Callum’s car instead of heading inside. Jo fiddled with a piece of twine hanging off her fish basket’s handle. Yes, her and Samantha’s conflict was bound to be awkward and a bit confusing for Callum. “I kind of hate to say this, but I think the very reason Samantha hired you is because this way if anything goes south, I’ll focus my sorrow and anger on the legal system, the lawyer, rather than on her.”

  “And will you do that, Jo? If you don’t get your way—and I don’t see how you will—are you going to be angry with me?”

  Jo crossed her arms over her chest. She guessed she knew which way the wind was blowing now, didn’t she? He didn’t think she stood a chance. “I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I guess as long as there really was no other way and every possible avenue had been fairly considered, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

  “Not exactly reassuring.” Callum smiled but it was a sad look, and Jo didn’t see a trace of I-want-to-kiss-you-again in it. “And really, exactly the same as your sister? It’s hard to believe.”