Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  “So tomorrow, nine-ish?”

  “All right . . . I guess.”

  She still sounded smiley, so he took a chance on one small joke. “And no last minute after midnight calls to cancel, right?”

  “Fine,” she said with mock annoyance, then added more softly, “Good night, Callum. See you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait!” he said before he could contain himself.

  Jo was laughing at him as she hung up the phone.

  Chapter 17

  The woodstove pushed out lazy waves of heat, and the flames behind the glass were a shimmering haze. Head propped on a cushion from the couch, Jo stretched out on the living room rug, a beautiful hand-tufted gold, navy and burgundy oriental carpet she’d found rolled up in the shed, protected by plastic wrapping.

  She couldn’t believe how quickly time disappeared. November was flying by. It hardly seemed possible. Snow for the winter would fall in earnest soon—no more of these hit or miss flurries or brief stints of wet flakes. The weatherman was calling for eighteen inches over night. Crazy! How long had it been since she’d seen that much snow?

  But the changes in the weather weren’t really what shocked her. It was how the hours she and Callum spent together were accumulating—and how she could never get enough.

  The past few weeks he’d been at her side pretty much whenever he wasn’t at work, and despite Dave’s dire repeated warnings and Samantha’s chronic skepticism, Jo felt pretty good about things.

  Like her thoughts called him to her, he strolled back into the living room with a decanter of port and two glasses. He handed her one and filled it when she nodded happily.

  “This is getting to be a tradition.”

  “Traditions are good.”

  “Are they?”

  “Totally.” He smiled, filled his own glass too, and sank down beside her on the rug, so close that his hip rested lightly against hers.

  “It’s an amazing place, Jo. You’re right.”

  “Of course I am—but a lot of it’s thanks to you. We got a lot done, especially the last few days.”

  Callum nodded and closed his eyes, basking in the heat from the stove. “I thought I’d never be warm again,” he said.

  “Aw, poor baby,” she said lightly, sleepily. “Want me to kiss it better—” Jo broke off, suddenly wide-awake.

  “Do I want you to what?” he teased.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” she retorted.

  “Fine, fine—but remember, you made the rule: no flirting.”

  “Ha, funny.”

  “It sure is cold though,” she said a few minutes later. “The plastic is going to help a lot.”

  “That’s me. A winterizing genius.”

  “Yep.” Her eyelids were heavy again. “The fire feels so good, doesn’t it?”

  “The best.” Callum moved to lie on his side, facing her, head supported by his propped elbow.

  “Your hair looks like spun copper and gold in the firelight,” he said.

  “So like wire, hey? Gee, thanks.”

  His eyes crinkled.

  The deep, rich port mellowed her well-worked muscles, and the combination of the pretty setting, glowing fire, and Callum’s ever-yummier-to-her scent cast a cozy spell.

  “Are you flirting with me, sir?”

  “Nah,” he said. “If I was flirting, Ms. Kendall, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  “Good to know.” She rolled from her back to her side, mirroring his position.

  They looked at each other for a long while, then Callum’s eyes dropped from her face, traveled the length of her body, and rested on her dove gray corduroy pants.

  “What?” Her mouth twitched as she waited for some smart comment.

  He didn’t say anything, but his brow creased.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering—all day, actually,” he finally said. “Ah, never mind.”

  “No ‘never mind.’ Tell me.”

  He shrugged and placed his hand on her knee, then ran it lightly up the top of her thigh.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised—and instantly warmer.

  Callum kept his hand on her leg. “So that’s what they feel like. I haven’t worn cords in forever.”

  She smacked his hand away, laughing. “Seriously? Has that line worked for you? Ever?”

  Callum’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Line?”

  She shook her head, then sipped from her glass. “Joker.”

  He shrugged. “Seriously, you can rock a pair of cords. Who knew?”

  “Well, everybody, of course. Duh! Corduroy is awesome.” She turned her face to hide her smile. She had warned herself in vain about not falling for his flattery. She loved every bit of his corniness.

  There was a crackle and whoosh as one of the logs in the stove burnt through and the burning stack of wood and coals shifted.

  “Ahhh,” Callum said at the same time, stretching his arms above his head. “That’s it for this guy. I’ve gotta hit the hay, or you’ll be peeling me off the floor.”

  Such a nice back, Jo thought as she watched his muscles move beneath his soft cotton shirt. “Already?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could . . . well, you can stay if you want. The couch, as you know, is mostly comfy.”

  Callum got to his feet, shaking his head—ruefully, Jo hoped. “I’d like to, but I’m under a serious no flirting restriction, so sleepovers are probably out too.”

  Jo blushed. “I wasn’t inviting—”

  Callum touched her cheek. “I know you weren’t. I’m just saying I wouldn’t sleep a wink lying here on your cold couch.”

  Jo snorted. “Trust me. My bed is way colder than the couch.”

  Callum grinned. “Now see—I could make a comment about that too, but nope, I’m not even going there. See my mighty willpower?”

  “I see your mighty something all right.”

  Callum eyes glinted. Jo clamped her hand over mouth. “Don’t even go there, weirdo!”

  He laughed, then nodded with a exaggerated sigh, his eyes still dancing.

  “And you’re good to drive?”

  “Absolutely. I only had the one—and it was small, not like your two mugs full.”

  Jo grinned. “Hey, you poured them. I just drank them.”

  She leaned in the entrance until Callum had his jacket and boots on, and threw him a glove that fell out of his pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said, holding it up like he was toasting her with it.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of fun this week . . . friend.”

  “Me too, pal.”

  They both laughed and Jo slammed the door after him. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold that gusted in as Callum slid out—or that’s what she told herself caused the shiver anyway. Really, her body felt the furthest thing from chilled, and it was like she could still feel Callum’s hand on her leg.

  Friends, indeed. She had to say though, smiling as she headed off to bed . . . Callum really didn’t show any signs of being the playboy Dave said he was. He was funny, yes, and helpful, yes . . . and occasionally both of them broke the no flirting rules a little, yes . . . but none of it felt like a big farce to get into her pants. He seemed real. Genuine. Like his words that night on the phone about really liking her were sincere.

  She bit her lip and a touch of her happy glow faded. Real and genuine. That’s how she’d felt about him when they were together before, too. What were the odds she was actually right this time? Her happiness brightened again—pretty good, actually. Wasn’t that how odds worked? They increased in your favor the more chances you took?

  Nope, not even close, airhead, muttered her inner grouch. An old math exercise involving dice came back to her. Sure, the probability of producing rolls that totaled a specific number could be higher or lower, depending how many single digit combinations added up to the sought after sum. But when rolling a solitary die, no matter how many times you rolled, your
chance of getting a specific number was the same each time you rolled.

  She plumped her pillow, then hugged it to her chest. So what if affection wasn’t logic-based? That didn’t invalidate her analogy at all.

  Chapter 18

  Morning light the color of tea with milk poured through the gap in the curtains. Callum stirred and stretched, then settled again, letting his Egyptian cotton sheets and feather duvet seduce him back to the sweet, slightly bizarre dreams that live between nearly asleep and nearly awake—dreams that centered, always, on Jo. If every day could begin with thoughts of Jo, or better yet, with Jo herself, life would be so good—

  The phone rang. Callum checked the display. Dave. Again. He ignored it and rolled over.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. He still ignored it. Then once more. Finally he picked it up. “Dave, buddy, you’re killing me. I was trying to sleep.”

  “So Dave calls you first thing in the morning now, too? Noon and night aren’t enough for him?”

  Callum bolted to full consciousness. Nina. She was like a cattle prod to the groin, armpits and any other tender parts.

  “Ugh,” he said out loud.

  “Pardon me?”

  “What do you want, Nina?

  “I’ve heard you’re seeing the Kendall sisters.”

  “You need to rephrase. What are you getting at?” Callum squinted at the clock again. Not early enough that he could fairly expect her not to call. Rats.

  Nina exhaled in an exasperated wheeze, like he’d been stalling for hours and hours, holding her up. “Are you dating one of the Kendall sisters?”

  “No.”

  The speed and lack of hesitation in his answer must have convinced her.

  “Are you working for them?”

  He paused. Damn.

  “Are you or aren’t you? It’s a simple question.”

  “I’m just wondering how it’s any of your business.”

  “So you are handling their freaky uncle’s estate.” Nina sounded like she’d won the Pulitzer or some equally lofty award. “Someone told me you might be.”

  “There are like, what, ten lawyers in this town, and only three that specialize in estate law. Your power of deduction is uncanny.”

  “Was it a valid, well planned will?”

  “Are you on drugs? Taking something by prescription perhaps?”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “You have to be on crack or something equally mind-altering if you think I’d ever tell you about a client’s will, estate, or pretty-much-anything-ever-you-name-it.”

  “Aw, Callum,” Nina said softly. Callum could almost imagine her hand running along his arm as she crooned. His stomach turned a little and he jumped out of bed. The last association in the world he wanted was Nina and his new bed. “Come on . . . I’m just trying to be of service to our newest residents. If that dump is legitimately theirs and they want to unload it, I’m their realtor. I’ve already got a buyer.”

  Of course she did.

  Well, at least it explained why she was calling. For business. What a relief.

  And something else she’d said was interesting—but what? He pressed speakerphone, set the handset on the dresser, and pulled a T-shirt over his head as he tried to recall the comment that caught him. Nina kept up a steady bullet-fire of one-sided conversation: why she was the best representative for the property, why she was number one in the region, why he should give a shit—no, wait, that was what he wanted her to explain, but knew she never would. Oh—now he remembered what it was that struck him.

  “You said someone told you I was the Kendalls’ lawyer. Did they say the firm was handling the estate or did they specifically mention me? And who was it?”

  He could practically see her pout. “I don’t see how that’s important.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. I’m just curious,” Callum said, knowing indifference was the best way to get her to talk. He hadn’t been attached to her hip for eight years and not learned any tricks. “Anyway, I have to get off the phone. I have a—”

  “Dave,” she said quickly. “It was Dave. Happy now?”

  Happy? No, not at all. Why would Dave talk to Nina about him in any regard, let alone tell her something that put her back on his case and gave her reason to nag and harass him? He’d make sure he returned the favor—maybe with a big old slap to the head.

  “Well, if that artsy one still has the deluded idea she can operate some kind of a hotel or something. . . .” Nina drifted off, like she was making an unspoken threat, and Callum noted she said “artsy” in a tone most people would reserve for “murderer” or “drug addict”—and he would’ve disapproved of the smug, judgmental attitude then too.

  “If she still has the idea, then what?” he asked wearily.

  “Just that I hope you have the good sense to say no when she comes around with her hand out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play coy. I know exactly who she is—that fast little piece you went out with in high school.”

  Callum would’ve laughed at Nina calling anyone else “fast” and made a crack about the pot calling the kettle black, except that he was so outraged on Jo’s behalf. “You don’t know anything, Nina.”

  “Oh, I know plenty. I know you still have a thing for her. You never stopped—and she’ll figure that out pretty quick, if she hasn’t already. So who’s she going to come to for capital to help make her dreams come true? Well, soft touch Callum of course.”

  “Where are you getting this stuff?”

  Callum’s stomach twisted again at the smugness in Nina’s cackle. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Yes, I would. That’s why I asked.”

  “Maybe I overheard it from the talkative little bird herself.”

  The conversation was quickly falling into their classic communication meltdown. Any second now, they’d do away with any pretense of civility and start a shouting match. But even seeing the pattern didn’t stop Callum from biting. He couldn’t let Nina smear Jo like that.

  “Jo’s not going to come to me for money.”

  “Oh, Jo, is it? And really, she’s not? You’re so sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So she has you out there playing house for what—kicks? She’s not trying to woo you into some dead-end financial catastrophe?”

  Playing house? Who was feeding Nina this crap? Had she snuck around spying, after Dave inadvertently linked Callum to the Kendalls? Whatever. It didn’t matter.

  “She’s not the first woman—and she won’t be the last—to look at you and think your family’s money is worth an investment of her own.”

  Not the first because you beat her to it, you mean, Callum thought. “Unless you had some other reason for calling, we’re done.”

  “No. I’m coming to the office to see you.”

  “Make an appointment.”

  “I will.”

  He hung up, not believing for a second that Nina would show up. She was only fishing. It was the problem with commission-work—for greedy, climbing, bottom feeders like Nina, at least. It made everything in your life something to be bought or sold. Nothing had value without a price tag attached.

  He tried not to scowl as he shaved, but it was hard not to.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” he muttered, rinsing the blade under the tap and going in for another quick swipe near his sideburns. But it was too late. She already had. And he wasn’t surprised. Getting to him was what Nina did best.

  All that aside, however, he couldn’t stop wondering how she knew so much about Jo’s plans. Had she overheard Jo chatting to someone in town? Or worse, had Jo hinted a financial partnership with him was in the future?

  No, she wouldn’t use him like that. They were friends. They talked about almost everything. She was an open book.

  Of course you think that. What’s she going to do? Tip her hand right away and show you she’s a conniving opportunist? The p
oisonous thoughts oozed into his head in Nina’s voice, and although he didn’t want any of his old bitterness or current worries to taint the sweetness of their new friendship, details of a recent conversation between him and Jo came back to him, choking him: what would they each do if they could do anything at all, no money or time or physical constraints.

  “I’d create my dream retreat right here,” she’d said, lifting her arms and spinning to encompass the cabin, outbuildings and wild jungle that made up Ray’s place. Even frozen, the place was a jewel-green wonderland. Listening to her, watching her, feeling her excitement and energy like it was his own, while frosty, pine-clean air coursed through him, a big feeling of possibility had welled up in Callum. In that moment, he was purely happy just to be alive. “Uncle Ray wasn’t perfect, but his house was my haven—and the closest thing to a permanent home I ever experienced. I was loved when I was here.” Her eyes glowed, and Callum had wondered, had hoped, that her smile bloomed with memories of Callum’s old love for her, not just those of good times with Ray. Now, however—though he hated it about himself—Callum wondered if her answer hadn’t been a bit calculated.

  “I’d run it as a bed-and-breakfast, yes, but I wouldn’t have to worry about stupid practical things like staying in the black and being cash positive. It would miraculously run itself, and I could let people come and stay who needed to—no money, no problem.” Then she’d laughed and said what now seemed the most damning thing of all. “I guess what I need is a kind benefactor, hey?”

  At the time, idiot that he was, he’d thought it was a lovely, altruistic dream and said so, before launching into his long-held fantasy about a bakery and treat shop.

  “That’s perfect for you!” she’d said. “And I could buy your amazing goodies for my guests.” He’d thought her extreme delight was sincere—and, super lame, it had made him mist up. She was the first person to ever express any enthusiasm for his idea. Everyone else thought he was nuts.

  “What? You’re going to work sixteen-hour days so you can feed cookies to snot-nosed brats and still barely scrape together a mortgage? Better plan on selling your big house on the hill, boy. That’s not a career, that’s called being a wife,” had been his father’s oh-so-enlightened comment.