Kristan Higgins - All I Ever Wanted

The new vet, huh? I thought. Very promising indeed! I’d worked for Dr. Kumar, the old vet, back when I was a teenager. Everyone adored Dr. Kumar. He offered coffee and doughnuts in the waiting room, gave out his home phone number and sang to nervous animals until they were literally eating out of his hand. He was so tenderhearted that he often cried more than the pet owner when Roscoe or Tabby had to be put down. He’d retired recently and had great plans to take the lovely Mrs. Kumar to Branson, Missouri, where they were eager to tour the wax museum and ride the duck boats.

This new vet … hmm. If Dr. Kumar had sold the practice to him, the new guy had to be a real sweetheart. Already, we had so much in common! Vets loved animals … I also loved animals! With a hopeful note ringing in my heart, I contorted myself into Westward Twisting Heron and made a mental note to call for an appointment this very day. It was worth a shot, and I was taking all the shots I could find.

Last night, for example, I’d registered on eCommitment. Annie had been more excited than I was, since her last first date had been at age 14. Several friends, including Karen, our office manager, had met their husbands online, so what the heck. Yes, it would be nice to meet someone the old-fashioned way … my maternal grandparents, for example, had met over a cadaver in mortuary school. Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t the epitome of romance I was going for, but still.

In the past, before Mark and I were together, I’d had a relationship or two. I wasn’t a troll or anything. In fact, men really liked me. I was quite attractive, if I do say so … smiley brown eyes, shiny brown hair (it ought to be shiny, considering the number and cost of the hair-care products I used). A dimple in my left cheek … adorable! I’d grown a little chubby in the past year, courtesy of trying to bribe my heart into a good mood by eating cake batter, but still fell in the pleasingly curvy range. My Wonderbra and I could manage some very impressive cleavage. Men’s heads still turned. I was popular with the River Rats, a local boating club who worshipped my grandfather. I met clients who, occasionally, were single, normal, age-appropriate males.

Despite my parents’ wretched example and Hester’s utter revulsion of the idea of marriage, despite the fact that Noah had been gutted by the loss of my gran, I’d always been an optimist. Love made you a better person. Made you feel protected and precious and chosen . Chosen. Such a lovely word! And in loving someone else, you became better … noble and generous and beneficent.

I stretched my arms wide in Gentle Gorilla and tried to embrace my karmic blessings, as Leslie was telling us to do. The new vet, huh? Employed. Educated. Smart. Someone who could definitely compare to Mark. No doubt this new vet was also tender, loving, funny, probably a fabulous cook with Ryan Reynolds abs. Ryan Reynolds everything, maybe.

Not that I was getting ahead of myself, of course.

I MANAGED TO GET an appointment to see Dr. McFarland late in the day, telling Carmella Landi, the longtime receptionist, that poor little Bowie wasn’t himself and I figured he should be checked out. “Got it,” she said, her voice short.

“I think he ate something weird,” I added, trying to be convincing. This was half true … Bowie ate something weird at least once a day … a sock, a chunk of wood, a bag of frozen lima beans. Once he ate one of Noah’s feet … the rubber kind that was attached to the end of a particularly ugly prosthetic.

However, as we got ready for the appointment (I’d gone home to fetch my dog, of course, and freshen up a bit), Bowie looked in fighting form, all glossy and gorgeous and yipping and singing, his unusual eyes winking at me as I adjusted my cleavage. Should I change my shirt? Yes. Pulling on a pale green short-sleeved sweater, I unbuttoned the top two buttons. Should I go for three? No, three was slutty.

“Try to act calm, at least, Bowie,” I said. “You don’t have to lie, but you don’t have to do somersaults, either.” I switched my earrings to match the sweater, added a green and blue beaded necklace, then smiled winningly at my reflection. “You’re adorable,” I told myself. “Come on, Bowie.”

Ordinarily, I’d have ridden my bike … Bowie, being a husky, was born to do one thing, and that was pull. Noah and I had rigged up a terrific little harness to hitch onto my bike, and my dog loved nothing more than towing me up the hills of our fair city. Today, however, I’d have to drive Lancelot, my green Prius. Couldn’t have my dog pull me three miles out of town if he was allegedly under the weather. I felt a pang at the untruth and said a quick prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, as well as to Balto, the legendary sled dog whose heroics had given birth to the Iditarod, so that Bowie would remain in the pink.

It was humid today, the sky an unconvincing blue, and the forecasters had predicted heat in the mid-eighties, which was about as hot as Vermont was going to get. Mosquitoes, the Vermont state bird, were out in force, so it was just as well that I was driving.

Georgebury was a typical Vermont city—well, typical for the Northeast Kingdom part of the state, where the mountains were too small and too rough for skiing and the gobs of money it infused into the economy. No, Georgebury was scruffy, and we residents liked it that way. The downtown was set into a hillside, a few blocks of shops and offices and restaurants, the aging brick architecture from a more caring age, when builders left a legacy of arching windows and intricate details, high ceilings and wide-planked floors. Green Mountain Media occupied a Flatiron-style building on the V-shaped intersection of Allen and River Streets.

I glided past the office and headed up the hill to the more upscale, residential area of town—huge Victorian homes built by the mill owners in the town’s heyday, the beautiful town green, the athenaeum and town hall, the private boarding school. Misinski’s Funeral Home was here as well, tastefully painted in shades of dark green, yellow and rust, the long awning and hearse in the driveway marking the building’s function.

Though it certainly wasn’t necessary, I turned onto Camden Street. Just sightseeing, I lied to myself, looking for a car with rental plates. Almost against my will, I slowed.

Mark’s house was a place I’d always loved, a grand Craftsman with a stone front porch and a huge copper beech tree in the back. Of course, I’d pictured myself living here. Eleven months ago, I’d spent four nights here in Mark’s house, in Mark’s bed. My chest tightened as I looked at the yard. Our kids were supposed to have played there. Not gonna happen , the First Lady reminded me. He didn’t choose you. Move on . “Right, right,” I muttered. She had a point. Besides, no one seemed to be there. Maybe Muriel was staying elsewhere. Maybe this whole seeing each other was a lot less serious than it sounded.

With a sigh, I eased past Mark’s, heading down the other side of the hill.

The vet’s office was located out on Route 2, four or five miles from downtown. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed Bowie’s leash and unclipped him from his doggy seat belt. “Let’s go, boy,” I said, trying not to stagger as Bowie lunged for the door. He adored Dr. Kumar, of course, and would often sing along as Dr. K. serenaded him. Bowie chugged right up to the counter. “Hey, Carmella,” I said. “Bowie’s here for a check.”

“Right,” she said, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“He ate something, I think,” I reminded her.

“Mmm-hmm.” Again with the eyebrow. “That seems to be going around.” She jerked her chin, urging me to look. I did.

Ruh-roh.