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Just One of the Guys
Kristan Higgins


Being one of the guys isn't all it's cracked up to be. . .So when journalist Chastity O'Neill returns to her hometown, she decides it's time to start working on some of those feminine wiles. Two tiny problems: #1–she's five feet eleven inches of rock-solid girl power, and #2–she's cursed with four alpha male older brothers.While doing a story on local heroes, she meets a hunky doctor and things start to look up. Now there's only one problem: Trevor Meade, her first love and the one man she's never quite gotten over–although he seems to have gotten over her just fine.Yet the more time she spends with Dr. Perfect, the better Trevor looks. But even with the in-your-face competition, the irresistible Trevor just can't seem to see Chastity as anything more than just one of the guys. . . .












Praise for the novels of Kristan Higgins


Catch of the Day

“Smart, fresh and fun! A Kristan Higgins book is not to be missed!”

—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

“Higgins has crafted a touching story brimming with smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging narrative and the amusing, often self-deprecating observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth and a great deal of heart.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars Top Pick

“Goes down sweetly. An utterly charming story!”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“When your heart needs a smile, when you want to believe in falling in love again, or when you just want to read a great book, grab one by Higgins. You can’t go wrong.”

—Dee & Dee Dish on Books, BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR, 2007

Fools Rush In

“Where has Kristan Higgins been all my life?

Fools Rush In is a spectacular debut.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly

“Higgins reached deep into every woman’s soul and showed some heavy truths in a fantastically funny and touching tale. This book is on my keeper shelf and will remain there for eternity. It will be re-read and loved for years to come.”

—Dee & Dee Dish on Books

“A fresh intelligent voice—Kristan Higgins is too much fun!”

—Cindy Gerard, USA TODAY bestselling author of To the Limit

“Higgins is a talented writer that will make you want to search high and low for anything that she has written.”

—Chicklit Romance Writers

“Outstanding! This is a story well worth reading.”

—Coffee Time Romance




Just One of the Guys

Kristan Higgins







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Also available from Kristan Higgins

CATCH OF THE DAY

FOOLS RUSH IN


To Terence Keenan—Husband. Father. Firefighter. In that order.




Acknowledgements


As ever, I am grateful to Maria Carvainis, my kind and brilliant agent;



To Tracy Farrell and Keyren Gerlach for their enthusiasm and support of this book;



To fellow writer Rose Morris, my dear friend and perfect reader;



and to Beth Emery, head coach of women’s crew at Wesleyan University, who patiently answered my questions about rowing.



And, most especially, thanks to Terence Keenan, my dear husband, who advised, laughed and cooked while I wrote this book, and to my two wonderful kids. You three are the loves of my life.




Chapter One


“I THINK WE SHOULD STOP SEEING each other.”

My jaw drops. I inhale sharply, and the stuffed mushroom I just popped in my mouth is sucked right into my esophagus. Jason continues, unaware of my distress. “It’s run its course, don’t you think? I mean, it’s not like we’ve…”

Seems like my little old air passage is completely plugged. My eyes are tearing, my chest convulses—Before you break up with me, Jason, would you mind a little Heimlich? I slam my hand down on the table, rattling the china and cutlery, but Jason assumes that my distress is heartbreak and not oxygen deprivation. He looks away.

I’m being killed by my appetizer. I knew I shouldn’t have ordered it, but Emo makes the little number drenched in butter, with little bits of garlic and parsley and…um…Must breathe now. Save food review for later. The pressure in my neck is building. I make a fist, wedge it just below my sternum, and slam myself into the table. The mushroom shoots out, hits a water glass and comes to a rest on the white tablecloth. I suck in an enormous breath, then begin coughing.

Jason eyes the mushroom with distaste, and without thinking, I grab it, stuff it in a napkin and take another beautiful gulp of air. Breathing. It’s so underrated.

“I was choking, you idiot,” I manage to wheeze.

“Oh. Sorry about that. Well, good thing you’re okay.”

It’s hard for me to believe that I was even dating Jason to begin with, let alone the fact that he’s dumping me. Dumping me! I should be dumping him!

I glance at the wadded-up napkin containing the instrument of my near death. The poor busboy who has to deal with that. Should I warn him? Otherwise, he’ll shake it out, innocent, unaware, and the unchewed mushroom will fly across the kitchen, sliding on the floor, maybe getting squashed under a shoe…

Focus, Chastity, focus. You’re being dumped. At least find out why. “So, Jason, that’s fine. I mean, clearly it wasn’t love at first sight. But other than that, do you mind telling me…well, why?”

Jason, whom I have been seeing for about three weeks, takes an impervious sip of wine and stares over my head. “Do we have to dissect this, Chastity?”

“Well, um…think of it as my desire to gain information. I am a journalist, remember.” I try a friendly smile, but I’m not feeling so chummy right now. Or ever, now that I think of it. At least, not toward Jason.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes, actually, I do.” I pause, feeling a flush prickle its way up my chest. Our brief relationship has been tepid at best, but I thought the malaise was emanating from me. More than anything, this is a matter of wounded pride. Jason and I have been on four dates now. He lives in Albany, and it’s a bit of a hassle to make the drive, and sometimes neither of us is feeling that inspired. Still, I didn’t see this coming.

Jason’s tongue is searching for something near a back molar. His mouth contorts as his cheek bulges. I find myself hoping he’ll choke, too. Seems only fair. His eyes still don’t bother to meet mine. “Fine,” he acquiesces, leaving whatever morsel lurks at the back of his mouth for later enjoyment. “You want to hear the reason? I just don’t find you attractive enough. Sorry.”

My mouth drops open yet again. “Not attractive! Not attract—I’m very attractive!”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Sure. A handsome woman. Whatever. And with shoulders like those, you could find work down on the docks.”

“I row!” I protest. “I’m strong! That’s supposed to be sexy.”

“Yes, well, proving that you could pick me up didn’t exactly set my libido on fire.”

“We were horsing around!” I cry. It was, in fact, the one lighthearted moment in our courtship…we’d been hiking, he complained that he was tired, I took over. End of story.

“You gave me a piggyback ride for a mile and a half, Chastity. That’s something a Sherpa should do, not a girlfriend.”

“It wasn’t my fault that you couldn’t manage a measly twelve-mile trail!”

“And another thing. You yell.”

“I do not yell!” I yell, then catch myself. “I have four brothers,” I say primly and much more quietly. “It’s not always easy to make oneself heard.”

“Look. Is there any point in this?” Jason asks. “I’m sorry. I just don’t find you that attractive, Chastity.”

“Fine. For that matter, I think you need to bathe more often, Jason. This whole Seattle-grunge-patchouli thing is so 1990s.” It’s not a bad comeback, but my face is burning nonetheless.

“Whatever. Here.” Taking out his wallet, he puts a few bills on the table. “This should cover my half. Take care of yourself.” He slides out of the booth.

“Jason?” I say.

“What?”

“You throw like a girl.”

He rolls his eyes and walks out.

I don’t care, do I? It’s not like he was The One. He was just an experiment, just a toe-dip into the dating pool of upstate New York. The good thing is, I don’t have to look at his freckled, hairless legs any more. At least I won’t have to watch him cut his food into tiny, tiny bites that he chews relentlessly until they are merely flavored saliva. Won’t have to hear that funny nose whistle he has all the time and is completely unaware of. He was only five foot ten to boot, almost two inches shorter than my superfox self.

Superfox. Right. I shove my mushrooms away—who’s hungry now?—and drain my wineglass. Not attractive. Jerk. How dare he say that? It’s not like he was George bleeping Clooney, either! Just a skinny, pale, mop-haired dweeb who happened to ask me out. He initiated contact! I didn’t throw myself at him. I didn’t kidnap him. There were no bags over heads, no handcuffs, no long rides in the trunk of my car. I did not have to dig a pit in my basement and chain him there. Why am I suddenly not attractive?

This means nothing, I tell myself. Jason meant nothing. It’s just that he was the first guy I’d dated since moving back to my hometown. And, now that I think of it, the first guy I’ve dated in…um…crap. A long time. So Jason was, well, the frog I was kissing. I want to settle down, sure. Maybe I’m feeling a little under the gun to get married and spawn the four babies I always wanted.

I’m almost thirty-one years old, and these are the ugly years for women like me. What happened to all those guys in my mid-twenties? In grad school? At the paper? There must be some line that we women cross. College, grad school, just starting out in a job…we’re a blast then. A few years of career under our belt…watch out, boys! She’s a-wantin’ a ring!

I glance furtively around the restaurant, hoping for a distraction. Emo’s is packed tonight—families, couples of all ages, friends. My newly dumped status seems broadcast throughout the restaurant. It’s better than being with Jason, actually, but still. I’m the only person here alone. Emo’s—a place so often visited by my family that we have a booth named after us—is half bar, half restaurant, separated by double French doors. The bar, I can see, is packed. My beloved Yankees are playing at home. They’ve won their first five games of the season. Why, I wonder, did I agree to go out with Jason when I could be watching Derek Jeter instead?

Without further thought, I leave the booth, the site of my humiliation and near-death episode, wave to the waitress to alert her to the change of venue and go into the bar.

“Hey, Chas!” Several men—Jake, Santo, Paul, George—chorus my name, and my battered ego is mollified somewhat. Having four older brothers, two of whom are Eaton Falls firefighters alongside my father, a captain, ensures that I know just about every local male under the age of fifty. Unfortunately, this has done nothing for me thus far on the boyfriend front, since there seems to be a law against dating the O’Neill girl—me.

“Hello, there, Chastity,” says Stu, the bartender.

“Hi, Stu. How about…um…”

“Bud Light?” he suggests, my usual drink.

“Nah. How about a Scorpion Bowl? Okay?”

Stu pauses. “You sure? They’re not really just for one person.”

“I’m walking home. It’s fine. I need it, Stu. Oh, and some nachos, too, please. Better make it grande.”

I find an empty stool and turn my attention to the Bronx Bombers. The mighty Jeter makes a trademark twisting leap, snags the ball, then tags out the runner who was foolish enough to assume it was safe to leave second base. Double play, thank you, Derek. At least something’s going right tonight.

Stu puts my drink in front of me, and I take a large gulp, then grimace. Stupid Jason. I wish I’d dumped him before he dumped me. I knew he wasn’t the one I’d end up with, but I was hoping to like him more as time went on. Hoping for some hidden qualities to seep out from his pallid, freckled skin and eradicate the sneaking suspicion that I was dating him because I had no one better to be with.

Didn’t happen. Another gulp from the Scorpion Bowl burns down my throat. Don’t worry about that jerk, the Scorpion Bowl seems to say. He was icky, anyway. Yes. True, Scorpion Bowl. But he did beat me to the breakup punch. Damn.

“Here you go, Chastity,” Stu—six feet even—says, setting down the nacho mountain in front of me. Cheese oozes off the sides, jalapeños are glommed on top of a cloud of sour cream, and suddenly, I’m starving, the mushroom mishap forgotten.

“Thanks, Stu.” I pull off a hunk of nachos and take a bite. Heaven. Another swallow of hideous drink. Not so bad this time, not with a nacho chaser, and a pleasant buzz fuzzes my brain. Good old Scorpy. Haven’t had one since an ill-advised college drinking party, but I’m starting to remember why they were so popular back then.

The inning is over, and a commercial comes on. Taking another bite and another slug of my drink, I glance back out at the restaurant. Through the French doors at the table nearest the bar sits a good-looking man. Though I can’t quite see his companion, her hair is white, making me think she’s his mother, possibly his boss. He really is handsome in that perfect and somewhat sterile New York Times Magazine way…prep school rich, full lips, long, flopping McDreamy-style blond hair, bone structure of the gods. Six-two. Even though he’s sitting, I can estimate his height to within centimeters, barring unanticipated leg amputation, of course. Six-two. The perfect male height. Aside from Jeter, and Viggo Mortenson as Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, this guy is basically my ideal man.

Watching him, my heart sinks a little further. A man like that is way, way out of my league. Not that I’m a hideous, stooped, wart-ridden hag, but I’m…well. Perhaps I’m a bit…tall? But isn’t tall in? The fashion designers love tall women, the Scorpion Bowl tells me. I snort. Maybe women who are thirty or forty pounds lighter than I am, but still. Better five-eleven and three-quarters than four foot nine. And yes, I’m strong. Healthy. Strapping. Muscular. Teamster-esque.

I sigh. No, Mr. New York Times Fashion Section would never even notice me. It’s a pity, because I’m getting a little turned on just watching him chew. It’s sexy. Sexy chewing. Listen to me! And yet it’s true. I’ve never seen sexier chewing.

Someone slides in next to me at the crowded bar. Trevor. Great. He looks at me, does a double take, and one gets the impression that he wouldn’t have chosen this particular spot at the bar had he known the O’Neill girl was sitting here.

“Hey, Chas,” he says amiably enough. “How’s it going?”

“Hi, Trevor, I’ve been dumped,” I announce, regretting it immediately. It was supposed to sound self-deprecating and wry, but it falls flat.

“Who dumped you?” he says. “Not that skinny pale guy?”

I nod, not looking at Trevor, who is neither skinny nor pale, but brawny and chocolate-eyed and irresistible.

“Are you kidding? He dumped you?”

A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Yes,” I acknowledge. “And thanks.”

“Well, you’re better off without him,” Trevor says. “He was an idiot.” Trevor met him only once, but his assessment, I must admit, is spot on. I don’t answer, and Trevor looks at me carefully. “You want me to walk you home, Chastity?” He glances around the bar. “I guess none of the boys are here.” The boys being my brothers and dad, of course.

“No,” I sigh, a bit wetly. “I’ll just sit here and watch the Yanks.”

“Right. Well, I’ll hang out with you,” he says, dutiful as ever.

“Thanks, Trev.” I blink back the pathetic tears that his offer—and probably my beloved Scorpion Bowl—invoke, then mentally slap myself. Jason is not worth any angst or woe. It’s just that what Jason said…it hurt. Even if he was a patchouli-reeking jerk.

“Come on. There’s a booth.”

Trevor grabs the nachos, I grab my Bowl.

Trevor—five foot eleven and a half—occupies an odd spot in my heart. On the one hand, he’s like my fifth brother. I’ve known him since I was in third grade, and he’s the best friend of both Mark and Matt, two of my four brothers. In fact, Trevor has spent more time with my family than I have in the past ten years. He works with—and reveres—my father, who is Trevor’s captain. He’s godfather to one of my nephews. He’s arguably my mother’s favorite child, biology be damned.

On the other hand, and this is probably the hand that matters, he’s Trevor. Trevor James Meade. Beautiful name, beautiful man. And though he’s a longtime, very close family friend, and though I find him very, very attractive, Trevor is not a possibility. Don’t dwell on it, Scorpy advises. Scorpy has a point.

I try not to look at Trevor, turn my eyes to Jeter—sixthree, God bless him—and the other boys, but the score is, oh, heck, three hundred and twelve to two or something and the Yanks are on their eleventh batter of the inning, so it’s not exactly a nail-biter. I glance across the table. Trevor gives me a perfunctory smile, but he looks a little uncomfortable. I can’t remember the last time that he and I were alone together. Oh, shit, yes I can. When he came down to New York City and told me he was getting married. How can a girl forget? Another grim, embarrassing memory. I sigh, sip and take another layer of nachos.

Trevor signals effortlessly to the waitress—being female, she noticed Trevor the minute he walked in, and she stumbles to a halt at the joy of being summoned. Typical.

“Is that your first drink, Chas?” Trevor asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “Just one little Scorpion Bowl. They’re kind of cute, aren’t they?”

Trevor smiles more genuinely. “Hope you won’t mind if I walk you home tonight.”

“Not at all, Firefighter Meade.” I grin back a little sloppily.

“What can I get you?” the waitress breathes in a Marilyn Monroe sex-kitten voice. “Would you like a beer? The wine list? A few kids and a mortgage?” Actually, she didn’t specifically say that last one, but it was clearly implied.

“I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Trevor says, smiling up at her.

“I’d like another Scorpion Bowl,” I tell her.

“I’m Lindsey,” she breathes, ignoring me. “I’m new here.”

“Nice to meet you, Lindsey,” Trevor says. I don’t bother to reply, since I’m not part of this conversation anyway. On the television screen, Jeter clips the ball over the first baseman’s head and flies off down the first base line, stretching the hit into a double. I get the feeling he knows I’m feeling down and is doing his utmost to cheer me up. Oh, now he’s stealing third. Yes, it’s clear. Jeter loves me.

The waitress is slipping a piece of paper to Trevor. Her phone number, no doubt. Possibly her bra size and the preferred names of their unborn children. What am I, bleeping invisible? How is a woman who is five foot eleven and three-quarters invisible? And what if Trevor and I were on a date? We’re not, but it could happen!

Trev has the grace to look sheepish, and my irritation fades. It’s okay. I understand. Trevor is, though not exactly handsome, one of those guys who renders women helpless. His features taken one by one are not so special. Put them together and you have the male equivalent of death by chocolate. An utterly appealing, absolutely luscious man. Damn him.

I eat some more nachos and finish my beloved Scorpy. Maybe I should try being as bold as Lindsey, the sex-kitten waitress. After all, she’s been here for a minute and a half and a really nice, good-looking firefighter has her number.

“Sorry about that,” Trevor says.

“Sorry about what?” I say casually, looking out again at the restaurant half of Emo’s. There’s the New York Times model. He is so handsome. His bone structure suggests an icy reserve, if such a thing is possible, not like Trev’s instantly loveable face.

Another Scorpion Bowl appears before me, as if by magic. No, not magic. Stu, the bartender—who noticed me when Lindsey the waitress did not. Good old Stu. Too bad he’s married and sixty years old. Otherwise, I’d be all over him. I take a grateful sip, wince as my taste buds protest, then swallow. I need the booze, frankly. It’s not every night that I nearly choke to death and get dumped, after all.

“So what did your dumb-ass boyfriend say, anyway?” Trevor asks, taking a slab of nachos for himself.

I pause. The Scorpion Bowl demands that I answer honestly. “He said I’m not attractive enough.”

Trevor stops chewing. “What an asshole.”

I smile. Another show of loyalty. “Thanks.” Taking a chip devoid of any cheese or olive, I break it into crumbs and arrange them in a pattern on the table. This is good, because if I look up, the room spins a little. Scorpy the Second suggests that I pick Trevor’s brain. After all, Trevor is an expert on women. And, Scorpy continues, hasn’t Trev known me long enough to be honest, if nothing else? “Trevor, tell the truth. Am I…pretty?”

His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Of course you’re…well, okay, maybe pretty’s not the right word. Striking. How’s that?”

I roll my eyes. “Kind of crappy, to be honest. Striking. As in striking out, as in ‘When will A-Rod stop striking out in the post-season?’ Or as in a protest, as in ‘We’re striking because conditions suck.’”

Trevor grins. “Let’s switch you to some water, what do you say?”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Chastity?”

“Well, you slept with me. You must have found me attractive, right?”

Trevor freezes, his beer halfway to his mouth.

“Columbus Day weekend, remember?” I continue. “My freshman year of college. You—”

“Of course I remember, Chastity,” Trevor says, his voice low. “I just wasn’t aware that we were going to discuss it. It’s been, what, twelve years? Maybe I could get a little warning next time.”

“Don’t get all prissy,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “So?” My tone is nonchalant, but my face, I note, feels warm. Scorpy II tells me not to worry.

“So what?” Trevor says, his face stern.

“Well, you must have found me somewhat attractive, right?”

“Of course I found you attractive,” Trevor says carefully, shifting his gaze to a point to the left of my head. “You’re very attractive.”

“But…” I prod.

“But nothing. You’re attractive, okay? You’re unconventionally beautiful. Don’t let that scrawny little weenie make you feel insecure.”

“I’m not. Just wondering—if men find me attractive.”

“Well, I’m wondering if you need something a little more substantial than nachos. How about some dinner? Want a burger?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say around the last mouthful of nachos.

Trev runs his hand through his wavy brown hair, hair I’ve always loved. Thick, rich, wavy and tousled, the color of black coffee, silky smooth…I’d better stop. He’s looking at me oddly. “So what do you want from me?” he asks.

Four children. “Just be honest.”

“About what?”

“About men and me.”

There must be something in my expression that makes Trevor take pity on me. “Chastity,” he begins. “Men love you. You’re lots of fun. In fact, you’ve always been one of the—” He breaks off suddenly.

“What? One of the what? One of the guys? Is that what you were going to say? That I’m one of the guys?” My voice is shrill. And possibly a little loud.

“Uh, well, in a good way, you know?”

“How is that good?” I demand.

Trevor winces. “Well, you know a lot about sports, right? And many men enjoy sports.” I groan; Trev grimaces. “And you play darts and pool and stuff like that. Um, we all had a good time doing that triathlon with you a couple years ago. The MDA thing?”

I sigh and reach for my Scorpy, but Trevor has moved it out of reach. He pushes a glass of water toward me instead. I roll my eyes…one seems to get stuck…and look once more at Mr. New York Times. I wish I was married to him. I wonder if there’s a way I can convey this somehow. Look over here, buddy. Marry me. He smiles at something his white-haired companion says and continues to be unaware that his soul mate sits just yards away.

Just then, the pretty, slutty, number-giving-out waitress reappears with yet another Scorpion Bowl. Even in my tipsy state, I realize that Trevor is right and I shouldn’t drink another drop. Then, realization dawns in a glorious sunburst. Someone is sending me a drink!

“From a potential friend,” Slutty Waitress says, her voice loaded with meaning, and sets the glass in front of me.

Well, this is a change! Someone is interested in me! How thrilling! My cheeks flush in pleasure. Thank God! Talk about the cavalry rushing in just at the right moment! Just when my ego lies twitching in the gutter, someone has sent me a drink! Oh my God, could it be from Mr. New York Times? No wonder he wouldn’t look at me…he’s waiting to see my reaction! A surge of adrenaline floods my chest, and my eyelids seem to be fluttering. I glance over. He’s still not looking. Must be shy. How adorable!

“Is it from the—” god “—man at that table?” I ask, gesturing in his general direction.

“No. From the…person? Over there,” the waitress says. “At the bar.”

Heart thumping, I crane my neck to see who it is. Trevor does the same.

Sitting at the bar, looking at me with a smile, is a woman. She lifts her beer glass—I’m guessing Miller—and salutes me. Because I don’t know what else to do, I wave back weakly. She’s fairly attractive, with short dark hair and a pleasant plumpness to her, and she seems to have a nice face. However, this doesn’t erase the fact that I’m not a lesbian. Trevor covers his eyes with one hand. I suspect he is laughing. His mouth twitches. Yes. Bastard.

“Could you…could you tell her…I…it’s just that…” My face is flaming.

“She’s spoken for,” Trevor manages to say somberly. “Thanks anyway. You can take the drink back.”

The waitress nods, takes the glass away and undulates her ass inches from Trevor’s shoulder. I put my head on the table.

“Oh, Chas,” Trevor laughs. Without lifting my head, I give him the finger.

He gets out of his seat and comes to sit next to me, putting a brotherly arm around my shoulders. “Don’t be glum, Chas. Things will work out.”

“Blah blah bleeping blah,” I mutter, resisting the urge to punch him in the kidney. Such platitudes are as about as helpful as tossing a bowling ball to a drowning man. I hate the fact that I put up with the tepid and freckled Jason, even for a few weeks. Hate it that Mr. New York Times is miles out of my league. Hate the fact that I’ve just been mistaken for a lesbian.

It’s not fair. Here’s Trevor, the vagina magnet, able to seduce in ninety seconds. My brothers, ranging in age from thirty-eight to thirty-two, have to fight women off with a Taser and a sturdy chair. Yet somehow, at just past thirty, I’ve become a pariah. Mention my age to a man and he looks stricken, as if I’ve just told him exactly how many viable eggs I have sitting in my ovaries and how very much I’d like them to be fertilized. It’s not fair.

As I sit next to Trevor, the embodiment of everything good in a male, my first love, the first man I slept with, the man who I’m just going to have to get used to seeing with other women, I make a vow.

Things are going to change. I need to fall in love. Fast.




Chapter Two


I ALWAYS KNEW I’d move back to Eaton Falls. It was my destiny. The O’Neills go back six generations here, and I want my future children to emulate my own wholesome childhood—fishing on Lake George, hiking the many mountain trails of the Adirondacks, canoeing, kayaking, skiing, skating; breathing pure, clean air; knowing the people at the post office and the town hall; and of course, being near the family.

Granted, I’d imagined that the day I moved back, it would be because my adoring husband and I were ready to settle down and raise those four kids. Instead, though, I moved on my own. I’d been working at the Star Ledger, living in glamorous Newark, when fate intervened. The Eaton Falls Gazette, my hometown paper, was looking for an editor—soft news and features. I’d done my time at a big-city paper and was ready for something else. Everything fell into place at once—I took the job, moved back in with Mom, and two weeks later, made an offer on a tiny and adorable house. Because the mortgage was a little steep, I took on my youngest brother as a tenant, slapped on a few coats of paint and moved in.

That was six weeks ago. It’s all been a little rushed, but it’s really come together.

Today is a soft, beautiful Saturday morning in April, possibly the most perfect day ever made. The sky is pale blue, fog swirls off the mighty Hudson River, and the trees are topped with only the palest green blur of buds. I don’t see a soul as I run down Bank Street, my sneakers slapping the pavement. At the end of the lane is a large shed made of corrugated metal. I stop, sucking in a breath of the clean, damp air, simply, utterly, deeply happy to be back in my hometown.

I rent this shed from Old Man McCluskey. It’s a far cry from the boathouses I’ve used in the past, but it will do. I twist the combination on the lock and open the door. There she is, Rosebud, my magnificent wooden King rowing shell. “Good morning, sunshine,” I say, my voice echoing off the metal walls. Grabbing my oars, I take them out to the dock, set them down carefully, then go back in the shed, take Rosebud down from her canvas harness and carry her outside. She may be thirty feet long, but she’s light as a feather—well, a thirty-five-pound feather. I slip her into the water, set the oars and then, holding her steady against the dock, I climb in, tie my laces and off we go.

I began rowing when my brother Lucky joined the crew in college and needed someone to impress. I was that person…what are little sisters for, after all? Lucky let me try out his scull, and we instantly discovered I was born to row. When I went to Binghamton University, I was on the exclusive four with three other brawny, proud girls. While in New Jersey, I belonged to the Passaic River Rowing Club, but now, back home, I row alone, and I think I’ve discovered the true, Zen-like serenity of the sport. Last week, I saw a V of geese returning, like me, to the Adirondacks from their southern sojourn, flying so low I could see their black feet tucked against their downy bellies. Thursday, it was an otter, and yesterday, I saw a giant blur of brown that may have been a moose. In the fall, our famous glowing foliage will light up the hillsides like yellow and golden flame. Bleeping glorious.

The narrow shell slices through the river, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. I check over my shoulder and pull harder, feather and square, feather and square, gradually increasing the load of the water against my oars, cutting them into the river at precise angles, my body contracting and expanding with each stroke. Little whirlpools mark my progress up the river, and the dripping oars leaving a map of where I’ve been. Feather and square, feather and square.

It’s a good cure for the hangover I woke up with after my night with the Scorpion Bowls, and a good prevention for the headache I’m sure to get at Mom’s later today. Family dinner, attendance mandatory. That means Mom and Dad, my four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, better known as Matt, Mark, Lucky and Jack, and their spouses and progeny.

Jack is my oldest brother, married to Sarah and the proud father of four kids—Claire, Olivia, Sophie and Graham. Lucky and Tara are in hot pursuit with three—Christopher, Annie and baby Jenny. Sarah and Tara are better known as “the Starahs.” Mark, the third O’Neill boy, is in the middle of a bitter divorce from my oldest friend, Elaina. They have a son, Dylan. Then comes Matt, single, childless and currently my housemate, and finally me, the baby of the family.

Trevor may also be there, the unofficial O’Neill, practically adopted by my parents when he was a teenager and a frequent guest at family events. Good old Trevor. I pull harder, faster, streaking up the Hudson in a gliding rhythm. My muscles ache with a satisfying burn, sweat darkens my T-shirt, and all I can hear is the slip of the oars into the water and my own hard breath.

An hour later, I finish my row feeling substantially less polluted than when I started. I lift Rosebud into her sling, pat her fondly and jog home. Yes, I’m a jock. All that exercise lets me enjoy every junk food on earth, so if for only that reason, it’s worth it. I run up the front porch stairs, open the beautiful oak door and brace myself against the wall. “Mommy’s home!”

And here she comes, my baby, one hundred and twenty pounds of loose muscle, drooping jowls and pure canine love. Buttercup. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, her giant paws scrabbling for grip on the hardwood floors. I wince as she gathers her sloppy limbs and leaps, crashing against me.

“Hello, Buttercup! Who’s a pretty girl, huh? Did you miss me? You did? I missed you, too, beautiful girl!” I pet her vigorously, and she collapses in a grateful heap, snuffling with joy.

Being Buttercup’s owner, I feel that maternal obligation to lie to her about her physical appearance. Buttercup is not a pretty dog. As soon as I had my house secured last month, I went to the pound. One look and I had to have her, because it was clear no one else would. Part bloodhound, part Great Dane and part bull mastiff, her coat is red, her ears are long, her tail like razor wire. Bony head, awkward body, massive paws, drooping jowls, doleful yellow eyes…Well, she won’t be winning any doggy beauty pageants, but I love her, even if her only tricks thus far are sleeping, drooling and eating.

“Okay, dumpling,” I say after Buttercup has lashed me with her tail and slobbered a cup or so of saliva on my sleeve. She wags once more and falls almost instantly asleep. I step over her large body and head for the kitchen, weak with hunger.

As I rip open a package of cinnamon/brown sugar Pop-Tarts, I lean my head fondly against the kitchen cabinet. I love my new house, the first that I’ve owned. Sure, it has its problems—capricious furnace, tiny hot water tank, unusable master bathroom, but it’s pretty much my dream house. A Craftsman bungalow (Eaton Falls is full of them, and I’ve always coveted their petite charm), the house has sturdy stone columns on the porch, funky lead-paned windows and patterned hardwood floors. I have the bigger bedroom upstairs, Matt has the smaller one off the kitchen. Once we worked out the “toilet seat goes down” rule, my brother Matt and I have gotten along quite well.

“Hey, Chas.” Said brother emerges from the bathroom in his ratty blue-plaid bathrobe and a cloud of steam.

“Hey, pal. Want a Pop-Tart?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Did you just take a shower?” I ask.

“Yup. All yours.”

“And of course, being the one considerate brother I own, you left me some hot water,” I say with great hope.

“Oops. I did kind of space out in there. Sorry.”

“Selfish, spoiled baby.” I sigh with martyrish suffering.

“Don’t talk about yourself that way.” He grins and pours us each a cup of coffee.

“Thanks. Hey, when are you guys going to start the upstairs bathroom?” I ask, taking a grateful sip. “No offense, but I’m really looking forward to a tub of my own.”

“Right,” Matt answers. “Hm. Not sure.”

Like most firefighters, Matt has a side job, since the city fathers don’t see fit to pay its heroes a livable wage. (This is a tirade I was raised on.) Matt, along with Lucky and a few other guys, do renovations, and so of course I hired them to redo my bathroom. Someday, it will be gorgeous—Jacuzzi tub, new tile floor, a pedestal sink, pretty shelves and all sorts of neat containers to hold my girly stuff. Unfortunately, other jobs from nonrelatives have taken precedence.

“Maybe you can get started before my death,” I say around a bite of Pop-Tart.

“Yeah, well, that’s gonna be tight,” Matt deadpans. From the other room, Buttercup, who has been sleeping soundly, scrabbles from her prone position as if she’s just scented a missing child. Matt braces himself against the wall. “Hi, Buttercup.”

“Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, rejoicing at the sound of Matt’s voice as if she’d been parted from him by war and not her own nap. Tail whipping dangerously with love, she lumbers over to him—jowls quivering, hindquarters swaying—crashes into his pelvis, then collapses with a groan at his feet, heaving herself on her back, softball-sized paws waving in the air.

“My God, you’re a whore,” Matt tells her, obligingly rubbing her expansive tummy with his foot.

“Takes one to know one,” I comment, bending down to unlace my sneakers.

“Speaking of whores, how was your night?” Matt asks. “You went to Emo’s, right?”

I sigh, then look at his face. He’s trying not to laugh. “You already know, you bastard. Who told you? Trevor?”

“Santo called. Said you have a new girlfriend.” Matt straightens up, laughing. “So are you batting for the other side now, Chas?”

“Bite me, Mattie.” I grab my Pop-Tarts and head for the stairs. “Listen, I’m gonna finish painting my wainscoting. What time is dinner at Mom’s?”

Matt grimaces. “Two.”

“Where do you want to go first?”

“The Dugout?” he suggests. Yes, Mom is cooking dinner. That’s the point.

“Sounds great.”

A few hours later, Matt and I hop in my car, Buttercup draped over the backseat, snoring loudly. Leaving her in the car, we drop into the Dugout for buffalo wings and fried calamari, amiably watching Sports Center as we eat, then pay our tab and head for the family home.

“Where have you been?” Mom barks as we come through the door. The roar of the family gathering hits me like a truck.

“Gutterbup!” Dylan shrieks, running toward my dog, who collapses on the floor, rolling over so the toddler can scratch her stomach. From the other room, Elaina gives me a wave. I distantly hear my brother Mark speaking sharply to someone from the basement. Uh-oh. Elaina and Mark in the same house…not pretty.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek. “Nice of you to invite Elaina.”

“It’s about time those two got back together,” she announces, yanking the ties of her apron a little tighter.

“And are they falling over each other in love?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” she acknowledges. “She hasn’t forgiven him yet.”

“He did cheat on her, Mom.”

“Do we have to discuss this now?”

“No, we do not. Is everyone else here?” I ask.

“Yes, we’ve been waiting for you two, the roast is almost ready, now shoo! Get out of the kitchen! Take that carcass you call a dog with you. Go!”

“Auntie! Auntie! Play Bucking Bronco with me! Please? Please? Pleasepleaseplease?” my nine-year-old niece Claire begs.

“No! Wild Wild Wolves! You promised, Auntie!” Annie, seven, yanks my hand.

“Okay, okay, wolves and Broncos, coming up. Let me move Buttercup, okay?” Buttercup does not agree to get up, just blinks at me reproachfully. I slide my arms around her belly and heave her to her feet, but, jellylike, she refuses to stand. I’m forced to grab her collar and drag her into the living room, where she lies next to the door, happily allowing Dylan to look in her massive ears.

Dad’s sitting in his chair, pretending to be asleep. Sophie and Olivia giggle wildly as he snores. “Wake up, Grampa!” Sophie orders. “It’s dinnertime!” Dad snuffles and snores some more, then lurches upright.

“I’m starving!” he bellows. “But not for dinner. For…for…” He looks at his granddaughters, who wait with breathless joy. “For children!” He growls and lunges at them, pretending to devour limbs and heads and bellies as the girls scream and pull away, then fling themselves back for more.

“Hey, everyone,” I say.

“Wolves, Auntie!”

“Yup, in a minute, kids. Hi, Lucky,” I say. “Hi, Tara.” I kiss my sister-in-law’s cheek. “How’s it going? Where’s Jack?”

“He and Trevor are in the cellar with Chris. Playing Nintendo, I think. Mark’s down there, too, avoiding his wife,” Lucky says.

“Ex-wife,” Tara murmurs.

“Not yet,” Lucky corrects.

“I’m right here, so if you’re gonna talk about me, could you at least keep it quiet?” Elaina says, doing her inimitable Latina head wiggle. “Hey, Chas, what’s new?” Before I can answer, she picks up Dylan and sniffs his bottom. “Hold that thought,” she says, hastening off down the hall, her black curls bouncing.

“Are you ready to play Broncos, Auntie?” Claire begs.

“Chastity,” Tara says. “Listen, before it gets crazy in here, I wanted to ask you a favor. It’s our anniversary at the end of the month, and we were wondering…we hoped, actually…”

“We prayed, Chas,” says Lucky, putting an arm around his wife. “We prayed on our knees that you would find it in your heart to watch the kids for us. Friday till Sunday, last weekend of April.”

I pause, bending down to pick up Graham, Jack’s youngest, who is one and a half and gnawing on my bootlace. “Are you out of your minds?” I ask Lucky and Tara. “Come on! You want me—me!—to babysit your little monsters? For an entire weekend?” They have the grace to look ashamed. “Do you remember what happened last time? The rope burns on my ankles?” Tara grimaces. “Christopher eating raw pumpkin and throwing up behind the couch? Annie peeing on my bed?”

“I remember that!” Annie exclaims joyfully. “I peed on Auntie!”

Lucky hangs his head. “Forget it,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Oh, lighten up.” I grin. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“Told you,” Lucky murmurs to his wife. I nuzzle Graham’s soft, chubby cheek, then imitate a bird to make him smile.

“You’re a saint.” Tara sighs happily. “Name your price.”

I feel a flush creep up my neck. “Well…”

Their eyebrows rise expectantly. The flush prickles hotter, but I can’t afford not to ask. “I’m interested in…you know.”

“Becoming a lesbian?” Lucky guesses with a knowing wink.

I punch him in the ribs, gratified to see him wince. “Aren’t you supposed to be kissing up to me right now, Lucky?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lucky amends. “What can we do for you, Chas?”

I heave a sigh and roll my eyes but force myself to continue. “I’d like to meet a decent guy,” I mutter. “So if you know anyone…”

“Sure!” Tara chirps. “Slim pickings so far in Eaton Falls?”

“Well,” I say, staring at Graham’s creamy skin and translucent pink stick-out ears. “It’s not that I don’t meet single men. It’s just that they tend to be…freaks. No one I’d want to father my children. You know how it is.” Actually, she doesn’t know. She’s thirty-one, married for eight years with three gorgeous kids. “Anyway. I can use all the help I can get.”

“It takes a village,” Lucky murmurs with false compassion. I narrow my eyes at him, but I need him. All the literature on dating (yes, I’ve read it) says to tell everyone you know that you’re seeking a mate. However mortifying and demeaning that might be.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” she says. Lucky nods. From the bedroom down the hall, Jenny cries out, and they both head down to check on their youngest. Graham squirms to be let down and toddles after them.

I find that my hand is over my abdomen, as if checking for my own baby. Not there, of course. At this moment, it’s hard to imagine what it would be like for my stomach, which is as lean and hard as plywood, to swell with a baby. For the pink-cheeked, drowsy-eyed baby to be my little boy or girl.

“Auntie, look!” Olivia says.

I put my hand on her glorious red curls (she takes after her mom and not the black-Irish O’Neills). “What is it, Poopyhead?”

“I have a loose tooth!” she announces, opening her mouth. Before I can protest, before I can even get a sound out, her chubby finger shoves a front tooth way, way back to reveal a gaping, crimson crater. A string of blood trickles down, threading through the other teeth. My stomach drops to my knees and all the breath seems to leave my lungs.

“Thee?” Livvy asks, still revealing the pit. A little bloodtinged spittle lands on my hand. “Thee it? It’th tho looth!”

“Don’t…I…honey…” My vision is graying, my hands clammy and cold. I take a staggering step back, bumping into my father, who steadies me.

“Livvy! You know Auntie doesn’t like blood! Show Uncle Mark instead.”

I blink, then shake my head in disgust. “Thanks, Dad.” I sigh.

“My poor little weenie,” he says, patting my shoulder.

The familiar mixture of irritation and self-disgust rolls over me. In a family of alpha-male hero types, not only am I the only girl (and single, and childless), I am also the only wuss. Just in case I didn’t feel different enough. Despite my strapping stature, my ability to run marathons and hike the Appalachian Trail, there’s a chink in my armor, and its name is blood. And gore. The twins, Blood and Gore. I am the only O’Neill who missed the “I’ll save you” gene.

As members of the Eaton Falls Fire Department, Dad, Mark and Matt (and Trevor, for that matter) have saved dozens, possibly hundreds, of lives in one way or another, whether it’s carrying someone out of a burning building or doing CPR or pulling them out of the river or just installing a free smoke detector. Lucky is a member of the New York State Police bomb squad. Jack is a helicopter paramedic, now with a private company in Albany. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for a dramatic rescue during his tour in Afghanistan, for crying out loud.

Even my mother, who is five foot two and weighs one hundred and eight pounds, gave birth to five children, none of us under nine pounds, without a drop of painkiller of any kind.

But somehow, I have the embarrassing tendency to faint at the sight of blood. When Elaina invited me to witness Dylan’s birth, I nearly peed myself. Once, at the bris of a friend’s son in New Jersey, I hyperventilated and staggered into the hors d’oeuvres table, ruining two hundred dollars’ worth of deviled eggs, smoked salmon and matzo balls. When we had to dissect a frog in high school, I passed out, hit my head on the lab counter, came to, saw my blood and fainted again.

But I’m taking steps on that front. Though I won’t tell my family about this until it’s over, I recently enrolled in a course to become an EMT. An emergency medical technician. Me. Surely, I like to imagine, buried beneath my layers of weenie-ness and a massive case of the heebie-jeebies, there lurk the genetics that let my brothers enjoy their adrenalinesoaked lives. Plus, maybe there’ll be a cute guy in the class.

“Who wants to play Wild Wild Wolves?” I ask my nieces.

“I do!” shriek Claire, Anne, Livvy and Sophie.

“Who wants to be the hurt bunny?”

“Me! Me!”

I get down on the floor and begin snarling. “Grr! Oh, man, it’s been a hard winter, and I’m so, so hungry! Oh, look! A poor wounded bunny rabbit!” The girls scream with joy and try to crawl away, dragging their legs behind them. I pounce, drag and chew, their screams of joy piercing the air.

“So how’s everything else with my little girl?” my father asks as I gnaw on his grandchildren. His black hair, heavily laced with silver, is mussed. “Did you start work yet?”

“Just the meet and greet. Grr! Gotcha! Delicious! And you’re the only man on earth who refers to me as little,” I answer. “I’m starting Monday, actually.”

“Can’t wait to see your byline.” He winks.

“Hey, Chastity.” I turn to see Trevor leaning in the doorway, smiling, and my knees tingle shamefully.

“How are you, Trev?” I ask briskly.

“Great. How are you?” He smiles in conspiratorial knowledge—ah, yes, the Scorpion Bowls—and my stomach tugs in embarrassment.

“So what’s new at the firehouse these days, guys?” I ask both my dad and Trevor, while still chewing on Claire’s chubby little foot.

“Oh, the usual,” Dad answers. “Fifty pounds of shit—”

“In a five-pound bag,” Trevor finishes amiably.

“Porkchop,” Dad says, “what’s this about you wanting a boyfriend?”

My jaw clenches, but I’m saved by my niece, who crashes into my father’s knees. “Grampa, can you eat us again?” Sophie begs. “Can you pretend to be asleep, and then we’ll play with your hair and then you can open your eyes and say you’re hungry for children and pretend to eat us? Please? Please?”

“Not now, honey. Grampa wants to eat real food.”

“Should have stopped somewhere first, Dad,” Jack calls. I wave to him.

“I won’t have you kids insulting your mother’s cooking. It’s perfectly wonderful,” Dad states loudly. “Of course, I stopped at McDonald’s, so…” he adds much more quietly.

Trevor wanders off to get a beer, so I am saved further humiliation as my father picks up the thread of our earlier conversation. “Anyway, Chastity, why do you want to start dating? Don’t you know what schmucks men are?”

I finish chewing on Graham, who’s the most recent wounded bunny, and stand up. “You need to get over that weird Irish idea that it’s my destiny to wipe the drool off your chin, Dad. And, yes, of course I know what schmucks men are. Look around! You gave me four brothers.”

He smiles proudly.

“I’m a normal person, Dad,” I say with a sigh. “Of course I want to get married and have some kids. Don’t you want more grandchildren?”

“I have too many grandchildren already,” he answers. “I think I may have to start eating more!” With that, he pounces on Dylan, who bursts into tears.

“Dad! Come on! I told you he doesn’t like that!” Mark yells, scooping his son into his arms. “Don’t cry, buddy. Grampa was just being an idiot.”

He pushes past Elaina without so much as a glance. She hisses at his back, then cuts her eyes to me. “Come over later. I’m so fricking mad I could spit acid.”

“Sounds like fun,” I answer. “Eight o’clock?”

“Dinner!” Mom barks.

We file into the dining room—Mom, Dad, Jack, Sarah, Lucky, Tara, Elaina, Matt, Trevor and me jammed around the table. Mark, in order to avoid Elaina, announces with great martyrish resignation that he’ll eat in the kitchen and supervise the kids.

Mom leans over and snatches the cover off the platter, unveiling her creation. Calling it dinner would be inaccurate and somehow cruel.

Jack stares at it despondently. “That pot roast will come out of me the same way it goes in,” he announces. “Stringy, gray and tough. And with a great deal of effort.”

“John Michael O’Neill! Shame on you!” Mom sputters as the rest of us try unsuccessfully to hide our laughter.

“Thanks for sharing, Jack,” Sarah says with resigned amusement.

“That was really gross, buddy,” Lucky says. “True, but gross. If it comes out, that is. Last time we ate here, I was bound up for a week. Lamb stew that made my legs hurt. I think I actually bled when—”

“Luke!” Mom barks. Lucky ducks just in time to miss her halfhearted slap.

While I understand that Irish cuisine is very popular right now, Mom’s Irish cooking is more in the potato-famine style. Large hunk of poor quality beef—boil it. Huge pot of grayish potatoes, bought in twenty pounds sacks and stored indefinitely in the cellar—boil them. Carrots? Boil. Turnips? Boil. Green beans. Boil. Gravy? Burn.

“Mmm,” I say brightly. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Kiss-ass,” Matt mumbles next to me.

“Bite me,” I mumble back.

We pretend to eat, shoving food around furtively, occasionally risking a bite of something when we can’t avoid it. I try slipping some meat to Buttercup, who just stares at me dolefully from her pink-rimmed eyes, then lets her head flop back on the floor with a hopeless thump. From the kitchen, we can hear Mark refereeing the kids. “Dylan, stop throwing, buddy. Annie, that’s not cute, hon. Put it back in your mouth. I know, but Grandma made it. Here, Graham, I’ll hold that for you.” He’s trying very hard to sound saintlike. Elaina pretends not to notice. I can’t really blame her.

“Well, this is as good a time as any,” Mom says, putting her fork down. “Listen up, people. I’ve decided to start dating.”

The rest of us freeze, then, as one, look at Dad—except for Elaina, who continues to cut her green beans into tiny molecules that she doesn’t eat.

“What are you talking about?” Dad asks.

My parents got divorced about a year ago. It wasn’t traumatic or angry—more like a game they play with each other. While Dad now has an apartment downtown, things have remained pretty much the same. If the furnace goes out, Mom calls Dad. If the car needs fixing, Mom calls Dad. They eat together a couple of times a week, go to all the grandkid events together, and I’m guessing they still sleep together, though this is not something on which I wish to dwell.

“Dating, Mike. We’re divorced, remember? For a year now. As I said to you on eighteen thousand occasions, I want certain things. Since you have refused to give them to me, I’m moving on.”

So begins their traditional argument. “More wine, any-one?” I ask.

“Yes, please,” comes the chorus.

My parents love each other, but it doesn’t seem like they can live happily together. It’s not easy to be a firefighter’s wife. Every time Dad was late coming home, Mom would slap on the TV and sit, grim-faced, in front of the local channel, waiting to hear news of a fire. And if there was a fire, she’d twist her wedding ring and snap at us kids until Dad came home, sooty and tired and buzzed on adrenaline.

In addition to the terror of losing one’s spouse to a horrible death, there’s the reality of being married to a firefighter. Sure, it’s a heroic job. Yes, the spouses are so proud. You bet, those guys are great. But how many Christmases and Thanksgivings and games and school recitals and concerts and lessons and swim meets and dinners took place without Dad? Dozens. Hundreds. Even when he was home, the scanner was on, or Dad was talking on the phone to one of the guys, or going to a union meeting or organizing a training class. On the rare weekend when Dad didn’t work, he’d be so antsy by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around that he’d go to the firehouse just to check in.

Then, two years ago, Benny Grzowski, relatively new to the department, fell off the roof of a burning building while cutting a ventilation hole and died. He was twenty-five.

There is no event more somber and spectacular than a fire-fighter’s funeral. The O’Neill clan was there in full, stonefaced (except for me; I was bawling). When we got to the cemetery, we all filed past the headstone, already carved with Benny’s name and years and the traditional inscription. Husband. Father. Firefighter. I remember Mom looking at the headstone after the service. “You’d have to reverse the order for your father,” she muttered, turning away. “Don’t ever marry a man who loves his work more than he loves you, Chastity.”

It was after Benny’s death that Mom started pressuring Dad to retire. She wanted to go on cruises, play bridge, join the Eaton Falls Senior Club, which sponsors trips to the racetrack and casinos, the outlets and Niagara Falls. She asked, waited, demanded, waited, ordered, waited and finally filed for divorce. I guess she thought he’d cave once she divorced him, but she just waited some more.

Looks like the waiting is over. She stares impassively at my father and takes a bite of her stringy meat.

“This is ridiculous!” Dad pronounces. “You’re not dating anyone!”

“Really? Watch me, old man,” she hisses, then turns to me. “Chastity, I heard you telling Tara that you want to meet someone.”

“Thank you, Mom! Okay! Can we change the subject?” I exclaim, my face burning.

“I think we should go in on this together,” she announces brightly. “Double date.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. Matt smirks, and I shoot him the finger.

“You’re not dating,” Dad repeats. “You’re just doing this to piss me off, and it’s working. Enough.”

Mom continues unfazed. “We can register at eHarmony, go to singles dances—”

“You’re not dating!”

“—speed dating. It’ll be fun! Mike, you get no say on this, so shut it.”

Dad’s face is bright red. “You’re. Not. Dating.”

“Mom.” Lucky, the peacekeeping, bomb-detonating middle child, gives it a shot. “Mom, can’t you give Dad another chance?”

“I’ve given your father four ‘another chances,’” she says, glaring at Lucky. “He loves that firehouse more than he loves me.”

“That’s just stupid,” my father barks, wadding up his napkin.

“Yes, it is stupid!” my mother snaps. “That’s my point entirely!”

“You’re an idiot, woman! We’re not discussing this! You’re not dating!” He storms out, stepping over my dog, and slams the back door. A second later, we hear his car start.

Sarah and Tara are staring at each other. As if on cue, they both turn to my mother. “We brought dessert!” they chorus.



“SO, MOM, ARE YOU SERIOUS about this?” I ask later when everyone else has gone. The house is quiet, while outside the birds call to each other as the sun sets over the mountains. My dog’s huge head rests on my mother’s foot as if in solidarity.

She sighs. “I know you love your father best, Chastity—” she begins.

“Untrue,” I respond dutifully.

“—but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone like this.”

“He will retire, Mom. He’ll have to. Aren’t there union rules or something? I mean, he’s fifty-nine years old, right?”

“Fifty-eight,” Mom says. “He’ll retire whenever he feels like it, honey. Six years? Seven? Ten? Am I supposed to sit around waiting? For thirty-nine years, I’ve put up with it! It’s my turn to decide a thing or two about our life, and he won’t accept that, and it’s not fair.” She settles back in her chair. “So I’m finding someone else.”

“Don’t you still love him, Mom?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “That’s not the point. It’s that I want someone who will put me first, and honestly, your father has never done that. He wasn’t a bad husband, but he never put me first.” Her tone is that of a professor announcing historical facts. I nod and pick at the sole of my hiking boot. Who knows? Maybe her plan will work and a little jealousy will get Dad’s attention at last. She loves him. She doesn’t want anyone else, not really.

“We’ll have fun, honey,” Mom proclaims. “I’ve already signed us up for singles grocery shopping! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Um, no,” I answer.

“Oh, come on! You haven’t even tried it yet! It’s fun!”

“Have you gone?” I ask.

“No, but how can singles grocery shopping not be fun?” She continues to describe the anticipatory thrill of examining produce with other mate-seeking individuals. I grimace and let my head fall back against the arm of the chair.

The truth is, I’ll go. I don’t have time to waste, do I? I can feel my ovaries sighing in impatience…We’re still functioning. For now, at least… The blurry memory of the slutty waitress pops up in my mind. I have no desire to watch Trevor rake in the females as I sit around single and childless, staring at my empty ring finger.

And so I make a pact with the devil, or in this case, my mommy. We’ll try it together. Why not? What have I got to lose?




Chapter Three


BECAUSE I’VE BEGUN MY STORY on the night when I was dumped and had a woman hit on me, I might’ve given the impression that I don’t have any male admirers. I do…just not the males I want.

Case in point—Alan of the Gray Tooth, managing editor at Eaton Falls Gazette, where I have just shown up for my first official day of work. Alas, Alan and I are alone in the Gazette “office suite,” which is really just a big room divided into gray burlap cubicles, a conference room and a cramped office for our boss.

“I really hope you’ll like it here,” says Alan (5’8” and this is with chunky-heeled Doc Martens), grinning. Like Judas at the Last Supper, the gray tooth is malignantly out of place, sitting ominously in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable row of normal teeth. I try to look away from it, but it’s weirdly compelling. Alan raises an eyebrow. Eech.

“Sure. Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

“Maybe we can get together for drinks later on at the old watering hole where us journalists like to hang out.”

That should be “where we journalists like to hang out,” Al, old buddy. “I’m…I don’t…” I can’t hear properly. The Tooth has taken control of me.

“Drinks it is, then,” Alan says. “Awesome.”

Jesus. How did that thing get so gray? Doesn’t Alan know his own tooth is rotting away in his mouth? Shouldn’t it be pulled? It certainly should be capped. As Alan talks, the gray tooth blinks darkly, Alan’s narrow lips moving around the words that I’m ignoring, fascinated by the evil power of The Tooth. Like Tolkien’s Ring, it has a hypnotic, undeniable power. One tooth to rule them, one tooth to find them, one tooth to bring them all, and in the darkness bite them.

I shudder, then straighten a few books on my desk. “I should get organized,” I say to Alan with what I hope is an apologetic smile and not a horrified grimace.

“So. Six o’clock?” The Tooth asks.

Yes, Master. “Excuse me?” I realize I sound like an idiot, but really, someone should tell him. It dawns with sudden horror that he’s just asked me out on a date. “No! No, sorry. I can’t. Something…some other thing going on.” I flush with the lie, but Alan doesn’t seem to care.

“That’s okay. How about Friday?”

“You know what?” I blurt. “I don’t date coworkers. Sorry.” There. Great excuse. No hurt feelings, right? Alan doesn’t seem like a bad guy. Just physically repulsive on many levels. Oh, no, it’s not just The Tooth. There’s a paunch that droops over his belt…the musty, grandmother’s-bedroom smell that floats around him in a geriatric cloud, the Donald Trumpian comb-over…but lording over them all, yes, The Tooth.

“No, no, not a date. Just two fellow journalists having a few drinks.” His words are lost as I again find myself gazing into his mouth, swallowing sickly as the sinister power of The Tooth oozes toward me. Perhaps I can fake impending stomach distress. If I don’t look away soon, I won’t have to fake anything.

“So. That works for you, then?” The Tooth asks.

“You know, Alan, I think I ate something that was off this morning,” I begin.

“I have some Imodium on me,” he offers immediately, groping behind the pocket guard on his breast pocket.

Luckily (or not), Lucia bursts through the door balancing a box of doughnuts in one hand, several newspapers and coffees in the other. “Good morning!” she trills, then lurches to a halt in front of my desk. “Oh. Chastity. That’s right. It’s your first day.” Her nose twitches. “We have a meeting every Monday and Wednesday. Ten minutes. Have your ideas ready.”

“Nice to see you again,” I say, raising an eyebrow. Lucia is the receptionist here at the Eaton Falls Gazette and has worked here since she was eighteen—that is, about half her life. Penelope, the owner and publisher of the EFG confided that Lucia applied for my job and was deeply wounded when she didn’t get it.

Speaking of Penelope, she wobbles through the door. “Morning,” she sighs. “Chastity, can I see you in my office first thing?”

“Sure, Penelope,” I say, rising. Lucia shoots me a glare and sniffs loudly, her eyes running contemptuously up and down my form. Doing my best to ignore her, I go into Penelope’s office and close the door.

“So, welcome, of course. It’s great to have you here. Listen, Chastity, do you know anything about skin cancer?” She yanks down the collar of her sweater. “Look at this mole. Is it changing color? I think it looks cancerous.”

“Well, I really don’t…”

“Do you? Think it looks cancerous?”

I squint at her neck. “I don’t really know what it looked like before, so…”

“Doesn’t it look cancerous, though?”

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’d feel better if your doctor took a look,” I suggest.

She sits with a thud in her chair. “You’re right. You’re right. Sorry. I was up all night, looking at pictures on the Internet,” she says. “Melanoma.com. Very ugly.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Welcome! Welcome to the Eaton Falls Gazette. Did Lucia give you a hard time?” She smiles and sits up straight.

“Not really.” I smile back.

“All ready for the meeting?” she asks brightly.

“Absolutely. I’m really glad to be here, Pen,” I say.

“We’re glad to have you.” She smiles.

I really am relieved to be away from the urban heartbreak of Newark. Here, I’ll cover soft news and features: new stores opening, the principal retiring, the daffodils in Memorial Park. Alan will continue to cover the harder stuff: city hall politics, regional affairs, etcetera.

Ten minutes later, we’re all assembled in the small conference room. The staff consists of Penelope, Alan, Lucia, Carl, our head photographer, and Angela Davies, the food editor. Suki, a part-time reporter, covers the stories that Alan and I won’t be able to get to. Pete handles advertising, and Danielle does the layout. That’s it. It’s such a change from the legions who worked in Newark, so cozy, almost.

“So!” Penelope chirps, fingering her mole. “What have you got for me?”

Alan goes first, outlining the stories he believes will be top news this week, ruling out fires, murders and terrorist attacks. He’s tied into a few national stories and will try to put a local spin on them—a former resident has been connected with the Mob in Florida, the effect of gas prices on summer rentals in the Adirondacks. He talks about the endless construction to replace the water lines all along Main Street. Then there’s the ongoing investigation of our state representative, who seems to have (gasp!) taken illegal campaign contributions. Aside from his tooth and his inability to take a hint, he seems quite competent.

Then it’s my turn. “Okay,” I begin. “I’d just like to say how happy I am to be h—”

“I had a great idea for a story,” Lucia interrupts, turning a treacle gaze on Penelope. “A woman in Pottersville knitted the fourth-largest scarf in the world. I thought it could be a wonderful story, about what kind of yarn she used, her pattern, her plans for the scarf, her inspiration! Our readers would love it!” She glares at me, hoping I’ll disagree.

“I disagree,” I say. Penelope covers a smile. “I’d like to see the Gazette concentrate on stories with a little more substance.”

My shot across the bow is received with venom.

“Well, maybe you need to understand what our readers like, Chastity!” Lucia snipes. “You just got here—”

“I grew up here,” I interject.

“—and you might be surprised at how down-homey people here are. Right, Penelope?”

Penelope’s smile drops, and she rubs her mole harder. “Um…well, you have a point, Lu, but I think we’ll see how Chastity does. It’s why we hired her. Lots of experience.”

“But not in Features!” Lucia protests. “Features is—”

“Master’s in journalism from Columbia. Very impressive,” Pen smiles. I acknowledge my stellar education with a modest nod. Where I went to school doesn’t matter. Lucia will hate me regardless. Penelope warned me about Lucia at my interview lunch. She said that I was by far the most qualified candidate they’d had, and that Lucia would be fighting mad. Pen went on to confide over her third glass of wine that she’d once made the mistake of letting Lucia write a features article. This was well before my time, and it never actually ran but Penelope showed me the piece…ten thousand words, a novella, really, on Mrs. Kent, who won first prize at the county fair for her German chocolate cake.

“Features with substance. I like that.” Alan lifts an eyebrow suggestively, his lip raising enough for me to get a glimpse of The Tooth. I look away.

“What else have you got?” Penelope asks.

Lucia’s ruby-red lower lip sticks out obstinately as I continue. “We need to focus on hyperlocal stories,” I say. “Papers all across America are watching subscriptions fall. People can get news anywhere—CNN, Internet, even on their phones—so we have to offer Eaton Falls readers stories they can’t get anywhere else. I think people want to read more than cutesy features or stuff pulled off the AP wire. And of course, all of this will be on the Web site, too, which I’ll be beefing up considerably.”

Lucia snorts.

I smile at her, which makes her scowl even more. “I know, Lucia,” I say, hoping to placate her. “It’s a paper first and foremost. But if people aren’t reading it, then let’s get them to go to our Web site, which is sponsored by our advertisers. It only makes fiscal sense.”

“Great, Chastity,” Penelope says. “This is why we hired you.”

“Obviously, we have to do a piece on the Resurrection for Easter,” Lucia announces, not placated.

“Maybe a piece on the town egg hunt and some local traditions, but no, we’re not doing a story on the Resurrection. That’s not news, Lucia,” I state firmly. “That happened almost two thousand years ago.”

Lucia’s mouth drops open. “Penelope!” she protests. “She can’t—”

“I’m going to defer to Chastity here, Lu,” the boss says, lovingly stroking her mole. “Let’s move on. Angela?”

Angela, a soft-spoken, gentle-faced woman about my age, has been sitting silently throughout the discussion. “Well,” she says in a near-whisper, adjusting her glasses, “Callahan’s is opening tomorrow, so I’ll review that. I’m doing low-fat Easter favorites for next weekend. The nutritious school-snacks column is featuring…”

I try to pay attention as Angela details the asparagus bisque recipe she hopes will dazzle our readers. Though I’m not much of a cook, I do love to eat, and all this talk of food is making me hungry. And while Angela carries the title of food editor, she will answer to me, and her recipes and advice will give our readers another reason to check out our food Web page, which can carry more information than the Thursday edition of the paper.

After our meeting is done, I get to work calling the freelancers the EFG uses, introducing myself, checking the town calendar for events I should go to, chatting up the nice lady at the chamber of commerce. I edit a piece for our next edition, then, glancing at my watch, decide I have time to extend the old olive branch.

I grab my backpack, check my cell phone and go over to Lucia’s desk, where she is busy filing. “I hear you’re engaged, Lucia.” It’s my peace offering, and it works.

She is more than happy to rant and rave about the stresses of being engaged for the next ten minutes. “So anyway, I told the florist that I didn’t care what was in season! Teddy—my fiancé?—I call him Teddy Bear, isn’t that cute? Anyway, he loves sweet pea. He just loves it! I have to have sweet pea! He wanted it mixed in with baby’s breath? So beautiful! In these little bowls? And candles? And here was this stupid florist, telling me I couldn’t have sweet pea? I don’t think so!”

I force a smile, nod and glance at my watch, wondering if all brides are this psycho, and if all grooms are invested in centerpieces as Ted. Sounds like…well. I’m the one who was mistaken for a lesbian, so what do I know?

“Well, I’d love to hear more, but I’m doing an interview. Should be back before five, okay?”

“Fine,” she snaps. Apparently, it will take more than a feigned interest in her wedding for us to become friends.

It’s a lovely, warm day. The pale green leaves are just about edible, and I stop for a moment to look to the hills as well, a smile coming to my face. Most of the buildings of the downtown area were built at the turn of the last century and exhibit a grace and attention to detail that would be considered too costly for a design today. Brick or limestone, most are only four or five stories tall, with all sorts of cunning detail and gilt painting. Little alleys run off the main street like tributaries off a river, and a wave of affection washes over me. I love Eaton Falls. I love being a journalist. I’m so glad to be back. This is a new phase of my life, and I’m determined it will be a good one. True adulthood. A home, a dog and soon, hopefully, a boyfriend/fiancé/hubby/father of my strong and attractive children.

I walk the three blocks to the new toy store, conveniently located next to Hudson Roasters. I pop into the coffee shop, order two tall lattes and, as my stomach growls, a cheese danish, then take my bags next door to Marmalade Sky.

“Hello,” I call, pushing open the door. It’s very cute inside. Toys…well, obviously…puzzles, Legos, stuffed animals, all in a cheerful, crowded atmosphere. “Kim? It’s Chastity O’Neill from the Gazette.”

A heavyset young woman wearing a brown denim jumper comes out of a door toward the back. “I’m Kim Robison. It’s so nice of you to come!”

Kim’s interview had been scheduled by my predecessor, and I’d decided to take it myself. Her toy store opening is just the sort of soft news that I’ve been looking forward to covering, a far cry from the urban heartbreak of Newark that I’d been immersed in for the past five years.

“I brought you a latte,” I say, holding out the cup.

“Oh, you’re so nice,” she smiles. “Sorry, though. I can’t have any.”

Probably one of those green-tea types, I guess, judging by her rather crunchy look. Kim invites me to sit in the reading area at the back, surrounded by glossy picture books, classic Pooh figures, and a mobile shaped like a ship with rainbow sails. I take out my notebook. “So, Kim, how did you come up with the name Marmalade Sky?” I ask.

“It’s from the Beatles’ song.” She smiles, shifting in her chair.

I pause. “The LSD song?”

“No,” she answers. “‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’”

I pause. “Uh…that’s the LSD song.”

Her face falls. “Oh, no,” she says. She thinks for a moment. “Oh, for God’s sake. Of course it’s the LSD song.”

I laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t put it in the article. Okay, next question. When did you become inspired to own a toy store?”

“I guess when my sister had her first baby,” Kim says. She talks about her love of children and their vast imaginations. I smile and nod as she talks, sometimes mentioning one of my eight nieces and nephews. Kim smiles often, her plump apple cheeks bunching attractively as her glossy hair swings. “See, Chastity,” she says, leaning forward, “when you give a child the right toy, you’re giving them hours of fun and creativity and imagination, almost giving them the key to…their own…”

“To their own world?” I suggest, scribbling away. She doesn’t answer. I look up.

Kim rises awkwardly out of her chair and stares down at her ample stomach. “I think my water just broke.”

My head jerks back, and my stomach drops as if I’m on the express elevator in the Empire State Building. “You’re—you’re pregnant?” Not heavyset. Not chubby or plump. Pregnant. Crap. Some journalist I make.

“Yeah, I’m…ooh! Yes, that’s water breaking.” She lifts the hem of her long dress and examines her ankle. “Oh! Oh, boy. Yup, it’s started.”

In response to those words, my own water breaks—sweat. I am suddenly drenched in sweat, from the soles of my feet right to my scalp. Because even if I’ve never seen a baby born, I know how it goes. Pain. Screaming. Blood. Gore. “Uh-oh,” I choke out. My throat slams shut, and I can’t seem to breathe. I raise a shaking hand to push my hair off my face, pictures of bloody afterbirth flashing through my mind.

“Um…can you…can you just call my husband for me?” Kim sinks back into the chair, takes a deep breath and rubs her abdomen.

“Are you…um…are you…” There is a watery stripe of blood on her bare ankle. Don’t look. Too late. Don’t look again. Stop looking. “You’re bleeding,” I say in a hoarse whisper, tearing my gaze off her ankle and pointing in the vague direction of her foot.

Kim glances at her ankle. “Oh, they say that’s normal.”

I swallow repeatedly. “Oh.”

“Do you mind?”

“What? Do I mind what?” There’s a buzzing in my ears, and Kim sounds very far away. Stay with it, Chastity! She needs help!

“Can you call my husband? He’s number one on speed dial. My cell phone is in my bag behind the counter.” She breathes in deeply and exhales with a long shushing sound, rocks back in her chair.

I force myself to stand, though my knees are buckling. How can they buckle just because of a little bl—red stuff? I can run five miles without breaking a sweat! I lurch over to the counter, fumble for her bag and dump it out. Keys, wallet, sunglasses, tissues…“I can’t find it!” I call, my voice rough. I order myself to stay calm. Myself doesn’t listen. The panic is rising like icy water, and I do in fact feel close to drowning, my breath coming in labored gasps. “Your phone! Where’s your phone? I can’t find the phone!”

“It’s right in the…oh, man…” She takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly. “Ooh! A contraction! It’s in the side pocket.”

“Side pocket, side pocket, side pocket.” I can hear myself distantly. Easy, Chastity, easy…breathe, breathe, breathe. I can’t faint. I want to, apparently, but I can’t. I have to help this lady. What if that blood means something bad? Someone will have to help her. Someone like me, for example, since I’m the only person here. Renewed terror zips through my veins. I can’t get enough air and I’m hot and cold at the same time and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Are you sure blood is normal?” I squeak.

Kim straightens up in her chair to look at me as I rifle through her bag. “It’s okay,” she assures me. “The blood is just from my cervix dilating. Perfectly natural.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then smiles at me. “They say it will take a long time, even from when your water breaks. The baby won’t come for hours. Maybe not even until tomorrow.”

They say. Who the hell are they, and what do they know? And why is Kim so calm? Isn’t she worried about her own child? I would be! Babies are born in freaky places all the time! I wouldn’t want my baby to be born on the sidewalk or backseat of a cab or on some carnival ride or in a toy store!

The phone! “I found it!” I announce, but it slips from my sweaty hands and skitters away on the wood floor. I pounce on it, snatch it up and stare at the console. How is anyone supposed to make an emergency call on buttons that are a bleeping millimeter wide? Carefully, as Kim inhales and exhales in the background, I punch in 911 with a violently shaking finger and wait for the dispatcher’s voice.

“911 emergency, how can—”

“A woman is having a baby!” I bark. “A baby! Right now!”

“Is that my husband?” Kim asks.

“Where are you, ma’am?” the dispatcher asks.

“Um, uh, we’re um, let’s see now, um, the new toy store? In Eaton Falls? On um, let’s see, Ridge Street? Next to the coffee place, about eight blocks from the firehouse, okay? So send them, okay? They have an ambulance and everything! Are they on their way yet? I don’t see anybody. Where are they? Why aren’t they coming?”

“That’s not my husband, is it?” Kim demands in the background. “Did you call 911? What did you do that for?”

“Because you’re having a baby and I can’t deliver it!” I yell.

“Eaton Falls Fire is on their way,” the dispatcher says. “Would you like to stay on the phone until they arrive?”

“Yes! Yes! Don’t hang up on me! Don’t leave me.”

My chest is heaving as I try to suck in enough air, but I stagger over to Kim, who is looking at me disapprovingly over her stomach. “Don’t push,” I tell her. “They’re coming. Do not push. Do you want me to get some towels? How about that coffee, huh? There’s a danish, too, but I was going to eat that. But you can have it! Sure! Want the danish? Just don’t push. I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“Really?” she says, and is that a bit of sarcasm? During labor? How can she be so calm? “Can I have my phone, please?”

I’m still pressing the phone against my ear, hard enough for it to hurt. “Ma’am?” the dispatcher says. “What’s the situation?”

Sirens go off down the street. “Finally!” I shout. “Oh, God, hurry. Don’t worry, Kim, don’t worry, they’re coming.”

Kim stands up—surprising for a woman about to give birth—and pries the phone out of my hand. My watery knees finally give out, and I sink to the floor with a heavy thud, gasping. Winnie the Pooh looks on unblinkingly, and Eeyore frowns with the expected disapproval.

“Hi,” Kim says into her itsy-bitsy cell phone. “This is the pregnant woman. I’m fine…No, you don’t need to send them…my water broke, but I’m…oh, okay. Sure, fine. Thank you.” She hangs up. “I just wanted you to call my husband,” she tells me, accusation heavy in her tone.

From my place on the floor, I have an all-too-clear view of the smear of blood on her ankle. Please let the baby be okay, I pray distantly. Please, God. My ears are roaring, black holes are appearing in front of me, and I can’t get enough air. I inhale desperately, but my vision is fading. I tip my head between my knees and try to breathe.

I hear the bell over the front door tinkle, and look up to see four men trooping into the store single file, carrying bags of gear. Dad, Trevor, Paul and Jake, turnout gear on, reflective letters catching the light. Thank God. The guys lurch to a stop when they see Kim standing calmly over me, her hands on her hips. “Hi,” she says. “My water broke. I didn’t actually mean for the fire department to come.”

My father looks down at me. “Get some oxygen, okay, Paul?” he says.

“I don’t need any,” Kim says firmly.

“It’s not for you.” Trevor smiles. “How far along are you?”

“I’m due tomorrow,” she says. “This is my first baby, and they said it will take a while. I’m really fine.”

They are all standing around, looking at me. Paul comes back and kneels next to me. “Slow down, kid,” he says. I force myself to obey, managing a few normalish breaths before he slips a mask over my mouth. I breathe in gratefully, feeling the slight rush of one hundred percent oxygen.

“Oops, here’s a contraction,” Kim says, breathing deeply and exhaling.

“Would you like to sit down?” Trevor offers.

“No, no, I can stand through it…there. It’s gone.”

“You’re a champ,” my father tells her. “My wife had five kids. Natural childbirth for every one of them. You’ll do great.”

Thanks, Dad. And Kim! Can’t she ham it up a little for my sake? Standing through contractions—show-off. Now that I’m no longer hyperventilating, my cheeks start to burn. Crap. It’s happened again.

“You okay, hon?” Dad asks me.

I don’t bother to answer.

“We’d be happy to take you to the hospital,” Trevor offers Kim.

“My husband works at the school,” she says. “I’ll just give him a call and he can come get me. But thank you.” She dials her husband’s number and speaks softly into the phone.

Dad radios back to dispatch. Paul picks up a Legos model. “I think my son has this one,” he murmurs, turning it over. “Yup. Star Wars Destroyer. Remember this one, guys?” He holds up the box.

“I love that movie,” Jake says dreamily. “‘May the Force be with you…always.’ So cool.”

Dad asks the woman about name choices, Paul opens a copy of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. I suck oxygen. Three minutes later, the husband arrives and gently escorts his wife to their car. “Thanks!” she calls, smiling. “Just turn the lock in the doorknob before you leave, okay?” I wave feebly.

Trevor kneels beside me and takes my pulse. “How’s our little midwife?” he asks, mouth twitching.

Maybe I’d laugh, too, if I didn’t feel like such an ass. Maybe I’d feel small and cherished if I weren’t two centimeters short of six feet and didn’t weigh in well past a hundred and fifty pounds. I inhale deeply once more. “Chastity?” Trevor asks. “You okay?”

I sigh, causing the mask to fog, then reluctantly take it off. “Fine.”

He looks up from his watch. “Heart rate’s down to normal. Do you still feel lightheaded?”

“I’m fine, Trevor! You know how it is. An irrational fear of a harmless object or situation resulting in physical response such as hyperventilation, fainting, accelerated pulse, blah blah bleeping blah.”

“Just asking. Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs? Chest pain?”

“No.” I sound like a sullen four-year-old. Trevor smiles and keeps looking at me.

“How’s my girl?” Dad asks, squatting in front of me. “Need a ride home, Porkchop?”

“No, Dad. I’ll just…I’ll just go back to work.”

Dad stands up. “Okay, guys. Let’s pack it in.” Paul takes the oxygen tank away and I move to stand up, my legs still shaking. Trev offers his hand. I ignore it and haul myself to my feet solo.

“See you later, sweetie,” Dad says. He smiles a little, pats my shoulder.

“Bye, Chastity,” Trevor says with a grin that curls around my insides. I shove the warmth away.

“Thanks, guys,” I answer. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“Beats watching The Tyra Banks Show,” Paul says.

“You think?” Jake returns. The guys laugh and walk out, and a few minutes later, they’re driving off down the road, lights off, sirens quiet. Fighting feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, mortification and general stupidity, I sigh, turn the lock in the doorknob and close the door behind me.




Chapter Four


WHEN I WAS IN SIXTH GRADE, Elaina and her family moved to Eaton Falls, and if there was ever a bigger chip on a shoulder, I’d never seen it. Fascinated by the attitude, the slight accent and the inch of makeup on her adolescent face, I decided instantly that I must have her as a friend. “Hi,” I’d breathed at recess that first day as she sat on a bench at the edge of the blacktop.

“Whachoo want, townie?” she asked, flipping her hair back in delicious contempt.

“I can do a hundred chin-ups,” I offered.

“So do it,” she instructed, snapping her fingers. I complied, won her admiration and never looked back. All through high school, college, grad school and beyond, Elaina has been there for me and I for her, and she remains the only living creature I ever told about Trevor.

In high school, Elaina asked Mark to our senior prom and the rest was history. They got married four years ago and had Dylan two years later. Elaina was tired and stressed, Mark was strung even more tightly than usual, and things were tense. And how did my brother deal with the pressures of family life? He had a one-night stand. Granted, it’s a move he deeply regrets, which Mark shows in his typical emotionally constipated way—lashing out at those he loves. Suffice it to say, Elaina hasn’t forgiven him, because he hasn’t apologized. And they remain at a ridiculous standoff—separated, divorce pending, loving each other, hating each other, fighting constantly, bitterly mourning what they’ve lost.

“That fucking brother of yours,” she begins one night as we sit in front of my computer screen. I’m filling out an online questionnaire, and Elaina is coaching me on the answers. Buttercup snores gently at our feet.

“What now?” I ask with resignation.

“He says he won’t pay for Dylan’s soccer camp.”

“Dylan’s two, Lainey,” I say, glancing from the computer screen to her. Mark has his son this weekend, so Elaina and I are here, drinking chardonnay and registering me on e.Commitment, a humiliating, degrading and shamefully fun process.

“So? The great ones all start young. Don’t say yes to that one, sweetie. That’s a trick question.” She leans forward to read it aloud. “‘Do you find a variety of men attractive?’ See, they’re trying to see if you’re a party girl, you know? Groupsex kind of thing.”

“Are you sure?” She nods wisely. “Okay. I’ll just put ‘not applicable.’ How’s that? And maybe Dylan should be out of diapers before he starts camp,” I add reasonably.

Elaina sighs. “I know, I’m crazy. I just mentioned it to him, you know, as something Dyllie might do when he’s older, okay? And Mark, he’s all, ‘Don’t you put my son in camp without discussing it with me!’ And I’m right back at him, ‘Don’t you tell me what to do with my son, you miserable cheating bastard!’ And we end up screaming at each other and hanging up. You want another glass of wine? And dog, get your big bony head off this foot, or I’m planting it up your ass.”

“Don’t be mean to my baby,” I chastise. “And yes to the wine.” I stretch, rubbing my lower back, which is cramped from hunching over the keyboard, then bend over to pat my poor maligned dog. “You know, Elaina, a psychiatrist might say something about all that fighting and screaming, you know.”

She does her little head wiggle, something I tried for years to emulate before realizing my Irish genes lacked the Latin disdain required to pull it off. “And what’s that, know-it-all?”

“That you still love him and this kind of fighting is a way of having a passionate relationship, even if it’s not the kind of passion you really want.”

“No shit, Dr. Joy Browne. I’ll get the wine.”

I grin, finish stroking Buttercup’s rough red fur and finish my profile. Profile. Sounds like something the FBI has on me. You fit the profile for the serial killer, Ms. O’Neill. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, of course; lots of people do online dating, let no stone go unturned, blah blah bleeping blah. But still. It’s humbling nonetheless, having to check out a Web site for my mate. I never pictured turning thirty, let alone thirty-one, without having an adoring husband and a couple of kids.

The profile includes a personality section of no fewer than one hundred and six questions, a physical description (fortytwo questions), my ideal date (choose from twenty-three options) and a new e-mail address and user name. I chose GirlNextDoor.

e.Commitment boasts lots of touching—and possibly even true—stories of people meeting their soul mates here. I pause for a second. Maybe—probably not, but maybe—this is how I will find The One. That Trevor’s image instantly leaps to mind is quite irritating. I force him out and stick in another picture. Derek Jeter. Yummy. Well, maybe hoping for the bazillionaire baseball god is a little bit of a stretch. Aragorn, on horseback. Yeah, baby! Okay, okay. That also may be a little unrealistic…hm. The guy at the restaurant the other night. There! Mr. New York Times, sure. Just as appealing as Trevor. Just as attractive. Let’s also assume he’s kind-hearted. And decent. Also, funny. Strong, yet vulnerable. Quiet, yet expressive. Sensitive, yet stoic.

Elaina returns to the tiny study that’s just off the living room. Matt’s working tonight, so we have the house to ourselves. “This house is fantastic, sweetie,” she says, handing me my glass.

“I know. I love it,” I answer. “I’m thinking of painting this room yellow, what do you think?” Elaina has a great flare for colors.

“Perfect. You done filling that thing out?” she asks, tapping a long fingernail against her wineglass.

“Yes. Not that this is going to pan out, Elaina.” Buttercup groans as if agreeing.

“How do you know? It’s better than you mooning—”

“I’m not mooning anyone. Phone’s ringing!” Saved. I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Chastity, this is your mother speaking.” Her traditional greeting. “Did you fill out your form?” Mom’s the one who told me e. Commitment was ranked higher than the other dating sites, after her exhaustive, fifteen-minute search on the Web. “Also, I’m taking French. Your father is very jealous, barely speaking to me. Do you want to get our hair colored next week?”

“Hi, Mom.” I grimace and pantomime hanging myself for Elaina’s benefit. “Um, yes, great, no comment, not really. Anything else?”

“Honey! So? Do you have any hits? Your father went through the roof when I told him about this. He said some whack job would strangle me in under a week if this is how I go about dating.”

“What a sweet thought. I just finished filling out the form, Mom. Elaina’s here. We’re having—”

“So? Check your e-mail! Maybe you have someone already!”

I cover the mouthpiece with my thumb. “She’s on amphetamines, it seems. You talk to her.”

“Hi, Mamí,” Elaina says, winning ten thousand brownie points for calling her mother-in-law that particular moniker. Elaina is revered by my mother—Elaina’s quirks being found simply charming while those of her own offspring are cause for torment and dismay. They chat merrily, laughing away. Dutifully, I check my e-mail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a message! Holy crap!

“I got one,” I announce with pride. Buttercup’s thin tail lashes my shin.

“She got one,” Elaina translates. “Oh, sure, Mamí. Here she is.” She passes me the phone and takes a handful of Doritos from the bowl I so thoughtfully put out.

“Yes?” I say.

“So?”

“So what, Mom?”

“So read the damn thing! You only got one, right?”

“Um, well, I just finished my profile about five minutes ago.” I take some Doritos, too. “When did you do yours?”

“Good! I finished mine a half hour ago.”

“Great. And do you have any hits?” I ask.

“Well…um, yes, I do.”

I can tell by her tone, which has become suspiciously gentle and kind, that she’s hiding something. “How many?” I growl.

“Well…more than one. Don’t take it personally, Chastity. I’m sure you’ll have twenty-three pretty soon, too.”

“You have twenty-three hits, Mom?” Buttercup growls in her sleep.

“Holy shit!” Elaina exclaims. “Let me have the phone! Mamí, are you kidding me? Oh, my God, you know? That is so great! Any keepers?”

While they’re talking, I look at my message, blandly entitled “hi.” What the hell. I click on it.

Dear GirlNextDoor,

I really liked your profile. It seems like we have a lot of interests that are the same. Check out my profile, and if you’re interested, drop me a line.

—husbandmaterial.

Well, the name is promising, anyway.

“You’re joking!” Elaina squeals. “Chastity, your mother has four dates lined up already! Can you believe it?”

“I can’t believe it,” I mumble. I click on husbandmaterial’s profile as instructed, glancing impatiently through the list of attributes. Attractiveness—he’s given himself a six-point-five out of ten…I wonder what that will translate to. Gollum? Freddy Kruger? Jason of the Freckled Legs? Well, moving on…Loves outdoor activities. Great. Enjoys good food. (Honestly, is there anyone alive who doesn’t?—I enjoy bad meals and the intestinal distress that follows…). I forgive him and move on. Athletic, great. Family-oriented, cool. He sounds pretty good, actually.

Elaina hands the phone back to me. “Oh, look, here’s another one!” my mother crows in my ear. “‘Dear Olderand-Wiser, I’d love to meet for coffee. I live in Thurman and would be happy to come into Eaton Falls and see if you can possibly be as great as you sound!’ Oh, Chastity, isn’t this fun?”

“Oh, yes,” I lie.

“I got another one! I can’t believe I waited this long to dump your father. How many have you got now?” she demands.

I check my listing. “Um, still just the one.”

“Well, honey, don’t worry. All it takes is one, right?”

My phone bleats in my ear. “Mom, I have another call. I’ll call you back, okay?” I push the button for the next call. “Hell—”

“It’s your father. Did you know your mother registered on some crazy Web site? She’s going to get herself killed! I mean it, Chastity. You are not to encourage her. Oh, gotta go. We just got a call. Bye.”

Sighing, I hang up. “I’m hungry,” I tell Elaina. “Shall we make something for dinner?”

“By we, do you mean me?” she asks, preening.

“Yes, Elaina. Would you care to whip up something fabulous from the meager offerings of my kitchen? Please? Pretty please?”

“Sure, baby. I’d love to.” She ruffles my hair, does a neat leap over Buttercup and sashays into the kitchen. She does love to cook…incomprehensible, but convenient for me.

I glance back at husbandmaterial and decide to e-mail him back. Right now. What the heck, right?

Dear husbandmaterial,

You sound really nice. Tell me more about yourself. What do you do for work? Does your family live around here? What kind of sports do you like? You’re not a Mets fan, are you?

I hit Send, pleased. I’ll let him reveal more about himself before I do. I’m a little wary over the six-point-five, but this is just a trial run. Besides, men have no idea how to rank themselves. Jason, after all, considered himself too attractive for me. I ranked myself a seven, which I felt was quite honest. Once I get my hair cut, I may upgrade to seven-point-five.

The phone rings again. Glancing at the caller ID, I see that it’s the Eaton Falls Fire Department. Must be Dad again.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say.

“Hi, Porkchop.” There’s a smile in the voice, and the voice is not Dad’s.

“Trevor?” I press a hand against my suddenly hot cheek. In the kitchen, Elaina is singing.

“Hi. Sorry. Yes, it’s Trevor. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Is it possible that I, who hold a master’s from Columbia University, can think of a wittier response? “Great, I mean. And you?” I close my eyes. “I thought you guys went out on a call.”

“Oh, just the engine went. I’m tails on the ladder this week.”

“Oh.” Another captivating response.

He pauses. “I’ve been instructed by my captain to find out if Mom is really going on a date,” he says in a low voice. Trev’s called my mother “Mom” since he was about sixteen years old. And his captain is my father, of course.

“Yeah. I guess she is,” I answer. My shoulders drop a little. I should have known he wouldn’t call for purely social reasons.

“It’s hard to believe she’s really looking for a boyfriend,” Trevor says.

“Yeah.”

“Well. Okay, Chas. I better run. See you around.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling. Bye. Take care.” I sound like a jerk.

Luckily, my computer dings softly. You have one new message, GirlNextDoor. Hooray! Husbandmaterial is back!

Dear GND (We’re on nicknames already—fantastic),

I’m a Yankees fan, not to worry. I have a big family. As far as sports and hobbies, I like to hike, mountain bike, kayak a little. What about you? Hobbies? Pets? What makes you the girl next door?

“Dinner in ten, sweetie!” Elaina calls, rattling some pans. “Chicken quesadillas!”

“Angels bless you, Elaina! Be right there. Just answering an e-mail.”

Husbandmaterial sounds…well, great. Friendly, kind of sweet. I immediately write back. I also have a big family. I like hiking and rowing (single scull). Have lots of nieces and nephews. Love animals. I have a big dog who slobbers, and I worship the Yanks. I hit Send and wait.

Thirty seconds later, bing! You have one new message, GirlNextDoor. Yippee! I click immediately.

Chastity?

Oh, my God! Husbandmaterial knows me! Shit! Or is it good? Yes? I type back.

It’s Matt.

Clapping my hand over the shriek of laughter (or is it horror?) that bursts forth, I snatch up the phone, dial Matt’s cell. “Hello?” he chokes. I can barely wheeze back. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “Checking out your own brother. Gross.”

“You wrote first, pervert.” I wipe my eyes and try to control myself, but it’s no use. We laugh in mutual horror for a good two minutes. “You are to tell no one about this, Matthew.”

“Right back at you, Chastity,” he says, still laughing.

“I find it hard to believe that you have trouble meeting women, Matt,” I tell him when I’ve calmed down. “Oh, and you’re a ten, by the way. A six and a half? Come on! You look like Mel Gibson!”

“Ew.”

“Well, okay, not the drunken, sun-damaged mug shot Mel. Young, wholesome Mel. Road Warrior Mel. You’re a good-looking guy, Mattie.”

“Well, you know, it’s weird to fill out all that stuff,” he says. “I do meet plenty of women, but you know. Haven’t met the right one. I figured I could cut through some crap. This single thing’s getting old. I don’t want to live with my sister for the rest of my life. No offense, Chas.”

“None taken,” I say. “Well, I’ll keep my eye out for you. And you do the same for me, okay?”

“Sure. Not that I know anyone I’d actually fix you up with, Chas. All I know are firefighters, and you don’t want to end up like Mom, do you?”

“Mom has twenty-three hits on her profile, Matt. And she just registered an hour ago.”

“Jeez! I only got fourteen all day. How many did you get?”

“Once you upgrade that attractiveness level, you’ll have more,” I answer, craftily ignoring his question. “Gotta go. Elaina’s over and she just made dinner.”

“Don’t tell her about this! And save some food for me.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.” Checking once more to see if I got any more hits—I don’t—I sigh, my humor evaporating. I’ve been registered for forty minutes now. Mom had twenty-three hits in that time…I’ve had one, and it’s from a blood relative.

“Come on. Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Elaina says from the doorway. “Everything’s better after a quesadilla.”

I sign off the computer, and for the briefest second, I let myself recall Trevor’s voice. Then I shake my head and join my friend for dinner.




Chapter Five


WHEN TREVOR’S SISTER DIED, she and I were both ten years old.

Her family had moved to our town while I was in fourth grade. Michelle was a pale girl with pretty, dark hair. Being a well-dressed new kid had ensured her popularity, and for the first month, she was surrounded by admirers who wanted to hear all about the glamour of Springfield, Massachusetts, where she was from. When we were assigned to the same reading group, we chatted, found that we both wanted to be horse trainers when we grew up, and started eating lunch together. But a week or two later, she became sick—no one knew what she had, just that she was out. She came back after a few weeks, but only for a day or two.

When she’d missed more than a month of school, I went to see her, bringing some cookies that Mom had baked. She only lived three blocks away, and Mom allowed me go all by myself with strict instructions to call if I were going to stay more than a few minutes. I rang the bell, and Michelle’s big brother let me into the foyer. Over his shoulder, I could see someone lying on the couch, obscured by a puffy comforter.

“Is Michelle here?” I asked. “I’m her friend from school.”

“She’s kind of sick,” the brother said. “She can’t play right now.”

“Oh.” Blushing, I handed him the cookies. “Tell her Chastity said hello,” I said, scuffing my feet. The brother was a seventh-grader, and kind of, well, cute. I peeked again over his shoulder. Michelle lifted her hand. I waved back, not realizing that I would never see her again.

“Okay. Thanks for coming by, Chastity,” he said. “Thanks for the cookies, too.”

I learned later that Michelle’s leukemia was so virulent that her immune system couldn’t handle the risk of germs from outside visitors. While I missed her, it was more on the theoretical side—we hadn’t really had time to become good friends. My life continued on pretty much the same, basketball, homework, soccer, CCD. Then one night, months after she’d left school, my mom popped into my bedroom, her face unusually grim. “Say a prayer for Michelle Meade,” she told me. “She’s very sick.”

I obeyed, chanting the hot, fervent prayers of a child. “Please, please, please don’t let anything bad happen to Michelle! Please let her be okay. Please let her get better.”

She didn’t get better.

My mother let me stay home from school to go to the funeral, and I cried great gulping sobs as the small white coffin was wheeled down the church aisle. Her parents were limp and pale with grief, her brother standing thin and ignored between them, like something left at the lost and found. At the sight of him, the barefaced knowledge that a child could die, that I might lose Jack or Lucky or Mark or Matt the way that boy had lost his sister—that my brothers could lose me—made me almost hysterical. Mom carried me to the car, staggering a little—I was already nearly five feet tall—patting my back and murmuring. When she got behind the wheel, she wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “I love you so much, Chastity,” she said, her mouth wobbling. “I love you so, so much.”

A few weeks later, I saw Michelle’s brother, alone, dribbling a basketball at the school playground. Mom was inside for Mark’s parent-teacher conference, and I was pretending to read The Hobbit. Instead, I watched covertly as Michelle’s brother shot basket after basket until finally the fates acknowledged me and the ball bounced off his foot and rolled over to me. I picked it up and waited.

“Hi,” I said as he came over to retrieve the ball.

“Hi,” he said.

Being raised by the laundry Nazi, as Jack and Lucky called her, I noticed that the brother’s clothes were kind of grubby. His sneakers looked like they were on their last legs, and his hair needed to be cut. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his pants drooped at his waist.

“I’m Chastity O’Neill,” I announced. “I came to your house once.” Part of me wanted to get a reaction, to somehow state my importance and let him know that I, too, suffered and understood his pain.

He looked at the ground. “Right,” he said, offering nothing more.

“I’m Matt and Mark’s sister. Do you know them?” My youngest brothers flanked him in school, Mark a year ahead of him, Matt a year behind.

“Sort of,” he said, still looking at the ball that was tucked firmly under my arm. We didn’t say anything more for a minute.

“I’m sorry your sister died,” I blurted.

The brother looked at me from his dark eyes for a minute, then pinched the bridge of his nose and dropped his head. I’d seen my dad do that sometimes, when he banned us kids from the living room and spoke to Mom in a low voice, telling her about a bad day, a day when someone had been hurt badly…or when someone hadn’t made it. It seemed like such an adult gesture, and to see Michelle’s brother doing it now made my throat ache. I realized I didn’t understand squat about his pain, that I wasn’t suffering at all compared to him.

“Do you want to have supper at our house?” I whispered.

He hesitated, still looking at the ground, then nodded once. Then I stood up, and to spare him the embarrassment of being caught crying in front of a ten-year-old girl, showed him my excellent layup and jump shot.

Trevor’s parents divorced later that same year, as is common with couples who lose a child, I later learned. Things weren’t great to begin with, apparently, but after Michelle died, Mr. Meade moved to California, and Mrs. Meade stopped being much of a mother anymore. I gathered from many an eavesdropped conversation between my parents that Mrs. Meade was drinking a lot, and worse, that she was not nice when she drank. Mom called her up, talked in what we called her Father Donnelly voice, the gentle, compassionate one reserved for teachers and clergy members. Trevor started coming to our house more and more, where he was fed and fussed over and made to laugh almost against his will. Before long, he was sleeping in the bottom bunk in Mark’s room on weekends, shooting pool with Jack and Lucky in the basement, helping Mom wash the dishes after dinner.

After that first year, he became a lot of fun, a king of practical jokes which often involved wildlife and my bedroom. He complimented Mom’s cooking (something none of us ever did) and shadowed Dad in the garage. Once or twice, he helped me with my math homework when a brother wasn’t available, and occasionally he would play basketball with me. If he ever noticed that I worshipped him, he was kind enough not to comment. Instead, he treated me like, well, like one of the guys, including me when my own brothers might have ignored me. When I, a mere high school sophomore, came downstairs in a poofy floor-length gown for the senior prom of a boy in Jurgenskill, Matt and Mark howled that I looked like Lucky in drag. Trevor told me I looked pretty.

How could I not love him?

During his senior year of high school, Trevor’s mom moved to Idaho to live with her sister. Trevor spent the year with us, carefully perfect as the not-quite son, never sulking like a true O’Neill, never insulting or overly loud, calling my parents Mike and Mom, doing chores without being asked, almost as if he was afraid he’d be kicked out if he was anything less than wonderful.

It was my father he loved the most, I think. Matt and Mark were his best friends, Jack and Lucky the older brothers he never had. I was a substitute, perhaps, for the little sister who would never grow older than ten. Mom’s heart ached for him, and she doted on him and spoiled him in a way that she never spoiled us, because after all, we already knew we were loved. But our dad…Our dad became the father Trevor desperately needed. Dad taught him to drive, gave him the lecture on safe sex, and let him hang out at the firehouse on weekends, putting him to work polishing the trucks and cooking for the guys. My father was who Trevor wanted to be.

These thoughts all come back to me as I walk into Emo’s one night later that week. At the booth in the corner, sit Dad and Trevor, deep in a conversation of considerable gravity, it seems, judging by their expressions. A few other members of the gang are there as well, but clearly Dad is addressing Trevor, barely sparing a glance for Jake or Paul.

In some ways, Trevor is just as much my father’s son as the biological O’Neill boys. Trevor has a sense of respect for my dad that’s missing from his own biological children, as if with shared DNA comes the entitlement to ignore and mock one’s parent. Trev folds his arms just the way Dad does, drinks the same type of beer, uses Dad’s mysterious word “jamoke” to connote a person’s idiocy. Now that Dad lives on his own, Trevor often hangs out at Dad’s or invites him over for dinner.

“Hi, Chas!” a few of the other members of C Platoon call as they catch sight of me.

I walk over to the booth, which is situated right under a photo of the tragic Lou Gehrig, pride of the Yankees. “Hey, guys!”

“What are you doing here, pretty girl?” Santo asks.

“Dinner,” I tell him, smiling. Dropping in at Emo’s for dinner is becoming something of a sacred tradition for me. I hate to cook. Cooking is wasted on one person, and Matt works so much overtime these days that, even if I could manage to create something tasty…well, no point in even following that train of thought. I’m my mother’s girl when it comes to the kitchen.

“My girl! Just the person I wanted to talk to,” Dad says. An empty shot glass and a pint of Guinness sit in front of him, and he already seems a little tipsy. “Don’t anyone talk about Chastity’s little incident at the toy store, okay, boys?” he orders.

“Gee, thanks, Dad. You’re a master of subtlety.”

“Have a seat, Chastity,” Trevor says, getting up to grab a chair. I genuflect briefly in front of St. Lou and join the table.

C Platoon consists of my dad, the captain, and Paul, Santo, Jake and Trevor. Also Joey “Hoser” McGryffe, but he’s been out with a knee injury, and today Matt is covering for him.

“How about a Bud and some wings, Stu?” I call to the bartender. He nods agreeably.

“Have you spoken to your mother?” Dad demands.

“Sure,” I say.

“Everyone thinks it’s a bad idea, her dating,” he continues. Jake, an ass-kisser, nods emphatically. “Are you really going to do that singles crap with her, Chastity?” Dad continues. “Go cruising for seedy men you barely know?”

I sigh audibly and with great exaggeration. My father has called me no fewer than eleven times to discuss this matter. Stu brings me my beer. “Thanks, Stu, old buddy. Dad, I’m just keeping her company, okay? Trying to make sure she stays safe,” I say, hoping he’ll remain silent on my own single state. “I’ll keep an eye on her, don’t worry.”

“Good girl, good girl,” Dad nods. “Listen, Porkchop, why don’t you do this? You get the name of any scumbag interested in your mother, and you give it to me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

I glance at Trevor, who makes a subtle “cut him off” sign to Stu. “I don’t think so, Dad.”

“Why? You want your mother attacked by some pervert?” Matt snorts.

“I don’t think Betty would go for some pervert,” Trevor murmurs.

“Shut up, you. She’s not going for anyone,” Dad snaps.

“Excuse us, we’re gonna shoot some pool,” Santo says, rising along with Paul. “Jake? Want to play?”

“Not really,” Jake says, but Paul grabs him by the collar and drags him up.

Stu delivers my wings and slips my dad a glass of seltzer water.

“Listen, Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice friendly. “I’ll watch out for Mom, but I’m not spying on her. Sorry. Matt, get your hand away from my plate or draw back a bloody stump.”

“You will be sorry, when you have some lecherous creep for a stepfather.” Dad takes a sip of his water and sulks.

“I’m not getting a stepfather,” I say with great patience, taking a bite of chicken. “She’s just trying to get you to retire. Pulling the jealousy card.”

“Retire!” My father snorts as if I’d just suggested he smother kittens. “Why would I retire?”

I roll my eyes and slap Matt’s hand as he tries to steal another chicken wing. I can’t help noticing that Trevor changed before coming here, unlike the rest of his platoon. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that makes his eyes look even darker. Molten chocolate, God help me. His hair is tousled—needs a trim, probably—and my hand is twitching to smooth it. The sleeves of his T-shirt stop right on the curve of his brawny biceps. Beautiful arms. Damn. I force my eyes away to the dimples of Lou Gehrig. Trevor and I were together once. Didn’t work out. End of story. No point in tormenting myself.

“Chastity!” Jake calls from the pool table, rescuing me. “Come over here! I need you, babe.” He grins wickedly at me, and I smile back gratefully. Not that Jake means anything by it…anything with a pulse and two breasts, that’s his motto. I take my beer, leaving Matt the last chicken wing, and join him. “Atta girl,” Jake says. “Now, you can see what a mess I’ve gotten into. Can you sink that little baby over there?”

“Of course I can,” I answer, sucking some sauce off the side of my thumb. “Stand back and learn, boys. Five ball, center pocket.” I take the cue, bend over and shoot. There’s a satisfying smack as the cue ball hits the orange five ball, which bounces off the rail and glides to the center pocket.

“Well done,” Jake murmurs from behind me.

“Don’t you be looking at my daughter’s ass!” dear old Dad bellows from twenty feet away. “Jake! You wanna lose some teeth?”

“Sorry, Cap! Force of habit.” Jake grimaces. “No offense, Chastity.”

“None taken, Jake,” I say, batting my eyelashes.

Trevor joins the four of us by the table to watch. “You guys may as well pay up now,” he tells Santo and Paul with a grin.

“Six ball in the corner pocket.” I lean, bridge, shoot, sink. Paul grimaces and takes out his wallet.

“I don’t want my daughter to end up with some jamoke firefighter!” Dad continues.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I won’t,” I say. “Two in the center.” Clack, spin, thunk.

Trevor winks at me. “Here she goes.”

I squint at my next victim. “Six ball in the back corner.”

“You’ll never make that shot,” Paul says.

“Ten bucks says she can,” Trevor says right back.

“Done.” Paul folds his arm smugly. It is, granted, a tough shot. Mr. Six Ball will have to bank just shy of the eight ball, which is only a couple of centimeters from the pocket, then cross the entire length of the table to the left rear pocket. I’ll need to give the cue ball a good bit of English, but I’m not concerned. I’ve been playing pool with my brothers since I was five. I set up, study my angles, take the shot and, because I’m so incredibly cool, turn away for a sip of my beer before the six ball reaches its destination. It sinks into the pocket with a most satisfying thunk.

“Shit!” Paul exclaims, and I blow my dad a kiss. He’s not looking, staring at the table glumly.

“Thanks, Chas,” Trevor calls, taking Paul’s ten dollar bill.

“Eight ball, side pocket.” I lean over once more and win the game. “And I think we’re done, here, Jake.”

The guys applaud, and I grin.

“Thank you, gorgeous. I mean, thanks, Chastity.” Jake grins and accepts the five dollars from Paul.

“I earned that, don’t you think?” I ask. Jake raises an eyebrow, hands me the five and gives me a lecherous look. Suddenly I feel kind of beautiful. I mean, after all, here I am, surrounded by men, some of whom are nonrelatives and single. Being one of the guys has occasional benefits.

“Don’t you marry a firefighter,” Dad growls as I return to the table. “Bunch a’ jamokes, if you ask me. You’d just end up all bitter and dried up and angry, like your mother.”

“There’s a happy thought,” I murmur. Not that a firefighter would dare ask out the O’Neill girl, mind you. I kiss my dad’s bristly cheek, grab my jacket and head for home. Trevor will make sure Dad gets home okay. They only live half a block from each other.




Chapter Six


THE NEXT NIGHT AFTER WORK, I take Buttercup on her nightly drag. I suck in a few breaths of the clean mountain air, and admire the neighbors’ gardens, which are bursting with daffodils and grape hyacinth. Buttercup stops to sniff a flower, then attempts to collapse upon it. “Come on, Butterbaby,” I say, tugging at the leash. She flops, just missing the flower, and gives me a mournful look, sighing deeply. A squirrel, correctly assessing her energy level, darts right over her front paw. Buttercup doesn’t move, just flops on her side, moaning. “Come on, Buttercup!” I end up hauling her to her feet and practically carry her home as she moans and wags. I think she kind of likes this form of transportation. “You’re pathetic,” I say laughing. She wags her tail agreeably.

Ten minutes later, I’m showered, changed and on my way out again. Buttercup gives one mournful howl, sounding very much like a werewolf or the hound of the Baskervilles, then doubtlessly flops down for a snooze.

Tonight is my first EMT class, and though I’m quite unsure that I want to attend, I’m also pretty sick of making an idiot of myself every time someone has a boo-boo. My whole life, I’ve been queasy (putting it gently) around blood. It’s time to take charge. I’d really like to be more like…well, like Aragorn. Now there’s a guy you can count on in times of trouble. After the toy store debacle, after making a fool of myself in front of Kim and Dad and Trevor, I’ve decided that knowledge is power. Desensitization time.

I obediently report to Eaton Falls Hospital, where class will be held once a week. Once again, the notion that I’ll meet a friendly guy here pops into my brain. So far, Tara and Sarah, good sisters-in-law though they may be, have turned up squat on the date front. Every man they know seems to be married or related to me. Maybe I should take out my high school yearbook and take a flip through. Give a few guys a ring. I sigh. Hi, it’s Chastity O’Neill! How are you? I’m back in town, thought we could meet for a drink, shoot some hoops…and by the way, are you married?

I walk in the hospital’s main doors, lost in thought, and slam into someone coming the opposite way. “Sorry!” I exclaim.

“My fault,” he says, and holy crap, it’s him! It’s the guy from Emo’s! Mr. New York Times! Mr. Cheekbones! The one who didn’t send me a drink!

“Hi!” I sound like a breathless teenager upon glimpsing Justin Timberlake. He smiles distantly and continues on his way, as I, open-mouthed, watch him go. Beautiful. He’s beautiful, even from behind. Make that especially from behind. His hair blows in the evening breeze, his suit jacket ruffling. A suit, but no briefcase. Does he work here? Visiting? Probably visiting his supermodel wife, who just gave birth to perfect twin girls.

“Do you happen to know who that man was?” I ask the elderly woman at the reception desk.

“Which man, dear?” she asks.

“The one who just left?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see him.”

Damn. Can’t catch a break these days. I head to the meeting room where our class will be held once a week for the next eight weeks. Maybe I’ll meet someone here, I remind myself.

I don’t. Well, not that kind of someone. There are six of us, three men, three women, and I try not to be disappointed that none of the men is going to be my husband, being that two are in their fifties and all are married. Perhaps the teacher is some hunky paramedic or E.R. doctor…but no. In strides a brisk-looking middle-aged woman with wiry gray hair and sturdy shoes. She whips out a clipboard and peruses it intently. “O’Neill?” she barks, looking at the list.

“Here,” I answer.

“I meant, are you one of the O’Neills?” She cocks her head, birdlike.

“Um, if you mean one of Mike and Betty’s kids, then yes.”

She bursts into a smile. “I’m Bev Ludevoorsk. I know your dad,” she says. “And your brothers, let’s see…Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, right?”

I nod, simultaneously proud and irritated. Proud of my brothers, irritated at being pigeonholed.

“What great guys!” Bev barks.

“I can see you don’t know them well,” I joke.

“Hahahaha! You should certainly sail through this class, with the family history you’ve got!” she booms approvingly. “And look at you! Just as big and strong as your brothers. Patient lifting won’t be a problem for you, now, will it?”

“I guess not,” I mutter, trying to feel flattered.

“What’s your first name?” she asks. “Charity?”

“Chastity,” I correct. One of my classmates smiles. “My father thought it was funny,” I explain. “My middle name’s Virginia.”

“Ouch,” the woman says.

“Tell me about it.”

“Chastity’s whole family works in emergency services,” Bev barks. “Right, Chastity?”

“Three firefighters, a bomb detonator and a chopper paramedic,” I confirm.

“And isn’t Trevor Meade somehow related to you?” she asks.

“No, actually. An honorary O’Neill, but no relation.” I feel my face warm at the thrill of discussing Trevor, loser that I am. For Pete’s sake, I’ve known Trev my whole life. We were together romantically for roughly seventy-two hours. You’d think I’d be over that.

“Right, so anyway, why don’t we introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’m Bev, as I already told you, hahahaha, and I love doing this job because we help people. Simple as that. Got to think on your feet, move fast, keep a cool head. It’s a great job. Who’s next? O’Neill? How about you?”

I hesitate, unsure of how much truth to parcel out. “Well, as you just heard, my family is in emergency services, and I thought it was time I joined the herd. Oh, and by the way, I’m, um, kind of surprising them with this class, Bev, so if you see one of them, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this.”

“No prob, O’Neill. Next?”

The other people in class—Henry, Ernesto, Ursula, Pam and Todd—say basically the same thing as Bev: it seems like a good way to serve the community, maybe work in the field professionally, yadda yadda.

“Okay, people, so this first class is an overview of the kinds of things we’re likely to see in the field,” she begins. My toes curl in my shoes. Relax, Chastity. You can do this. Knowledge is power. “Get the lights in back, O’Neill, okay? We’re having a little slide show.”

I obey, dreading what’s about to come. My stomach feels cold. Bad sign.

“Great. Slide number one—compound fracture, tib/fib. Anyone know what that means?”

My mouth dries up in instant horror. There on the screen is a close-up of bone jutting out of flesh, the white, jagged end bloodstained, the fibrous cartilage torn. Look away. Look away! My neck seems to be made of limp spaghetti, my head wobbles, my eyes flutter closed. Happy thoughts, happy bleeping thoughts…uh…let’s see…rowing, that’s good…Buttercup when I took her home the first time…Twinkies…um…Aragorn…Jeter… There. It’s working. I swallow against the bile and pull my head back into position, but I stare down at the desk, averting my eyes from the nasty picture on the screen. My skin crawls in revulsion.

“And next, okay, this is what we call a chronic wound or an ulcerating wound. Old folks, diabetics, bed-bound people are prone to these. Pesky little suckers that take months to heal, if they ever do.”

Don’t look, Chastity. But I can’t help it. My eyes flash to the screen in time to see an open sore on the leg of a very hairy man. Immediately, I slap my gaze back to the desk, but it’s too late. Breathe in, breathe out, slowly, slowly… I can still see the fragile, angry-looking edges, the greenish center of the wound, like some sort of hideous, decaying eye—Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson, both in leather. German chocolate cake, extra frosting. Yo-Yos at eleven o’clock at night, Buttercup’s head in my lap. There. Urge to vomit suppressed.

“And this is a degloving. My God, these are gross!”

I have the sense to close my eyes, tipping my head forward so Bev won’t see, but her voice is inescapable. “You can see how the skin is just pulled right back down the hand. It looks kind of tidy, doesn’t it? Like he just peeled the skin right off, on purpose. Bitch to fix, though. Stitches everywhere. End up looking like Frankenstein’s monster. You okay, O’Neill?”

At the sound of my name, my eyes snap open. Damn it! Now I’ve seen the degloving! Holy crap! Oh, God, this is the worst one yet. A whimper escapes my lips at the sight of those red, red fingers, the yellowish, waxy skin pulled down like fabric, oh, God, she’s right, it’s an oddly precise and tidy injury, and I can see veins and muscle and the fingernails…the fingernails…the fingernails are still on.

“I’m fine,” I manage in a strangled voice.

I spend the rest of the class mentally singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” the last song I heard before leaving the house today, and studying the Snicker’s wrapper on the floor. It’s not easy—I’m still sweaty at the end of class, because despite my best efforts, certain words have trickled through The Boss’s lyrics. Patellar dislocation. “At night, we ride…” Arterial spurt. “Through mansions of glory…” Massive head wound. “In suicide machines.” Bruce’s words have never been more heartfelt, at least in my recollection. Born to run, indeed.

I make a quick stop in the bathroom and assess the grayness of my face. This may have been a mistake. Once I splash some water on my face, I feel a little better. I’ll stick this class out. I’ll try. I even have enough energy to wonder if I’ll see Mr. New York Times next week.

Next week. Ew. I have to come again, don’t I? Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe I’ll get better. I did make it through tonight, after all. It’s a start. Sort of.




Chapter Seven


A FEW DAYS LATER, I TAKE A LONG look in the mirror, the only thing that actually functions in my upstairs bathroom, as the boys still haven’t gotten off their asses and done anything about it. I’m going out tonight, and I’m dressed like a girl. So far, so good.

I’ve always been one of those women who takes some pride in my complete dismissal of clothes. My clothes have always been for comfort and survival, not for attracting the opposite sex. For work, it’s always been pants and an oxford, maybe a good-quality wool sweater, solid colors. Around home, it’s sweats of varying age, usually with a Yankees logo plastered somewhere. I also have a penchant for Lord of the Rings T-shirts. Flannel shirts, jeans, those excellent, fleecelined duck boots from L.L. Bean that come in handy ten months of the year.

However, my clothing philosophy bit me in the ass the other day when I was mistaken for Lucky while Elaina and I were out for dinner. Thus, I was hauled against my will to the mall by my friend, who has a propensity for brightly colored, low-cut blouses that show off her fabulous cleavage. As I dragged my feet, Elaina turned on me. “Will you stop whining?” she snapped. “Madre de Dios, shut up! Wearing a skirt once or twice a year isn’t going to kill you, querida, but I might, okay?”

So now my closet contains not just my This Old House flannels and Levis, but also some flowery print skirts, a couple of sweaters (one is pink, please don’t tell anyone), even some skinny little shoes with straps that aren’t nearly as comfortable as my favorite shoes, a worn pair of red hightop sneakers. I tell myself it’s all for the greater good.

And the greater good could be waiting for me tonight at Singles Grocery Night, however dubious this might sound. Stifling the urge to crawl back into my I


My Preciousss T-shirt and go for a nice long run, I give myself the thumbs up, force a smile and tromp downstairs, where Matt and Trevor sit in front of the Yankees game. “I’m meeting someone, boys,” I proclaim optimistically.

“See ya,” Matt says just as one of our own scores. “Yes! Did you see that!”

“Have fun, Chas,” Trevor says. He glances at me with a smile. There is no jaw-drop, no abrupt realization. He just looks…happy. Happy and completely unconflicted—possibly even pleased—that I’m going out to meet (perhaps) my future husband. He just smiles, and when Trevor smiles, his eyes do something that I’ve spent a good part of my twenties analyzing. His face exceeds the sum of its parts or something. Trevor James Meade was simply born to smile, and his appealing, not-quite-handsome face is transformed into utter irresistibility.

I realize I’m staring. “Thank you!” I chirrup.

At least Buttercup seems distressed. She moans, hauls herself up and collapses on my strappy shoes, imploring me not to leave. Then Trevor makes a clicking sound, she lumbers over to him, her razor-wire tail lashing through the air, and I’m forgotten. Faithless cur.

I drive to the grocery store, imagining some gorgeous, financially secure, emotionally stable man being reduced to Singles Grocery Night. “Daddy and I met over the ham hocks,” I say aloud. Yup. Just as I thought. Sounds impossible.

I pull into the parking lot and slosh through the puddles to the entrance, where Mom stands in raincoat and clear plastic hat, impatiently waiting for me. “Come on! They’ve already started.”

“Started what, Mom? ‘Attention, all single shoppers. Ass check, aisle nine.’”

“Mouth, Chastity. You’ll never get a man with the way you talk.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.” Rolling my eyes, I follow her in. “I do actually need some groceries,” I tell her, taking out my list.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She sighs. “Well, just don’t buy anything that would put a man off.”

“Like what, Mom? A supersize box of condoms? Or would that make me even more popular?” I’m laughing at her back, because she’s squeaking off in her little bitty crepesoled shoes.

I start with the produce aisle. To the naked eye, it seems like a normal night at the grocery store. Are there perhaps more single men here? Hard to tell. There are, as always, more females than males. But yes, my trained journalistic eye notes a furtive tone to the evening. People glance at each other then quickly look away. A woman buying cilantro seems to be taking great pains to inhale appreciatively. I am a sensuous woman, appreciative of life’s little gifts. Ah. Jeez. I grab a bag of apples, plop it in my cart, then move on to Poultry.

There’s a middle-aged man in front of the chicken breasts, holding up package after package, examining each one closely, a thinly veiled metaphor for his true purpose tonight. “I haven’t had a good meal since my wife left me,” he announces loudly. Four women zip over to advise. No one in Chicken Thighs seems to be my age, so I turn down Juices & Bargains. A curly-haired student type darts a look at me, then pushes his carriage quickly past. Don’t bother, I tell him silently. A grown man who drinks Kool-Aid? Please. I’m more of the Gatorade type myself.

To think I wore my new shoes for this. Down to Cookies & Crackers. I grab a few packages of Double Stuff Oreos. Can’t have enough of these around the house. Matt and I eat them like they’re Chicklets. The aisle is empty, as no other shopper is willing to publicly admit they eat cookies.

This isn’t working. I didn’t really imagine it would, of course. Sighing, I turn sharply at the end of the aisle and head up Cereals & Breakfast Treats. I’m out of Choco-Puffs, and Matt ate the last of the Pop-Tarts last night. There, in front of the specially advertised, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal, is dear old Mom, talking to two men. Cripes. Ten minutes in the store, and she’s got two potential dates.

“Chastity! Come over here. Right now.” There’s a familiar militant note in her voice. I obey and join her, towering over her suitors.

“This is Grant,” Mom says, indicating the five-foot-seven man. “And this one…Donald?”

“That’s right!” Donald (five-four) applauds. “Well done, Betty!”

“Hello,” I say. “I’m the daughter. Chastity.”

My mother turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. “Grant and Donald are interested in a threesome,” she announces loudly. “With me.”

“Good God!” I splutter. “Not with my mother, you freaks. Get away from her or I will kill both of you and dump your bodies in the river.” They remain frozen in terror, so I slam my size eleven foot into their cart and send it careening down the aisle. “Go!” I bark. Terrified, they scuttle down the aisle toward the vegetable oil.

“Thank you, darling,” Mom says briskly. “Disgusting! People today! I can’t believe that.”




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