Rom-Com Collection

“Why didn’t you live with your uncle here in Georgebury?” I asked.

Ian nodded. “I would’ve liked to, but he was an alcoholic. Nice man, but not someone who could raise a kid.”

There was a story there, I was sure. I was also sure Ian didn’t want to go into it. Not now, anyway. “How’s your family?” he asked, changing the subject and confirming my suspicions.

“They’re good,” I answered, slipping my hand into his. “Bronte, my thirteen-year-old niece, is pressuring my sister, a man-hater, to get married, so Hester’s dating the mortician at our funeral home. My other niece wants to be Lady Gaga when she grows up. My parents may hate each other, may love each other, depending on the day. My brother smokes pot, gets laid and has no ambition, and I found my grandfather in the tub with his girlfriend last week.”

Ian grinned, thrilling me, cheap date that I was. “Speaking of your grandfather,” he said, “There’s a museum down in Greenledge, do you know it?”

“Oh, sure. All of us Vermont kids get dragged there in fifth grade. The American Craftsman place?”

He nodded. “They’re doing a show on David Morelock. I bought tickets to the opening. Thought we could go with your grandfather.”

I looked up at him, my mouth opening slowly. “Ian … thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

“No … thank you! This … Noah will be … you know what? You’re getting laid. Right now, mister.”

“Well, if you insist,” he said, and with that, he pulled me close and slid his hands under my fleece coat, and though it was cold and started to rain halfway through, we managed to stay quite warm. Quite warm indeed.

“SO YOU’RE DATING HER,” Noah said a few days later. We were having an early dinner before heading to the David Morelock retrospective.

“Yes, sir,” Ian replied.

“Honorable intentions and all that crap?”

“Noah,” Jody chided. She’d been a frequent guest around here lately.

Ian said nothing, just looked at me. His eyes crinkled a little, and my girl parts gave a happy squeeze. How many hours ‘til bedtime? Betty Boop wondered. Too many, I answered.

“Just treat her right,” Noah instructed, pointing at Ian with his fork. “And no kissing in front of me. This is my house. I have rules, young man.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “I have rules, too, and they include not using my bathroom.”

“You never use that tub,” Noah said, glancing at Jody with a little smile.

“And now I never will,” I answered.

Jody laughed. “We should probably get going, don’t you think? Ian, what time does the show open?”

“Seven,” Ian answered. He looked at me. “Thank you for dinner, Callie.”

I smiled, reached out with my foot to touch his leg. Oops. Got Noah’s prosthetic instead, shifted to the left … there. Ian didn’t get too many home-cooked meals. I was hoping to change that.

LIKE SO MANY MUSEUMS, the Museum of the American Craftsman had a still and sacred quality about it. In the large foyer, a huge black-and-white photo of Mr. Morelock was on display, his lined face intent as he hand-planed a piece of wood. Thank you again for my chair, I said silently, a lump in my throat. I hope you can see how much it still means to me.

Glancing at Noah, I saw his face was somber. “Well,” he said, not looking at me. “Jody and I will wander off, then. See you two young people in an hour?”

“Sure, Noah,” I said. I reached out and put my hand on his arm, and he gave my hand a squeeze.

“This was a nice idea,” he said gruffly, nodding to Ian.

“My pleasure,” Ian replied.

We watched them go, Jody’s hand on Noah’s elbow, Noah using a cane, for once. “I’m glad he’s with Jody,” I said quietly. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends left anymore.”

“How old is he?” Ian asked.

“Eighty-four,” I answered, that melancholy tightness still clamping my throat.

“He really loves you,” Ian said.

I looked up at him and smiled, shaking off any melancholy. “Well. Let’s go see if there’s anything as pretty as my chair,” I suggested, and off we went.

Each piece of furniture was lit from above, reinforcing the churchlike atmosphere. The show was well attended, and people murmured with the appropriate amount of awe. Little placards described each piece—Butler’s table, 1984, cherry & oak, made for the Glidden Family of Bennington, Vermont, mortise and tenon joinery … Dining room table, tiger maple with mahogany inlay, 1993, made for Edwin Whitney, New York, New York.

There were benches, small cabinets, kitchen chairs, end tables. Each one was unique, each one seemed to glow, the clean lines and innate strength creating a sense of surety. Mr. Morelock had really had a gift.

At the end of the exhibit was the show’s crowning glory … the rocking chairs. Four of them, arranged as if they were on a porch, waiting for a family to sit down and relax.

“They’re beautiful,” Ian murmured. I nodded. “None as nice as yours, though,” he added with a little smile.

“You’re right,” I said. “And mine’s also the last one he made, apparently.”

A short, gray-haired woman suddenly materialized at my side, quivering like a hummingbird. “Did you say you own a David Morelock rocking chair?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered, a tad smugly.

“The last one he made?” she answered, then glanced at Ian. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Colleen McPhee, the curator of this museum.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “The exhibit is beautiful.”

“So you own the last chair? Are you sure?”

“I think so,” I said. “Mr. Morelock gave it to me three days before he died. My grandfather told me it was the last one.”

“There’d be a number on the bottom,” she said.

“Fourteen,” I confirmed.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “That’s it. You do own the last one.” She took a deep breath, as if overcome with the news. “We’d be very, very interested in acquiring your piece.”

I smiled. “I’m sorry. I’d never sell it.”

She smiled back firmly, a woman on a mission. “We have quite an endowment, Miss …”

“Grey,” I said. “Callie Grey. It’s not for sale.”