Too Good to Be True

Page 20

“Oh, thanks, Margs. And let me say what a privilege it was to see your dirty clothes scattered all over my guest room this morning. Shall I do your laundry for you, Majesty?”
“Well, since you don’t have a real job, sure,” she said.
“Real job? It’s better than getting a bunch of drug dealers—”
“Girls, enough. Are you really leaving Stuart?” Mom asked.
Margaret closed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, I think that’s ridiculous. You married him, Margaret. You don’t just leave. You stay and work things out till you’re happy again.”
“Like you and Dad?” Margaret suggested. “Kill me now, then. Grace, would you do the honors?”
“Your father and I are perfectly…” Her voice trailed off, and she studied her coffee cup as if a light was abruptly dawning.
“Maybe you should move in with Grace, too,” Margaret suggested, raising an eyebrow.
“Okay, very funny. No. You can’t, Mom.” I shot Margs a threatening look. “Seriously, Mom,” I said slowly. “You and Dad love each other, right? You just like to bicker.”
“Oh, Grace,” she sighed. “What’s love got to do with it?”
“Thank you, Tina Turner,” Margaret quipped.
“I’m hoping love has a lot to do with it,” I protested.
Mom sighed. “Who knows what love is?” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Love is a battlefield,” Margaret murmured.
“All you need is love,” I countered.
“Love stinks,” she returned.
“Shut up, Margs,” I said. “Mom? You were saying?”
She sighed. “You get so used to someone…I don’t know. Some days, I want to kill your father with a dull knife.
He’s a boring old tax attorney, for heaven’s sake. His idea of fun is to lay down and play dead at one of those stupid Civil War battles.”
“Hey. I love those stupid battles,” I interjected, but she ignored me.
“But I don’t just walk away, either, Margaret. We did, after all, vow to love and cherish each other, even if it kills us.
”
“Gosh. That’s beautiful,” Margaret said.
“But my word, he gets on my nerves, making fun of my art! What does he do? Runs around in dress-up clothes, firing guns. I create. I celebrate the female form. I am capable of expressing myself by more than grunts and sarcasm. I—”
“More coffee, Mom?” Margs asked.
“No. I have to go.” Still, she remained in her chair.
“Mom,” I asked cautiously, “why do you, uh, celebrate the female form, as you put it? How did that get started?”
Margaret gave me a dark look, but I was a little curious. I was in graduate school when Mom discovered herself, as it were.
She smiled. “The truth is, it was an accident. I was trying to make one of those little glass balls that hang in the window or on a Christmas tree, you know? And I was having trouble tying off the end, and your father came in and said it looked like a nipple. So I told him it was, and he turned absolutely purple and I thought, why not? If your father had that kind of a reaction to it, what would someone else think? So I took it down to Chimera, and they loved it.”
“Mmm,” I murmured. “What’s not to love?”
“I mean it, Grace. The Hartford Courant called me a postmodern feminist with the aesthetic appeal of Mapplethorpe and O’ Keeffe on acid.”
“All from a screwed up Christmas ornament,” Margaret interjected.
“The first one was accidental, Margaret. The rest are a celebration of the physiological miracle that is Woman,”
Mom pronounced. “I love what I do, even if you girls are too Puritanical to properly appreciate my art. I have a new career and people admire me. And if it tortures your father, that’s just gravy.”
“Yes,” Margs said. “Why not torture Dad? He’s only given you everything.”
“Well, Margaret, dear, I’d counter that by saying he’s the one who got everything, and you of all people should appreciate my position. I became wallpaper, girls. He was more than happy to come home, be served a martini and a dinner I slaved over for hours in a house that was immaculate with children who were smart, well-behaved and gorgeous, then pop into bed for some rowdy sex.”
Margaret and I recoiled in identical horror.
Mom turned a hard eye on Margaret. “He was completely spoiled, and I was invisible. So if I’m torturing him, Margaret, darling firstborn of my loins, you of all people might say, ‘Well done, Mother.’ Because at least he’s noticing me now, and I didn’t even have to go running to my sister’s house.”
“Youch,” Margaret said. “I’m bleeding, Grace.” Oddly, she was smiling.
“Please stop fighting, you two,” I said. “Mom, we’re very proud of you. You’re, um, a visionary. Really.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mom said, standing up. “Well, I have to run now. I’m giving a talk at the library on my art and inspiration.”
“Adults only, I’m guessing,” Margaret murmured, taking Angus from my lap to make kissing faces at him.
Mom sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Grace, you have cobwebs up there. And don’t shlunch, honey. Walk me to the car, all right?”
I obeyed, leaving Margaret, who was hand-feeding Angus bits of her roll.
“Grace,” my mother said, “who was that man who was here?”
“Callahan?” I asked. She nodded. “My neighbor. Like I told you.”
“Well. Don’t go screwing up a good thing by falling for a manual laborer, dear.”
“God, Mom!” I yelped. “You don’t even know him! He’s very nice.”
“I’m just pointing out that you have a lovely thing going with that nice doctor, don’t you?”
“I’m not going to date Callahan, Mother,” I said tersely. “He’s just some guy Dad hired.”
Ah, shit. There he was, getting into his truck. He heard, of course. Judging from his expression, he heard the “just some guy Dad hired,” not the “very nice” bit.
“Well, fine,” Mom said in a quieter voice. “It’s just that ever since Andrew and you broke up, you’ve been wandering around like a ghost, honey. And it’s nice to see your young man has put some roses back in your cheeks.”
“I thought you were a feminist,” I said.
“I am,” she said.
“Well, you could’ve fooled me! Maybe it’s just that enough time passed and I actually got over him on my own.
Maybe it’s springtime. Maybe I’m just having a really good time at work these days. Did you hear that I’m up for the chairmanship of the department? Maybe I’m just doing fine on my own and it has nothing to do with Wyatt Dunn.”
“Mmm. Well. Whatever,” Mom said. “I have to go, dear. Bye! Don’t shlunch.”
“She’ll be the death of me,” I announced as I went back inside. “If I don’t kill her first, that is.”
Margaret burst into tears.
“God’s nightgown!” I said. “I didn’t mean it! Margs, what’s wrong?”
“My idiot husband!” she sobbed, slashing her hand across her face to wipe away the tears.
“Okay, okay, honey. Settle down.” I handed her a napkin to blow her nose and patted her shoulder as Angus happily licked away her tears. “What’s really going on, Margs?”
She took a shaky breath. “He wants us to have a baby.”
My mouth dropped open. “Oh,” I said.
Margaret never wanted kids. Actually, she said that the memory of Natalie hooked up to a respirator was enough to crush any maternal instincts she might’ve had. She always seemed to like kids well enough—gamely holding our cousins’ babies at family gatherings, talking to older kids in a pleasingly adult way. But she also was the first to say she was too selfish to ever be a mother.
“So is this up for discussion?” I asked. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty f**king awful, Grace,” she snapped. “I’m hiding at your house, flirting with your hunky neighbor, not speaking to my husband, and Mom is giving me lectures on marriage! Isn’t it obvious how I feel?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re also bawling into my dog’s fur. So spill, honey. I won’t tell anyone.”
She shot me a watery, grateful look. “I feel kind of…betrayed,” she admitted. “Like he’s saying I’m not enough.
And you know, he’s…he can be really irritating, you know?” Her breath started hitching out of her again. “He’s not the most exciting person in the world, is he?”
I murmured that, no, of course he wasn’t.
“And so I feel like he just hit me upside the head.”
“So what do you think, Margs? Do you think you might want a baby?” I asked.
“No! I don’t know! Maybe! Oh, shit. I’m gonna take a shower.” She stood up, handed me my doggy, who snagged the last bit of poppy seed roll from my plate and burped. And thus ended the sisterly heart-to-heart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ON WEDNESDAY EVENING, I was getting ready for my date with Lester the metalsmith. He’d called at last, sounded normal enough, but let’s be honest. With a name like Lester, being a member of an artisan’s cooperative and having his looks summarized as attractive in his own way…well. My hopes were flying pretty low.
Nonetheless, I figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for me to get out of the house. I could practice my feminine wiles on him, try a few of the techniques Lou had urged during our Meeting Mr. Right class. Yes, I was that desperate.
Margaret was working—since our chat over the weekend, she’d kept mum on the subject of her husband. Angus watched as I resignedly followed Lou’s advice…a skirt short enough to show that, yes, I had fabulous legs. A little lipstick, a little holy water on the hair, and I was ready to go. I kissed Angus repeatedly, asked him not to feel jealous, lonely or depressed, told him he could watch HBO and order pizza, realized that I was far, far down the path to “Weird Dog Lady” and headed out.
Lester and I were meeting at Blackie’s, and I figured I’d walk. It was a beautiful night, just a little cool, and in the west, there was the thinnest line of red as the sunset held on a little longer. I looked for a moment at my own house. I’d left the Tiffany lamp on for Angus, and my hanging porch light was on. The buds of the peonies were tight with promise…in another week or so, they’d burst into fragrant, lush blossoms that scented the whole house. The slate walk was edged with lavender, ferns and heather, and hostas huddled in a thick green mass at the base of my mailbox.
It was a perfect house, sweet enough to be featured on the cover of a magazine, cozy, welcoming, unique. Only one thing was missing—the husband. The kids. The whole adorable family I’d always envisioned…the one that was getting harder and harder to imagine.
You might wonder why I didn’t sell the house after Andrew broke it off with me. It was, after all, supposed to be our house. But I loved it, and it had so much potential. The thought of not hearing the Farmington River shushing gently in the distance, of letting someone else plant bulbs and hang ferns on the front porch…I just couldn’t do it.
And yes, maybe I was holding on to the last piece I had of Andrew and me. We’d planned to be so happy here….
So rather than becoming our house, it became mine. That house was my grief therapy, and as I polished it and made it a sanctuary of comfort and beauty and surprising little delights, you can bet that I imagined my revenge on Andrew. That I’d meet someone else, someone better, smarter, taller, funnier, richer, nicer…someone who freakin’ adored me, thank you so much. And Andrew would see. It was his stupid loss. And he could just be lonely and miserable for the rest of his stupid life.
Obviously, it didn’t turn out that way, or I wouldn’t be standing here on the sidewalk, a fake boyfriend on one hand, a metalsmith on the other, an ex-con who made my girl parts sit up and bark in the background.
“Get going,” I told myself. Margaret might be a bit off love these days, but she wouldn’t fix me up with a bad person. Lester the metalsmith. It was kind of hard to get excited about him. Lester. Les. Nope. Nothing.
Blackie’s was packed, and immediately, I regretted arranging the date this way. What was I supposed to do, just start tapping men on the shoulder and asking if they were Lester the metalsmith? Is there a metalsmith in the building? Please, if you’re a metalsmith, report to the bar immediately.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked as I pushed my way forward.
“A gin and tonic, please?” I asked.
“Coming up,” he said.
Well, here I was, once again trying to convey The Look, the confidence, the appeal, the I’m just an amused observer of life look that didn’t say Quite eager to find boyfriend so I won’t have to be alone when sister marries ex-fiancé, which seems like it’ll be happening soon, damn it. Good dancer a plus.
“Excuse me, are you Grace?” came a voice at my shoulder. “I’m Lester.”
I turned. My eyes widened. Heart rate stopped entirely, then kicked in at about one hundred and eighty beats per minute.
“You are Grace, right?” the man asked.
“Thank you,” I murmured. As in “Thank you, God!” Then I closed my mouth and smiled. “Hi. I mean, yes. I’m Grace. Hello. I’m fine, thanks.”