Too Good to Be True
Page 30
“Think you’d like to go dress shopping with me?”
My head jerked back slightly. “Sure!” I said heartily. “What time?”
“Um, maybe around three?” Nat sounded so hesitant that I could tell something was wrong.
“Three would be great,” I answered.
“You sure?”
“Yes! Of course, Bumppo. Why do you sound so weird?”
“Margaret said maybe I should cut you a break and go without you.”
Good old Margs. My older sister was right—it would be awfully nice to skip out on this particular wedding event, but I had to go. “I want to come, Nat,” I said. Part of me did, at any rate. “I’ll see you at three.”
“Why do you baby her so much?” Margaret demanded the minute I hung up. Angus raced in, almost tripping her, but she ignored him. “Tell her to open her eyes and think of someone else for a change. She’s not lying in a hospital bed anymore, Grace.”
“I know that, Margaret dear. But for crying out loud, it’s her wedding dress. And I’m over Andrew. I don’t care if she’s marrying him, she’s our little sister and we should both be there.”
Margaret dropped into a kitchen chair and picked up Angus, who licked her chin with great affection. “Princess Natalie. God forbid she think of someone else for a change.”
“She’s not like that! God, Margs, why do you give her such a hard time?”
Margaret shrugged. “Maybe I think she needs a little hard time once in a while. She’s lived a charmed life, Grace. Adored, beautiful, smart. She gets everything.”
“Unlike your poor, orphaned, troll-like self?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m all soft edges and peachy glow.” She sighed. “You know what I’m talking about, Grace. Admit it. Nat has glided through life on a fluffy white cloud with a f**king rainbow over her head while bluebirds sang all around her. Me, I’ve stomped through life, and you…you’ve…” Her voice broke off.
“I’ve what?” I asked, bristling.
She didn’t answer for a second. “You’ve hit a few walls.”
“Andrew, you mean?”
“Well, sure. But remember when we first moved to Connecticut, and you were kind of lost?” Sure I remembered.
Back when I was dating Jack of Le Cirque. Margaret continued. “And that year you lived with Mom and Dad after college, when you waitressed for a year?”
“I was taking time off to figure out what I wanted to do,” I bit out. “Plus, waitressing is a life skill I’ll always have.”
“Sure. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Nat’s never had to wonder, never been lost, never doubted herself, never imagined that life would be anything less than perfect for her. Until she met Andrew and finally found something she couldn’t have, which you ended up giving her. So if I think she’s a little self-centered, that’s why.”
“I think you’re jealous of her,” I said, smarting.
“Of course I’m jealous of her, dummy,” Margaret said fondly. Honestly, I would never figure Margaret out. “Hey,”
she added, “what were you doing up on that roof with Hottie the Hunk Next Door?”
I took a deep breath. “We were just looking at the sky. Talking.”
Margaret squinted at me. “Are you interested in him, Grace?”
I could feel myself blushing. “Sort of. Yes. Definitely. I am.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Margs gave me her pirate smile.
“So?”
“So nothing. He’s a huge improvement on Andrew the Pale. God, imagine screwing Callahan O’ Shea. Just his name practically gives me an orgasm.” She laughed, and I smiled reluctantly. Margaret stood up and patted my shoulder. “Just make sure you’re not doing it to show Andrew that there’s a man who wants what’s in your pants, okay?”
“Wow. That’s so romantic, I think I might cry.”
She grinned again like the pirate she should’ve been. “Well, I’m beat. I have to write a brief and then I’m hitting the hay. ’Night, Gracie.” She handed me my wee doggie, who rested his head on my shoulder and sighed with devotion. “And, Grace, one more thing as long as I’m doing the big sister shtick.” She sighed. “Look. I know you’re trying to move on and all that crap, and I don’t blame you. But no matter how great Cal looks without a shirt, he’s always going to have a prison record, and these things have a habit of following a person around.”
“I know,” I admitted. Ava and I had both made it to the second round of interviews for the chairmanship, much to my surprise. I still wasn’t entirely hopeful, but Margs was right. Callahan O’ Shea’s past would matter at Manning.
Maybe it shouldn’t, but it would.
“Just be sure you know what you want, kiddo,” Margs said. “That’s all I’m saying. I think Cal’s pretty damn fun, and you could probably use some fun. But keep in mind that you’re a teacher at a prep school, and this just might matter to the good people at Manning. Not to mention Mom and Dad.”
I didn’t answer. As usual, Margaret was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’VE BEEN COMMISSIONED to do a sculpture of a baby in utero for Yale New Haven’s Children Hospital,” Mom announced the next night at dinner. We were at the family domicile—me, Margaret, Mémé, Mom and Dad —eating dinner.
“That sounds nice, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of her excellent pot roast.
“It’s coming along beautifully, if I do say so myself,” she agreed.
“Which you do say, every half hour,” Dad muttered.
“I almost died in childbirth,” Mémé announced. “They had to put me under. When I came to three days later, they told me I had a beautiful son.”
“My kind of labor and delivery,” Margaret murmured, knocking back her wine.
“The problem with the sculpture is that the baby’s head keeps breaking off—”
“Less than reassuring for the expectant mothers, I’m guessing,” Margaret interjected.
“—and I can’t find a way to keep it on,” Mom finished, glaring at Margs.
“How about duct tape?” Dad suggested. I bit down a laugh.
“Jim, must you constantly belittle my work? Hmm? Grace, stop shlunching, honey. You’re so pretty, why do you shlunch?”
“You can always tell breeding by good posture,” Mémé said, fishing the onion out of her martini and popping it into her mouth. “A lady never hunches. Grace, what is wrong with your hair today? You look like you just stepped out of the electric chair.”
“Oh, do you like it, Mémé? It cost a fortune, but, yes, electrocution was just the look I was going for. Thanks!”
“Mother,” Dad said, “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”
Mémé raised a sparse eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered, did you? I thought you forgot. No one has said a word about it.”
“Of course I remembered,” Dad said wearily.
“Has he ever forgotten, Eleanor?” Mom asked sharply in a rare show of solidarity with Dad.
“Oh, he forgot once,” Mémé said sourly.
“When I was six,” Dad sighed.
“When he was six. I thought he’d at least make me a card, but, no. Nothing.”
“Well, I thought we’d take you out to dinner on Friday,” Dad said. “You, Nancy and me, the girls and their boys.
What do you think? Does that sound nice?”
“Where would we go?”
“Somewhere fabulously expensive where you could complain all night long,” Margaret said. “Your idea of heaven, right, Mémé?”
“Actually,” I said on impulse, “I can’t come. Wyatt’s presenting a paper in New York, and I said I’d go down to the city with him. So sorry, Mémé. I hope you have a lovely night.”
Granted, yes, I’d been planning to tell the family that Wyatt and I had parted ways—Natalie’s wedding would demand attendance, and obviously Wyatt couldn’t show, being imaginary and all. But the idea of spending a Friday night listening to Mémé detail her nasal polyps and having Mom and Dad indulge in their endless bickering, sitting in the glow of Andrew and Natalie while Margaret sniped at everyone…nope. Callahan O’ Shea was right. I did a lot for my family. More than enough. Wyatt Dunn could give me one last excuse before, alas, we were forced to break up for good.
“But it’s my birthday.” Mémé frowned. “Cancel your plans.”
“No,” I said with a smile.
“In my day, people showed respect to their elders,” she began.
“See, I was thinking the Inuit have it right,” Margaret said. “The ice floe? What do you say, Mémé?”
I laughed, receiving a glare from my grandmother. “Hey, listen, I have to go. Papers to grade and all that. Love you guys. See you at home, Margs.”
“Cheers, Grace,” she said, toasting me with a knowing grin. “Hey, does Wyatt have a brother?”
I smiled, patted her shoulder and left.
When I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later, I looked over at Callahan’s house. Maybe he was home. Maybe he’d want company. Maybe he’d almost kiss me again. Maybe there’d be no “almost” about it.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, getting out of the car. Angus’s sweet little head popped up in the window, and he began his yarping song of welcome. “One second, sweetie boy!” I called, then walked over to 36 Maple. Right up the path. Knocked on the door. Firmly. Waited.
There was no answer. I knocked again, my spirits slipping a notch. Glancing down the street, I noticed belatedly that Cal’s truck wasn’t there. With a sigh, I turned around and went home.
The truck wasn’t there the next day, or the next. Not that I was spying, of course…just glancing out my window every ten minutes or so in great irritation, acknowledging the fact that…yikes…I missed him. Missed the joking, the knowing looks, the brawny arms. The tingling wave of desire that one look from Callahan O’ Shea could incite. And God, when he touched my face that night on the roof, I’d felt like the most beautiful creature on earth.
So where was he, dang it? Why did it bug me so much that he’d gone off for a few days? Maybe he was back in an orange jumpsuit, stabbing trash on the side of the freeway, having broken parole somehow. Maybe he was a CIA mole and had been called up to serve, like Clive Owen’s assassin character in The Bourne Identity. “Must go kill someone, dear…I’ll be late for dinner!” Seemed to fit Callahan more than being an accountant, that’s for sure.
Maybe—maybe he had a girlfriend. I didn’t think so, but I just didn’t know, did I?
On Friday night, tired of torturing myself about Callahan, I decided that going to Julian’s singles’ night with Kiki was a better way to spend my time than wondering where the hell Callahan O’ Shea had gone. I was supposed to be in New York with Wyatt, and Margaret was growling in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of paper and an open bottle of wine, complaining about having to go to dinner with our family.
And so it was that at nine o’clock, instead of watching Mémé wrestle food past her hiatal hernia and listening to my parents snipe, I was instead dancing to Gloria Estefan at Jitterbug’s singles’ night. Dancing with Julian, dancing with Kiki, dancing with Cambry the waiter and having a blast.
There were no men here for me…Kiki had claimed the only reasonably attractive straight guy, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Apparently, Cambry had brought a lot of his friends, so aside from a scattering of middle-aged women (Julian’s usual crowd for this event), the night had taken on a decidedly gay-man feel.
I didn’t mind a bit. This only meant that the men danced well, dressed beautifully and flirted outrageously in one of the unfairnesses of life—gay men were generally better boyfriends than straight guys, except on the sex front, where things tended to fall apart. Still, I’d bet a g*y boyfriend would at least tell me if he was going out of town for a few days. Not that Callahan was my boyfriend, of course.
I let the music push those thoughts away and found that after a while, I was twirling, laughing, showing off my dancing skills, being told I was fabulous again and again by Cambry’s pals.
As the music pulsed in my ears and I salsa-stepped with one good-looking guy after another, I felt a warm wave of happiness. It was nice to be away from my family, nice not to be looking for love, nice to be just out having fun.
Good old Wyatt Dunn. This last date was definitely our best.
When Julian went to the back to change the music, I followed him. “This is great!” I exclaimed. “Look at all the people here! You should make this a regular thing. Gay Singles’ Night.”
“I know,” he said, grinning as he shuffled through his song list. “What should we do next? It’s ten o’clock already.
Man! The night has flown by. Maybe some slower stuff, what do you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’m beat. This is quite a bit livelier than Dancin’ with the Oldies. My feet are killing me.”
Julian grinned. He looked as ridiculously handsome as ever, but happier, too. The shadow that made him so tragically appealing seemed to have lifted. “How are things with Cambry?” I asked.
Julian blushed. “Fairly wonderful,” he admitted shyly. “We’ve had two dates. I think we might kiss soon.”
My head jerked back slightly. “Sure!” I said heartily. “What time?”
“Um, maybe around three?” Nat sounded so hesitant that I could tell something was wrong.
“Three would be great,” I answered.
“You sure?”
“Yes! Of course, Bumppo. Why do you sound so weird?”
“Margaret said maybe I should cut you a break and go without you.”
Good old Margs. My older sister was right—it would be awfully nice to skip out on this particular wedding event, but I had to go. “I want to come, Nat,” I said. Part of me did, at any rate. “I’ll see you at three.”
“Why do you baby her so much?” Margaret demanded the minute I hung up. Angus raced in, almost tripping her, but she ignored him. “Tell her to open her eyes and think of someone else for a change. She’s not lying in a hospital bed anymore, Grace.”
“I know that, Margaret dear. But for crying out loud, it’s her wedding dress. And I’m over Andrew. I don’t care if she’s marrying him, she’s our little sister and we should both be there.”
Margaret dropped into a kitchen chair and picked up Angus, who licked her chin with great affection. “Princess Natalie. God forbid she think of someone else for a change.”
“She’s not like that! God, Margs, why do you give her such a hard time?”
Margaret shrugged. “Maybe I think she needs a little hard time once in a while. She’s lived a charmed life, Grace. Adored, beautiful, smart. She gets everything.”
“Unlike your poor, orphaned, troll-like self?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m all soft edges and peachy glow.” She sighed. “You know what I’m talking about, Grace. Admit it. Nat has glided through life on a fluffy white cloud with a f**king rainbow over her head while bluebirds sang all around her. Me, I’ve stomped through life, and you…you’ve…” Her voice broke off.
“I’ve what?” I asked, bristling.
She didn’t answer for a second. “You’ve hit a few walls.”
“Andrew, you mean?”
“Well, sure. But remember when we first moved to Connecticut, and you were kind of lost?” Sure I remembered.
Back when I was dating Jack of Le Cirque. Margaret continued. “And that year you lived with Mom and Dad after college, when you waitressed for a year?”
“I was taking time off to figure out what I wanted to do,” I bit out. “Plus, waitressing is a life skill I’ll always have.”
“Sure. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Nat’s never had to wonder, never been lost, never doubted herself, never imagined that life would be anything less than perfect for her. Until she met Andrew and finally found something she couldn’t have, which you ended up giving her. So if I think she’s a little self-centered, that’s why.”
“I think you’re jealous of her,” I said, smarting.
“Of course I’m jealous of her, dummy,” Margaret said fondly. Honestly, I would never figure Margaret out. “Hey,”
she added, “what were you doing up on that roof with Hottie the Hunk Next Door?”
I took a deep breath. “We were just looking at the sky. Talking.”
Margaret squinted at me. “Are you interested in him, Grace?”
I could feel myself blushing. “Sort of. Yes. Definitely. I am.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Margs gave me her pirate smile.
“So?”
“So nothing. He’s a huge improvement on Andrew the Pale. God, imagine screwing Callahan O’ Shea. Just his name practically gives me an orgasm.” She laughed, and I smiled reluctantly. Margaret stood up and patted my shoulder. “Just make sure you’re not doing it to show Andrew that there’s a man who wants what’s in your pants, okay?”
“Wow. That’s so romantic, I think I might cry.”
She grinned again like the pirate she should’ve been. “Well, I’m beat. I have to write a brief and then I’m hitting the hay. ’Night, Gracie.” She handed me my wee doggie, who rested his head on my shoulder and sighed with devotion. “And, Grace, one more thing as long as I’m doing the big sister shtick.” She sighed. “Look. I know you’re trying to move on and all that crap, and I don’t blame you. But no matter how great Cal looks without a shirt, he’s always going to have a prison record, and these things have a habit of following a person around.”
“I know,” I admitted. Ava and I had both made it to the second round of interviews for the chairmanship, much to my surprise. I still wasn’t entirely hopeful, but Margs was right. Callahan O’ Shea’s past would matter at Manning.
Maybe it shouldn’t, but it would.
“Just be sure you know what you want, kiddo,” Margs said. “That’s all I’m saying. I think Cal’s pretty damn fun, and you could probably use some fun. But keep in mind that you’re a teacher at a prep school, and this just might matter to the good people at Manning. Not to mention Mom and Dad.”
I didn’t answer. As usual, Margaret was right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’VE BEEN COMMISSIONED to do a sculpture of a baby in utero for Yale New Haven’s Children Hospital,” Mom announced the next night at dinner. We were at the family domicile—me, Margaret, Mémé, Mom and Dad —eating dinner.
“That sounds nice, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of her excellent pot roast.
“It’s coming along beautifully, if I do say so myself,” she agreed.
“Which you do say, every half hour,” Dad muttered.
“I almost died in childbirth,” Mémé announced. “They had to put me under. When I came to three days later, they told me I had a beautiful son.”
“My kind of labor and delivery,” Margaret murmured, knocking back her wine.
“The problem with the sculpture is that the baby’s head keeps breaking off—”
“Less than reassuring for the expectant mothers, I’m guessing,” Margaret interjected.
“—and I can’t find a way to keep it on,” Mom finished, glaring at Margs.
“How about duct tape?” Dad suggested. I bit down a laugh.
“Jim, must you constantly belittle my work? Hmm? Grace, stop shlunching, honey. You’re so pretty, why do you shlunch?”
“You can always tell breeding by good posture,” Mémé said, fishing the onion out of her martini and popping it into her mouth. “A lady never hunches. Grace, what is wrong with your hair today? You look like you just stepped out of the electric chair.”
“Oh, do you like it, Mémé? It cost a fortune, but, yes, electrocution was just the look I was going for. Thanks!”
“Mother,” Dad said, “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”
Mémé raised a sparse eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered, did you? I thought you forgot. No one has said a word about it.”
“Of course I remembered,” Dad said wearily.
“Has he ever forgotten, Eleanor?” Mom asked sharply in a rare show of solidarity with Dad.
“Oh, he forgot once,” Mémé said sourly.
“When I was six,” Dad sighed.
“When he was six. I thought he’d at least make me a card, but, no. Nothing.”
“Well, I thought we’d take you out to dinner on Friday,” Dad said. “You, Nancy and me, the girls and their boys.
What do you think? Does that sound nice?”
“Where would we go?”
“Somewhere fabulously expensive where you could complain all night long,” Margaret said. “Your idea of heaven, right, Mémé?”
“Actually,” I said on impulse, “I can’t come. Wyatt’s presenting a paper in New York, and I said I’d go down to the city with him. So sorry, Mémé. I hope you have a lovely night.”
Granted, yes, I’d been planning to tell the family that Wyatt and I had parted ways—Natalie’s wedding would demand attendance, and obviously Wyatt couldn’t show, being imaginary and all. But the idea of spending a Friday night listening to Mémé detail her nasal polyps and having Mom and Dad indulge in their endless bickering, sitting in the glow of Andrew and Natalie while Margaret sniped at everyone…nope. Callahan O’ Shea was right. I did a lot for my family. More than enough. Wyatt Dunn could give me one last excuse before, alas, we were forced to break up for good.
“But it’s my birthday.” Mémé frowned. “Cancel your plans.”
“No,” I said with a smile.
“In my day, people showed respect to their elders,” she began.
“See, I was thinking the Inuit have it right,” Margaret said. “The ice floe? What do you say, Mémé?”
I laughed, receiving a glare from my grandmother. “Hey, listen, I have to go. Papers to grade and all that. Love you guys. See you at home, Margs.”
“Cheers, Grace,” she said, toasting me with a knowing grin. “Hey, does Wyatt have a brother?”
I smiled, patted her shoulder and left.
When I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later, I looked over at Callahan’s house. Maybe he was home. Maybe he’d want company. Maybe he’d almost kiss me again. Maybe there’d be no “almost” about it.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, getting out of the car. Angus’s sweet little head popped up in the window, and he began his yarping song of welcome. “One second, sweetie boy!” I called, then walked over to 36 Maple. Right up the path. Knocked on the door. Firmly. Waited.
There was no answer. I knocked again, my spirits slipping a notch. Glancing down the street, I noticed belatedly that Cal’s truck wasn’t there. With a sigh, I turned around and went home.
The truck wasn’t there the next day, or the next. Not that I was spying, of course…just glancing out my window every ten minutes or so in great irritation, acknowledging the fact that…yikes…I missed him. Missed the joking, the knowing looks, the brawny arms. The tingling wave of desire that one look from Callahan O’ Shea could incite. And God, when he touched my face that night on the roof, I’d felt like the most beautiful creature on earth.
So where was he, dang it? Why did it bug me so much that he’d gone off for a few days? Maybe he was back in an orange jumpsuit, stabbing trash on the side of the freeway, having broken parole somehow. Maybe he was a CIA mole and had been called up to serve, like Clive Owen’s assassin character in The Bourne Identity. “Must go kill someone, dear…I’ll be late for dinner!” Seemed to fit Callahan more than being an accountant, that’s for sure.
Maybe—maybe he had a girlfriend. I didn’t think so, but I just didn’t know, did I?
On Friday night, tired of torturing myself about Callahan, I decided that going to Julian’s singles’ night with Kiki was a better way to spend my time than wondering where the hell Callahan O’ Shea had gone. I was supposed to be in New York with Wyatt, and Margaret was growling in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of paper and an open bottle of wine, complaining about having to go to dinner with our family.
And so it was that at nine o’clock, instead of watching Mémé wrestle food past her hiatal hernia and listening to my parents snipe, I was instead dancing to Gloria Estefan at Jitterbug’s singles’ night. Dancing with Julian, dancing with Kiki, dancing with Cambry the waiter and having a blast.
There were no men here for me…Kiki had claimed the only reasonably attractive straight guy, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Apparently, Cambry had brought a lot of his friends, so aside from a scattering of middle-aged women (Julian’s usual crowd for this event), the night had taken on a decidedly gay-man feel.
I didn’t mind a bit. This only meant that the men danced well, dressed beautifully and flirted outrageously in one of the unfairnesses of life—gay men were generally better boyfriends than straight guys, except on the sex front, where things tended to fall apart. Still, I’d bet a g*y boyfriend would at least tell me if he was going out of town for a few days. Not that Callahan was my boyfriend, of course.
I let the music push those thoughts away and found that after a while, I was twirling, laughing, showing off my dancing skills, being told I was fabulous again and again by Cambry’s pals.
As the music pulsed in my ears and I salsa-stepped with one good-looking guy after another, I felt a warm wave of happiness. It was nice to be away from my family, nice not to be looking for love, nice to be just out having fun.
Good old Wyatt Dunn. This last date was definitely our best.
When Julian went to the back to change the music, I followed him. “This is great!” I exclaimed. “Look at all the people here! You should make this a regular thing. Gay Singles’ Night.”
“I know,” he said, grinning as he shuffled through his song list. “What should we do next? It’s ten o’clock already.
Man! The night has flown by. Maybe some slower stuff, what do you think?”
“Sounds good to me. I’m beat. This is quite a bit livelier than Dancin’ with the Oldies. My feet are killing me.”
Julian grinned. He looked as ridiculously handsome as ever, but happier, too. The shadow that made him so tragically appealing seemed to have lifted. “How are things with Cambry?” I asked.
Julian blushed. “Fairly wonderful,” he admitted shyly. “We’ve had two dates. I think we might kiss soon.”
