Too Good to Be True

Page 43

She gave a little nod. “I think so,” she whispered, looking straight ahead and squeezing my hand a little tighter.
Her eyes were full of tears. “Grace, I’m so sorry that of all the people in the world, I had to fall for him. That I hurt you.” She drew a shaking breath. “I never said it, but I’ll say it now. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Well, you know, it really sucked,” I admitted. It was a relief to say the words.
“Are you mad at me?” Two tears slipped down her cheeks.
“No,” I assured her. Then I reconsidered. “Well…not anymore. I tried not to be. I was more mad at Andrew, to be honest, but yeah, part of me was just screaming. It wasn’t fair.”
“Grace, you know you’re my favorite person in the world. The last person I’d ever willingly hurt. I never meant to. I never wanted to. I hated that I fell for Andrew. I hated it.” She was crying harder now.
I slipped my arm around her, pulling her so that our heads touched as we sat, side by side, not looking at each other. I didn’t like to have my sister crying, but maybe she just needed to. And maybe I needed to see it. “Well,” I admitted softly, “it hurt. Quite a bit. I didn’t want you to know it. But I’m over that now. I really am.”
“Making up Wyatt…” Her voice trailed off. “I think that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. And man, I jumped all over that.” She gave a grim laugh. “I kind of suspected he wasn’t real, you know. You had me up until the bit about the feral cats.” She grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “I know.”
Nat sighed. “I guess I didn’t want to know the truth.” We were quiet for a moment. “You know, Grace,” she said softly, “you don’t have to watch out for me anymore. You don’t have to protect me from every sad emotion.”
“Well,” I said, my own eyes filling. “I kind of do. That’s my job. I’m your big sister.”
“Forget the job,” she suggested, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of frizz behind my ear. “Forget that you’re the big sister. Let’s just be plain old sisters. Equals, okay?”
I looked into the blue, clear sky. Ever since I was four, I’d been watching out for Natalie, admiring her, protecting her. It might be nice, just…just liking her. Instead of adoration, friendship. Equals, like she said.
“Like Margaret,” I mused.
“Oh, God, don’t be like Margaret!” she blurted with mock earnestness, and we both burst into laughter. Then Nat opened her purse and handed me a tissue—of course, she was armed with a cunning little tissue pack with roses on the cover—and we sat for another minute, listening to the mockingbird, holding hands.
“Grace?” she said eventually.
“Yeah?”
“I really liked Callahan.”
Hearing that was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt. It did. “Me, too,” I whispered. She squeezed my hand and had the sense not to say anything else. After a moment, I cleared my throat and glanced around at the restaurant. “Want to get back?”
“Nah,” she said. “Let everyone wonder. Maybe we could fake a cat fight, just for fun.”
I laughed. My Nattie of old. “I missed you,” I admitted.
“I missed you, too. It’s been so hard, wondering if you’re really as okay as you seemed, but afraid to ask. And I’ve been jealous, you know. You and Margs, living together.”
“Oh, well, then, you can take her. You and Andrew,” I said. “For as long as you want.”
“He wouldn’t survive the week.” She grinned.
“Nattie,” I said slowly, “about us being equals…” She nodded encouragingly. “I want you to do me a favor, Nat.”
“Anything,” she said.
I turned a little to better face her. “Nat, I don’t want to be maid of honor tomorrow. Let it be Margaret. I’ll be your bridesmaid, go down the aisle and all that, but not maid of honor. It’s too weird, okay? A little pimp-ish, you know?”
“Okay,” she said instantly. “But make sure Margaret doesn’t roll her eyes and make faces.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t guarantee anything,” I said with a laugh. “But I’ll try.”
Then I stood up and pulled my little sister to her feet. “Let’s go back, okay? I’m starving.”
We held hands all the way back to our table. Mom hopped up like an anxious sparrow when she saw us. “Girls! Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mom. We’re fine.”
Mrs. Carson rolled her eyes and gave a ladylike snort, and suddenly, our mother wheeled on her. “I’ll thank you to wipe that look off your face, Letitia!” she said, her voice carrying easily through the restaurant. “If you have something to say, speak up!”
“I’m…I don’t…”
“Then stop treating my girls like they’re not good enough for your precious son. And Andrew, let me say this. We only tolerate you because Natalie asked us to. If you screw up any of my girls’ lives again, I will rip out your liver and eat it. Understand me?”
“I…I definitely do understand, Mrs. Emerson,” Andrew said meekly, forgetting that he was supposed to call Mom by her first name.
Mom sat back down, and Dad turned to her. “I love you,” he said, his voice awed.
“Of course you do,” she said briskly. “Is everyone ready to order?”
“I can’t eat beets,” Mémé announced. “They repeat on me.”
WE ALMOST GOT THROUGH the dinner without further incident. In fact, I was trying to resist the urge to lick my bowl clean of crème brûlée when there was a commotion at the front of the restaurant.
“I’m here to see my wife,” came a raised voice. “Now.”
Stuart.
He came into the dining room, dressed in his usual oxford and argyle sweater vest, tan trousers and tasseled loafers, looking like the gentle, sweet man he was. But his face was set, and his eyes, God bless him, were stormy.
“Margaret, this has gone on long enough,” he announced, ignoring the rest of us.
“Hmm,” Margaret said, narrowing her eyes.
“If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine. And if you want sex on the kitchen table, you’ll get it.” He glared down at his wife. “But you’re coming home, and you’re coming home now, and I will be happy to discuss this further once you’re na**d and in my bed.” He paused. “Or on the table.” His face flushed. “And the next time you leave me, you’d better mean it, woman, because I’m not going to be treated like a doormat. Understand?”
Margaret rose, put her napkin by her plate and turned to me. “Don’t wait up,” she said. Then she took Stuart’s hand and let him lead her through the restaurant, grinning from ear to ear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE MINUTE I CAUGHT SIGHT of Andrew, I saw it.
Trouble.
The organ played Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, the fifty or so guests, most related to either the bride or groom, stood and turned to look at us, the freaky Emerson sisters. There was Stuart, looking smugly blissful, the expression of a man who saw a lot of action last night. I grinned at him. He nodded and touched his forehead with two fingers in a little salute. There were Cousin Kitty and Aunt Mavis, who both smiled with great false sympathy as I passed. Resisting the urge to give them the finger (we were in church, after all, and Mayflower descendants and all that crap), I looked ahead and, for the first time that day, saw the groom.
He ran a hand through his hair. Pushed up his glasses. Coughed into his fist. Didn’t look at me. Bit his lip.
Uh-oh. This did not look like a man whose dreams were all about to come true. This was more than the discomfort of standing in front of dozens of people. This was bad.
I gave Andrew a questioning look, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze bounced around the church, flitting from guest to guest like a housefly bouncing against a window, relentlessly seeking escape.
I hiked my skirt up a bit and stepped onto the altar, then made room for Margs. “We have a problem,” I whispered.
“What are you talking about? Look at her face,” she whispered back.
I looked at Natalie, beautiful, glowing, her sky-blue eyes shining. Dad looked tall and proud and dignified, nodding here and there as he walked his baby girl down the aisle to the grand music. “Take a look at Andrew,” I whispered.
Margaret obeyed. “Nerves,” she muttered.
But I knew Andrew better than that.
Nattie got to the altar. Dad kissed her cheek, shook Andrew’s hand, and then sat down with Mom, who patted his arm fondly. Andrew and Natalie turned to the minister. Nat was beaming. Andrew…not so much.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Miggs began.
“Wait. I’m sorry,” Andrew interrupted, his voice weak and shaking.
“Holy Mary, Queen of Heaven,” Margaret breathed. “Don’t you dare, Andrew.”
“Honey?” Nat’s voice was soft with concern. “You okay?” My stomach clenched, my breath stopped. Oh, God… Andrew wiped his forehead with his hand. “Nattie…I’m sorry.”
There was a stirring in the congregation. Reverend Miggs put a hand on Andrew’s arm. “Now, son,” he began.
“What’s wrong?” Natalie whispered. Margaret and I moved as one to flank her, instinctively wanting to protect her from what was about to come.
“It’s Grace,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I still have feelings for Grace. I can’t marry you, Nat.”
A collective gasp came from the assembled guests.
“Are you f**king kidding me?” Margaret barked, but I barely heard her. A white roaring noise was in my ears. I watched as the blood drained from Natalie’s face. Her knees buckled. Margaret and the minister grabbed her.
Then I dropped my bouquet, shoved past Margaret, and punched Andrew as hard as I could. Right in the face.
The next few minutes were somewhat unclear. I know that Andrew’s best man tried to pull him to safety (my punch had knocked him down) as I repeatedly kicked my once-fiancé and very nearly brother-in-law in the shins with my pointy little shoes. His nose was bleeding, and I thought it was a great look for him. I remember my mother joining me to beat him about the head with her purse. She may have tried to rip out his liver and eat it, but I didn’t remember the details. Vaguely, I heard Mrs. Carson screaming. Felt Dad wrap his arms around my waist as he bodily dragged me off Andrew, who was half lying on the altar steps, trying to crawl away from my kicks and Mom’s ineffective but highly satisfying blows.
In the end, the groom’s guests scuttled out the back, leaving the Carsons, the best man and Andrew, a handkerchief pressed to his face, huddled on one side. Natalie sat stunned in the first pew on the bride’s side, surrounded by Margaret, me, Mom and Dad as Mémé herded people out of the church like some geriatric border collie in a wheelchair.
“Left at the altar,” Natalie murmured blankly.
I knelt in front of her. “Honey, what can we do?”
Her gaze found mine, and for a minute, we just looked at each other. I reached out and took her hand. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
“He’s not worth your spit, Nattie,” Margaret said, stroking Natalie’s silky hair.
“Not worth the tissue you used to blow your nose,” Mom seconded. “Bastard. Idiot. Penis-head.”
Nat looked up at Mom, then burst out laughing, a hysterical edge to her voice. “Penis-head. That’s a good one, Mom.”
Mr. Carson came over warily. “Um, very sorry about all this,” he said. “Change of heart, obviously.”
“We got that,” Margaret snapped.
“We’re sorry,” he repeated, looking at Natalie, then at me. “Very sorry, girls.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carson,” I said. He nodded once, then went back to his wife and son. A moment later, the Carsons were gone, out the side door. I hoped vigorously that we’d never see them again.
“What do you want to do right now, honey?” Dad asked.
Nat blinked. “Well,” she said after a minute, “I think we should go to the club and eat all that good food.” Her eyes filled once more. “Yes. Let’s all do that, okay?”
“You sure?” I asked. “You don’t have to be brave, Bumppo.”
She squeezed my hand. “I learned from the best.”
AND SO IT WAS that the Emerson side of the guest list went to the country club, ate shrimp and filet mignon and drank champagne.
“I’m better off without him,” Nat murmured as she drank what had to be her fifth glass of champers. “I know that.
It’s just gonna take a while for that to sink in.”
“Personally, I hated him from the day Grace brought him home,” Margs said. “Smug little weenie. Estate law, please. Such a sissy.”
“How many men are stupid enough to dump two Emerson girls?” Dad asked. “Too bad we’re not mobbed up.
We could have his body dumped in the Farmington River.”
“I don’t think the Mafia accepts white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, Dad,” Margaret said, patting Nat’s shoulder and pouring her more champagne. “But it’s a sweet thought.”
Nattie would be okay, I could tell. She was right. Andrew didn’t deserve her, and he never had. Her heart would heal. Mine did, after all.