Too Good to Be True

Cal let go of my arms. “She’s nice. Not my date, though. As I told you already.”

“Oh.” Relief flooded my knees, making them tingle painfully. No. I didn’t want Callahan O’ Shea to be dating anyone. And what did that say? We started walking once more, side by side, the mist cocooning us from the occasional head-beams that passed, muffling the sound of the cars. I swallowed. “So, Cal, are you…um …seeing anyone?”

He shot me a veiled glance. “No, Grace, I’m not.”

“Not the marrying type, I guess? Don’t want to settle down just yet?”

“I’d love to settle down,” he said. “A wife, a couple of kids, a lawn to mow.”

“Really?” I asked. Yelped, actually. Callahan struck me as the type who walked into the room while Bad to the Bone was playing. Mowing the lawn while the kiddies frolicked? Hmm. Hmm.

“Really.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that what you and Dr. Wonderful want?”

“Oh. Uh, sure. I guess. I don’t know.” This was not a conversation I wanted to have while slightly inebriated. “It would be hard to be with a guy who’s married to his work,” I finished lamely.

“Right,” Cal said.

“So you know, things aren’t as wonderful as they seem,” I added, surprising myself.

“I see.” Cal turned to look at me. He smiled, just a little, and I looked down suddenly. I didn’t know anything about this guy. Only that he was undeniably attractive. That he wanted to settle down. That he’d served time for criminal acts.

“Hey, Cal, are you sorry you embezzled that money?” I asked abruptly.

He tilted his head and considered me. “It’s complicated.”

“Why don’t you just spit it out, Irish? What did you do?”

He laughed. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday. We’re almost home, anyway.”

We’re almost home. As if we had a place together. As if he might come in, and Angus wouldn’t bite him. As if I might make us a snack—or he might—and we’d pop in a movie. Or not. Or we’d just go upstairs, heck. Take off a few articles of clothing. Get a little exercise.

“Here you go,” Callahan said, walking up the path with me. The iron porch railing was slick and cold, and Callahan’s hand on my back felt even warmer by comparison. Whoa. Wait a sec. His hand on my back. He was touching me, and man, it felt good, like a small sun was resting there, radiating heat into the far regions of my body.

I turned to him, about to say something—what, I had no idea. The sight of his smile, his downturning, lovely eyes, wiped all thought from my mind.

My knees went soft and tingly, and my heart swelled against my ribs in a warm surge. For a second, I could feel what it would be like to kiss Callahan O’ Shea, and the strength of that image caused a buzz in the pit of my stomach. My lips opened slightly, my eyes fluttered closed. He was like a magnet, pulling me in.

“Good night, my little lush,” he said.

My eyes snapped open. “Great! Good night, bub. Thanks for walking me home.”

And with one more grin that I felt down to my bone marrow, he turned and left, back to the woman who was not his date, leaving me not at all sure if I was greatly relieved or hugely disappointed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“HEY, DAD,” I SAID one evening after school. Dropping by the family domicile was a habit of mine—sometimes you just can’t learn from experience, right? The truth was, taken individually, my parents were great people. My father was methodical and reliable, as dads should be, I thought, and his love of the Civil War gave us a special bond. And my mother was a vibrant, intelligent woman. Growing up, she’d been a devoted mom, the kind who sewed our Halloween costumes and baked cookies from scratch. Granted, my parents had always seemed to do things separately; I had very few memories of them going out just the two of them. They had friends and socialized normally enough, but as far as a deep and abiding love or passion…let’s just say that if it was there, they hid it well.

It worried me. What if that was the kind of marriage I ended up with, stifled and irritated with my spouse all day, wishing I’d chosen another life? Look at Margaret. Look at Mémé and her three husbands, none of whom she ever recalled fondly.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his daily six ounces of red wine (for health reasons only) next to him. I let go of Angus’s leash so my puppy could go see his second favorite person on earth.

“Hello, Pudding,” he said, glancing up from the Wall Street Journal. Then he caught sight of my dog. “Angus!

How are you, buddy?” Angus leaped in the air, barking with love. “Who’s a good boy, huh? Are you a good dog?”

“He’s really not,” I admitted. “He bit my neighbor. The carpenter.”

“Oh, how are the windows coming along?” Dad asked, picking up Angus to better worship.

“They’re done, actually.” And I had to admit, I was disappointed. No more Callahan O’ Shea in my house. “He did a great job. Thanks again, Daddy.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome. Hey, I heard you’re Jackson at Chancellorsville.”

“I get a horse and everything,” I said, smiling modestly. Brother Against Brother’s members included a stableowner who would loan out horses here and there, so long as we passed a riding class. Alas, I was only allowed to ride Snowlight, a fat and elderly white pony with a fluffy mane and a narcoleptic tendency to lie down when hearing loud noises, which made my rallying the troops a bit less dramatic than planned. However, as Colonel Jackson, I was to be shot at this battle, so Snowlight’s narcolepsy would come in handy.

“You were great at Bull Run, by the way,” I said. He nodded in acknowledgment, turning the page of his paper.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s in the garage,” Dad answered.

“The studio!” Mom’s voice could be heard clearly from the studio—she hated when we referred to it as garage, feeling that we were demeaning her self-expression.

“She’s in the studio! Making her porno statues!” Dad bellowed back, slapping the paper down on the table. “God help me, Grace, if I’d known your mother would have a meltdown when you kids left for college—”

“You know, Dad, you could try to be a little more supportive of Mom’s—”

“It’s not porn!” My mother stood in the doorway, her face flushed from the heat of her glassblowing fire. Angus raced into the garage to bark at her artwork.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “How are the, uh, sculptures coming along?”

“Hello, honey,” Mom replied, kissing my cheek. “I’m trying to use a lighter glass. The last uterus I sold weighed nineteen pounds, but these light ones keep breaking. Angus, no! Stay away from that ovary, honey!”

“Angus! Cookie!” I said. My dog raced back into the kitchen, and Mom closed the door behind her, then went to the special doggy cookie jar they kept on hand for my dog (no grandchildren, you understand).

“Here you go, you sweet thing!” Mom cooed. Angus sat, then raised his front paws in the air, nearly causing Mom to faint with joy. “So sweet! Yes, you are! You’re a sweet baby! You’re my little Angus-Pooh!” Finally, she straightened up to look at her biological child. “So what brings you here, Grace?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you guys had talked to Margaret lately,” I said. Angus, miffed that the attention was no longer upon him, trotted off to destroy something. Since her little tear jag in my kitchen, I’d barely spoken to my sister, who’d been drowning herself even more than usual in work.

Mom gave Dad a sour look. “Jim, our daughter is visiting. Think you could drop your paper and pay attention to her?”

Dad just rolled his eyes and continued reading.

“Jim!”

“Mom, it’s okay. Dad’s just relaxing. He’s listening, right, Dad?”

My father nodded, giving my mother a resigned stare.

“Well, about Margaret and Stuart, who knows?” Mom said. “They’ll find their way. Marriage is complicated, honey. You’ll find out someday.” Mom flicked Dad’s paper, earning a glare. “Right, Jim? Complicated.”

“With you it is,” my father grumbled.

“Speaking of marriage, honey, Natalie wanted to make sure everyone was free for brunch on Sunday, did she tell you?”

“Marriage? What?” My voice cracked.

“What?” Mom asked.

“You said, ‘speaking of marriage.’ Are they engaged?”

Dad lowered his paper and peered at me over his bifocals. “Would you be all right with that, Pudding?”

“Um, yeah! Of course! Sure! Did she say? She didn’t tell me anything.”

Mom patted my shoulder. “No, no, she didn’t say anything. But, Grace, sweetie…” She paused. “It seems like it might be coming.”

“Oh, I know! Sure! I hope it does come to marriage. They’re great together.”

“And now you have Wyatt, so it doesn’t sting as much, right?” Mom said.

For a second, I almost blurted out the truth about Wyatt Dunn, saintly doctor. I actually just made that guy up so Nat wouldn’t feel so guilty, Mom, Dad. And oh, by the way, I may have a thing for the ex-con next door. But what would they say to that? I could imagine their faces, the consternation, the worry, the fear that I’d chugged around the bend. The certainty that I wasn’t over Andrew, that I’d been crushed beyond repair, that a crush on Cal indicated my wobbly emotional state. “Right,” I said slowly. “I have Wyatt. And also papers that need grading.”

“And I have to finish my art,” Mom said, once again poking Dad’s paper. “So make your own damn dinner.”

“Fine! I’d love to! Your cooking has really gone down the drain, you know. Ever since you became an artist.”

“Grow up, Jim.” Mom turned to me. “Honey, wait. We want to meet Wyatt.” She reached for the calendar that hung next to the fridge. “Let’s make a date right now.”

“Oh, Mom, you know how it is. He’s so busy. And plus he’s working in Boston a few days a week, um, consulting.

Up at Children’s. Oops, gotta go. See you soon. I’ll get back to you on a date.”

As I drove around town on my errands, Angus on my lap, helping me steer, it seemed like everyone’s story—their how-they-met story—echoed in my head. My own parents had gotten together when Dad was a lifeguard and Mom had been swimming at Lake Waramaug, pretending to drown for her friends. She was sixteen at the time, just goofing around, and had Dad been a less literal person, he probably could’ve seen that. As it was, he hauled her out of the lake and, learning that her lungs were water-free, chastised her so fiercely that she burst into tears.

And just like that, he fell in love.

Margaret and Stuart met during a fire drill at Harvard. It was a frigid January night, and Margs was clad only in her pajamas. Stuart wrapped her in his coat and let her sit on his lap so her feet wouldn’t have to touch the snow.

He carried her back into the dorm (and right into her bed, as the story went).

I wanted a story. I didn’t want to say, “Oh, Daddy and I met on a Web site because we were both so damned desperate we couldn’t think of anything else.” Or, “I tricked Daddy into loving me by pretending I couldn’t pick out my own lightbulb and wearing makeup at all times.”

Andrew and I had had a story. A pretty great story. How many people could say they’d met their husbands while lying dead at Gettysburg, after all? It was damn cute. And of course, I reminded myself harshly, gently pushing Angus’s head out of the way so I could see, Natalie and Andrew had a great story, too. I was engaged to her sister, but one look at Natalie, and I knew I had the wrong Emerson girl! Hahaha!

“Stop it,” I told myself, my voice grating. “You’ll find someone. You will. He doesn’t have to be perfect. Just good enough. And, yes, Natalie and Andrew are probably going to get married. We know this. We are not surprised.

We’ll take the news very well.”

But I couldn’t shake the funk that lowered as I did my errands…grocery store, dry cleaner, wine shop for some good and cheap chardonnay. Everywhere I went, I imagined the story. At the package store: He recommended some wine, we got to talking…I saved the bottle, see, it’s over there, on the shelf. Unfortunately, the man behind the counter at the package store was sixty years old, wedding ring in place, as well as a couple of hundred extra pounds. At the market: We ran into each other at the Ben & Jerry’s case, argued over which was better, Vanilla Heath Bar or Coffee Heath Bar, and we still can’t agree. But, no, the only person in front of Ben & Jerry’s was a girl of about twelve, stocking up on Cinnamon Bun from the look of things. At the cleaners: He was picking up a suit, I needed my Confederate officer’s uniform… Alas, the only one in the cleaner’s was the sweet and tiny woman who owned the place. “Watch you don’t get shot!” she said, handing me my dress grays.

“Getting shot is the whole point,” I said. My smile felt forced.

When I got home, I stashed my groceries, took a box of tampons away from Angus and gave him a chew stick instead, poured a healthy glass of wine and went up to the attic with my uniform. Did I usually stow my uniform in the attic? Well, no, not until winter, usually, but it seemed like a good idea tonight. And I left the light off, because I knew the way by heart.