Too Good to Be True

“So what’s new, Mémé?” I asked, sitting next to her.

“What do you care?” she answered.

“I care. A little. I’d care more if you were nice to me once in a while.”

“What’s the point? You’re just after my money,” she said, waving her liver-spotted hand dismissively.

“I thought two hundred years of hard living would’ve used up your money by now,” I answered.

“Well, I have plenty. I buried three husbands, missy, and what’s the point of marriage if you’re not making money?

”

“That’s so romantic, Mémé. Really. I have tears in my eyes.”

“Oh, grow up, Grace. A woman your age doesn’t have time to waste. And you should show me more respect. I might cut you out of my will.”

“Tell you what, Mémé,” I said, patting her bony little shoulder, “you take my portion and you spend it. Go on a cruise. Buy yourself some diamonds. Hire a gigolo.”

She harrumphed, but didn’t look my way. Instead, she was watching the dancers. I might’ve been wrong, but it seemed that her pinkie was keeping time to “Papa Loves Mambo.” My heart swelled with unwilling sympathy.

“Want to dance, Mémé?” I asked softly. She could, after all, walk pretty well. The wheelchair was more for effect —she was better able to ram people if her center of gravity was lower.

“Dance?” she snorted. “With whom, dimwit?”

“Well, I’d—”

“Where’s that man you’re always talking about? Scared him off, did you? I’m not surprised. Or did he fall in love with your sister?”

I flinched. “Jesus, Mémé,” I said, my throat thickening with tears.

“Oh, get over it. It was a joke.” She glanced at me with disdain.

Still stunned, I moved away, accepting a rather stiff waltz from Mr. Demming. Mémé was my only living grandparent. I never met my biological grandfather—he was the first of the husbands that Mémé buried, but I loved him in theory, since my father had an arsenal of wonderful stories about him. Mémé’s other two husbands had been lovely men; Grandpa Jake, who died when I was twelve, and Poppa Frank, who died when I was in graduate school. My mom’s parents had died within months of each other when I was in high school. They, too, were quintessentially wonderful people. But because the fates were cruel, the only surviving grandparent I had was as mean as camel spit.

When Dancin’ with the Oldies was done, Julian kissed my cheek and said farewell. Mémé watched and waited, vulturelike, so I could follow her, slavelike, to her apartment. I knew from experience that if I told her she’d hurt my feelings, she’d just make it worse, tell me I had no sense of humor and then call my dad to complain about me.

Resigned, I took the handles of her wheelchair and pushed her gently down the hall.

“Edith,” Mémé said loudly, stopping a fearful looking woman in her tracks. “This is my granddaughter, Grace.

She’s visiting me. Grace, Edith is new here.” A Grinchy smile spread over her face. “Did you get any visitors this week, Edith?”

“Well, actually, my son and his—”

“Grace comes every week, don’t you, Grace?”

“I do. I help with the ballroom dancing class,” I said. “You’d be more than welcome to come.”

“Oh, I love dancing!” Edith cried. “Really? I can just stop in?”

“Seven-thirty to nine,” I answered with a smile. “I’ll look for you next week.”

Mémé, irritated that she wasn’t having better luck making Edith feel inferior, began her hacking cough-ondemand to get the attention back to herself.

“So nice to meet you,” I said to Edith, taking my cue to continue pushing the wheelchair. We continued through the foyer.

“Stop,” Mémé commanded. I obeyed. “You there! What do you want?”

A man was coming down one of the hallways that led off the main foyer. It was Callahan O’ Shea.

“If you’re thinking this would be a good place to rob, let me set you straight, young man. We have security cameras, you know! Alarms! The police will be here in seconds.”

“You two must be related,” Callahan said drily.

I smiled. “My grandmother. Eleanor Winfield, meet my neighbor Callahan O’ Shea.”

“Oh, the Irish.” She sneered. “Don’t loan him any money, Grace. He’ll drink it away. And for God’s sake, don’t let him in your house. They steal.”

“I’ve heard that,” I answered, grinning. Cal smiled back and there it was, that soft, hot feeling in my stomach.

“We had an Irish maid when I was a child,” Mémé continued, looking sourly at Callahan. “Eileen, her name was.

Or Irene. Possibly Colleen. Do you know her?”

“My mother,” he said instantly. I choked on a laugh.

“She stole seven spoons from us before my father caught on. Seven.”

“We loved those spoons,” he said. “God, the fun we had with your spoons. Eating, hitting each other on the head, throwing them at the pigs in the kitchen. Happy times.”

“It’s not funny, young man,” Mémé sniffed.

I thought it was funny. In fact, I was wiping my eyes, I was laughing so hard. “Visiting your grandfather, Callahan?”

I managed to ask.

“That’s right,” he answered.

“How’s he doing? Think he wants me to come back and finish with the duke and Clarissia?”

Cal grinned. “I’m sure he does.”

I smiled back. “For a second, I thought you were here about your truck.”

His smile dropped. “What about my truck?”

I felt my face warming. “It’s hardly noticeable.”

“What, Grace?” His voice was hard.

“Just a little dent,” I answered, cringing a little. “Maybe a broken taillight.” He scowled. “Actually, it’s definitely …hey. I have insurance.”

“You need insurance,” he muttered.

“Grace! Take me back to my apartment,” Mémé ordered.

“Easy, Pharaoh,” I said. “I’m talking to my neighbor.”

“So talk to him in the morning.” She glared up at Callahan. He glared back, and I found myself grinning again. I liked a man who wasn’t scared of Mémé, and there weren’t many around.

“How’d you get here, Cal? I’m assuming you didn’t drive.”

“I rode my bike,” he answered.

“Would you like a ride? It’s dark out,” I said.

He looked at me for a second. Then the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile, and my lady parts buzzed once more. “Sure. Thank you, Grace.”

“You shouldn’t give him a ride, Grace!” Mémé snapped. “He’s likely to strangle you and dump your body in the lake.”

“Is this true?” I asked Callahan.

“I was thinking about it,” he admitted.

“Well. Your guilty secret is out.”

He smiled. “Allow me.” He took the handles of Mémé’s chair and started off. “Which way, ladies?”

“Is that Irishman pushing me?” Mémé demanded, craning her neck around to see.

“Oh, come on now, Mémé,” I said, patting her shoulder. “He’s a big, brawny, good-looking guy. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“You sound like a tramp,” she muttered. But she did, bidding us a sharp good-night at her apartment door. She stared pointedly at Callahan until he took the hint and walked a few paces down the hall so as not to see the heaps of gold lying about in her dragon lair and thus be tempted to rob her blind.

“Good night, Mémé,” I said dutifully.

“Don’t trust that man,” she whispered. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I glanced down the hall, tempted to ask just how he looked at me. “Okay, Mémé.”

“What a sweet old lady,” Callahan said as I rejoined him.

“She’s pretty horrible,” I admitted.

“Do you visit her a lot?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Duty,” I answered.

“You do a lot for your family, don’t you?” he asked. “Do they do anything for you?”

My head jerked back. “Yes. They’re great. We’re all really close.” For some reason, his comment stung. “You don’t know my family. You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Mmm,” he said, cocking his eyebrow. “Saint Grace the Martyr.”

“I’m not a martyr!” I exclaimed.

“Your sister moved in with you and bosses you around, your grandmother treats you like dirt, but you don’t stick up for yourself, you lie to your mother about liking her sculptures…yes, that sounds pretty martyrish to me.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped. “To the best of my knowledge, you have two relatives, one of whom isn’t speaking to you and one who can’t. So what do you know about family?”

“Well, looky here. She has teeth after all.” He sounded perversely pleased.

“You know, you are certainly not obliged to take me up on my offer of a ride, Callahan O’ Shea. Feel free to ride your bike and get hit by a car for all I care.”

“And with you on the road, there’s a good chance of that happening, isn’t there?”

“I repeat. Shut up or go home alone.”

“All right, all right. Settle down,” he said. I walked faster, irritated, my dancing shoes tapping loudly on the tile floor.

We walked back to the front desk to fetch my wee beastie from Shirley. “Was he a good boy?” I asked her.

“Oh, he was an angel!” she cooed. “Weren’t you?”

“What sedative did you use?” Callahan asked.

“You’re the only one he doesn’t like,” I lied as Angus bared his crooked little teeth at Callahan O’ Shea and growled his kitten-purr growl. “He’s an excellent judge of character.”

It was raining outside, a sweet-smelling rain that would have my peonies (and hair) three inches taller by morning. I waited, still miffed, as Cal unchained his bike from a lamppost and wheeled it to my car. I popped open the trunk and waited, but Cal just stood there, getting rained on, looking at me.

“Well?” I asked. “Put it in.”

“You don’t have to give me a ride if you don’t want to, Grace. I made you mad. I can ride my bike home.”

“I’m not mad. Don’t be dumb. Put your bike in the car. Angus and I are getting wet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched as he picked it up and maneuvered it in. It wouldn’t fit all the way, so I made a mental note to drive slowly so as not to damage two forms of Callahan’s transportation in one night, then got in the car with my dog. A quick look in the rearview mirror assured me that, yes, my hair was in fact possessed by evil spirits. I sighed.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Callahan said as he got in.

“I’m not mad,” I answered.

“It’s all right with me if you are,” he answered, buckling his seat belt.

“I’m not!” I practically shouted.

“Have it your way,” he said. His arm brushed mine, and a hot jolt of electricity shot through my entire body. I stared straight ahead, waiting for it to fade.

Cal glanced at me. “Does that dog always sit on your lap when you’re driving?”

“How’s he going to learn if he doesn’t practice?” Callahan smiled, and I felt my anger (yes, yes, so I was still a little bit mad) fade away. The lust remained. I backed (carefully) out of my parking space. Callahan O’ Shea smelled good. Warm, somehow. Warm and rainy, the ever-present smell of wood mingling in an incredible combination. I wondered if he’d mind if I buried my face in his neck for a while. Probably shouldn’t do that while I was driving.

“So how’s your grandfather doing these days?” I asked.

“He’s the same,” Cal answered, looking out his window.

“Does he recognize you, do you think?” I asked, belatedly realizing that that was none of my business.

Callahan didn’t answer for a second. “I don’t think so.”

A hundred questions burned to be asked. Does he know you were in prison? What did you do before prison?

Why doesn’t your brother speak to you? Why’d you do it, Cal?

“So, Cal,” I began, taking a left on Elm Street, Angus helping me steer, “how’s your house coming along?”

“It’s pretty nice,” he said. “You should come over and take a look.”

I glanced at him. “Sure.” I hesitated, then decided to go for it. “Callahan, I was wondering. What did you do in your pre-prison life?”

He looked at me. “I was an accountant,” he said.

“Really?” I’d have guessed something outdoor-related—cowboy, for example. Not a desk job. “Don’t want to do that again, then? Kind of boring, is it?”

“I lost my license when I broke the law, Grace.”