“Okay, give it a try, Grace,” Julian said, once we’d ordered dinner (he’d ignored the cute waiter) and were sipping our cool and unusual martinis. “Remember Lou from Meeting Mr. Right? We already know rule number one.”

“I’m the most beautiful woman here,” I said obediently.

“Yes, Grace, but you have to feel it. Sit up straight. Stop shlunching.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, taking another sip.

“Rule number two. Look around the room and smile, because you know that every man here would be lucky to have you, and you can have any man you want.”

I did as told. My eyes stopped on an elderly man, well into his eighties. Sure, he’d be lucky to have me. As proven with Dave of the Leg Bag, I had a certain je ne sais quoi when it came to older men. But would the bartender, who looked hauntingly like a young Clark Gable sans moustache, feel that way?

“‘Believe in yourself,’” Julian intoned. “No, Grace, you’re doing it wrong. Look. What’s the problem?”

I rolled my eyes. “The problem is that it’s stupid, Julian. Put me next to I don’t know, Natalie, for example, or Margaret, for another, and I’m not the most beautiful woman in the room. Ask Andrew if he was lucky to have me, and he’d probably say hell yes! Because if it weren’t for me, he’d never have met his darling bride-to-be.”

“Ooh! Are we having our period? Sit and watch, darling,” Julian said, ignoring my diatribe. I watched sulkily as my buddy sat back in his seat and gazed around the room. Bing, bang, boom. Three women at three different tables stopped midsentence and blushed.

“Sure, you’re great with women,” I said. “But you don’t want to date women. Think I didn’t see you just about crawl under the table when our waiter was fawning all over you? Try it on the guys, Julian.”

He narrowed his lovely eyes at me. “Fine.” His own face grew a little pink, but I had to give him credit for trying.

And sure enough, his eyes met our waiter’s, who snatched a plate from the kitchen counter and practically vaulted over a table to get to us. “Here you are,” he breathed. “Oysters Rockefeller. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Julian said, looking up at him. The waiter’s lips parted. Julian didn’t look away.

Well, well. Would my friend actually break his self-imposed chastity and find Mr. Right after all? Smiling, I took a bite of the oysters—yummy—and decided to check my messages while the two good-looking men gazed soulfully at each other. Gracious! Julian was actually initiating conversation! Would wonders never cease.

I’d turned off my phone in last period today when giving my freshmen a test and hadn’t turned it back on. I wasn’t a cell phone lover, to be honest. Many was the day that I forgot to turn it on at all. But wait. This was odd. I had six messages.

I’d never had six messages before. Was something wrong? Had Mémé died? An unexpected wave of sadness hit me at the idea. Hitting the code for my voice mail, I glanced out the window and waited as Julian and Cambry the waiter flirted.

“You have six new messages. Message one.” My older sister’s voice came on. “Grace, it’s Margaret. Listen, kid, don’t go to Soleil tonight, okay? I’m really sorry, but I think Junie told Mom where you were going when Mom called my office this afternoon. I guess Mom’s all hell-bent for leather to meet Wyatt, and she made a reservation for tonight. With the Carsons. So don’t go there. I’ll pick up the tab somewhere else, just charge it. Call me when you get this.”

The message was left at 3:45.

Oh…my…God.

Message two. “Grace, Margs again. Mom just called me. The dinner is definitely at Soleil, so head somewhere else, okay? Call me.” That one was at 4:15.

Messages three through five were the same, I dimly noted, though Margaret’s language deteriorated as they went on. Horror rose like an icy tide. Message six was as follows. “Grace, where the hell are you? We’re leaving for the stupid restaurant right now. The Carsons, Andrew, Nat, Mom and Dad and Mémé. Call me! Our reservation is at seven.”

I looked at my watch. It was six-fifty-three.

Julian and Cambry were laughing now as Cambry wrote his phone number on a piece of paper. “Julian?” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“One sec, Grace,” said Julian. “Cambry and I—” Then he saw my expression. “What is it?”

“My family is on their way. Here,” I said.

His eyes popped. “Oh, shit.”

Cambry looked at us, confused. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“We need to leave right away,” I said. “Immediately. Family emergency. Here.” I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gift certificate Margaret’s secretary had printed off the Internet. Dread raced through my veins. I couldn’t be found here. I couldn’t! I’d just tell the family we’d gone somewhere else. That was it. No problem.

Just as we stood up to go, I heard the horrible sound of my mother’s nervous society laugh. Ahahaha! Ahahaha!

Oooh…ahahaha. I looked at Julian. “Run,” I whispered.

“We need another exit,” Julian said to Cambry.

“Through the kitchen,” he answered instantly. The two of them were off, me right on their heels, when the strap of my pocketbook snagged on the chair of a nearby diner. He looked up.

“Oopsy,” he said. “You’re caught, honey.” In more ways than one, mister. I flashed him a panicked smile and tugged. The strap didn’t come free.

Years of dance training made Julian lithe and fast as a snake. He zigged and zagged through the tables toward the busy, open kitchen, failing to notice I wasn’t with him.

“Here you go,” said the diner, sliding the strap off the back of his chair. And just as I turned to gallop after my friend, I heard my mother’s voice.

“Grace! There you are!”

My entire family walked in. Margaret, wide-eyed. Andrew and Nat, holding hands. Dad pushing Mémé’s wheelchair, followed by Mom. And the Carsons, Letitia and Ted.

My mind was perfectly blank. “Hi, guys!” I heard myself saying in that out-of-body way. “What are you doing here!”

Nat gave me a hug. “Mom insisted that we crash. Just to say hello, not to spoil your special night.” She pulled back to look at me. “I’m really sorry. I told her no a million times, but you know how she is.”

Margaret caught my eye and shrugged. Well, hell, she tried. I could feel my heart thumping in sick, rolling beats, and hysterical laughter wriggled like a trout in my stomach.

“Grace, darling! You’ve been so secretive!” Mom burbled, her eyes darting to my table, where two martinis and an order of oysters Rockefeller sat abandoned. “I told Letitia here about your wonderful doctor boyfriend, and she said she couldn’t wait to meet him, and then I had to tell her that we haven’t met him, and then I thought, well, I’ll just kill two birds with one stone. You remember the Carsons, don’t you, dear?”

Of course I remembered them. I got to within three weeks of being their daughter-in-law, for heaven’s sake.

Someday, a long, long time from now, I might forgive my mother. On second thought, no. In my experience, Mr.

and Mrs. Carson were aloof, undemonstrative people, completely devoid of humor. They never expressed anything but the coolest politeness toward me.

“Hi, Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson. Good to see you again.” The Carsons smiled insincerely at me. I returned their smile with equal affection.

“What are you eating? Are those oysters? I don’t eat shellfish,” Mémé boomed. “Disgusting, slimy, riddled with bacteria. I have irritable bowel syndrome as it is.”

“Grace, honey, I’m sorry if we’re horning in,” Dad murmured, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Your mother went a little berserk when she heard you weren’t coming. Don’t you look pretty! So where is he? As long as we’re here.”

Andrew caught my eye. He knew me pretty well, after all. He tilted his head to one side and smiled curiously.

“He’s…uh…he’s in the bathroom,” I said.

Margaret closed her eyes.

“Right. Um, not feeling that well, actually. I’d better go check on him. Tell him you’re here.”

My face burned as I walked (and walked, and walked, God, it seemed to be taking forever) through the restaurant. In the foyer, Cambry gestured down the hall toward the restrooms. Sure enough, there was Julian, lurking just inside the men’s room, peering out through the cracked door. “What should we do?” he whispered. “I told Cambry what was going on. He can help us.”

“I just told them Wyatt’s not feeling well. And you’re playing the part of Wyatt.” I glanced back toward the dining room. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph on rye bread, here comes my dad! Get in a stall. Hurry up!”

The door closed, and I heard the sound of a stall door slamming as Dad lumbered down the hall. “Honey? How’s he doing?”

“Oh, well, not so good, Dad. Um, he must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with him.”

“Poor guy. Helluva way to meet your sweetheart’s family.” Dad leaned amiably against the wall. “Want me to check on him?”

“No! No, no.” I pushed the men’s room door open a crack. “Hon? You doing okay?”

“Uhhnnhuh,” Julian said weakly.

“I’m here if you need me,” I said, letting the door close again. “Dad, I really wish you guys hadn’t come. This is—”

a ridiculous farce “—our special night.”

He had the decency to look ashamed. “Well, your mother…you know how she is. She felt the whole family should be there to show the Carsons…well, that you’re okay with everything.”

“Right. And I am,” I said, cursing myself. I should’ve just gone to the stupid dinner, said that Wyatt had plans or emergency surgery or something. Instead, here I was, lying to my father. My dear old dad who loved me and played Civil War with me and paid for my new windows.

“Dad?” I said hesitantly. “About Wyatt…”

Dad patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pudding. It’s embarrassing, sure, but no one will hold a little diarrhea against him.”

“Well, the thing is, Dad—”

“We’re just glad you’re seeing someone, honey. I don’t mind admitting that I was worried about you. Breaking up with Andrew, well, that was one thing. Everyone’s heart gets broken once or twice. And I knew it wasn’t your idea, honey.”

My mouth dropped open. “You did?” I’d taken such pains to tell everyone that it was mutual, that we just weren’t sure we were right for each other… “Sure, Pudding. You loved him, clear as day. Letting your sister date him…” Dad sighed. “Well, at least you found someone else. The whole way here, Natalie was chattering on and on about how wonderful your young man was.

I think she still feels pretty guilty.”

Well. There went my feeble desire to confess. A man came down the hall and paused, looking at us.

“My daughter’s boyfriend is sick,” Dad explained. “The runs.” I closed my eyes.

“Oh,” the man said. “Um…thanks. I guess I can wait.” He turned and headed back to the dining room.

Dad pushed the door open a little. “Wyatt, son? This is Grace’s dad, Jim Emerson.”

“Hello, sir,” Julian mumbled in a lower than normal voice.

“Anything I can get for you?”

“No, thanks.” Julian threw in a groan for authenticity. Dad winced and let the door close.

“Why don’t we go back, too, Dad?” I suggested. I cracked the door again. “Honey? I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Okay,” Julian said hoarsely, then coughed. Frankly, I thought he was overdoing it a bit, but hey. I owed the guy my firstborn. Dad took my hand as we went back to the dining room, and I gave him a grateful squeeze as we approached my family, who was now seated around a large table. The Carsons frowned at the menu, Mémé inspected the silverware, Mom looked like she could levitate with the amount of nervous energy buzzing through her. Andrew, Nat and Margaret all looked up at me.

“How’s he doing?” Natalie asked.

“Not that great,” I said. “A bad oyster or something.”

“I told you. Oysters are filthy bits of rubbery phlegm,” Mémé announced, causing a nearby diner to gag noticeably.

“You’re looking well, Grace,” Mrs. Carson said, tearing her eyes from the menu. She tilted her head as if impressed that I hadn’t slashed my throat when her son dumped me.

“Thanks, Mrs. Carson,” I said. For about a month, I’d called her Letty. We had lunch together once to talk about the wedding.

“I have some Imodium in here somewhere,” Mom said, fumbling through her purse.

“No, no, that’s okay. It’s more of…well. We’re going to head home. I’m so sorry. Wyatt would just love to meet everyone, but you understand.” I stifled a sigh. Not only was I dating an imaginary man, he had diarrhea, as well.

So classy. Definitely the kind to make Andrew jealous.

Wait a second. To the best of my knowledge, Wyatt Dunn was not invented to make anyone jealous. I glanced at Andrew. He was looking at me, still holding Natalie’s hand, and in his eyes was a hint of something. Affection?

His mouth tugged up on one side, and I looked away.

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