Too Good to Be True

I patted my friend’s arm. “I’m glad, honey,” I told him.

“You’re not feeling…neglected?”

“No! I’m happy for you. It’s been a long time coming.”

“I know. And, Grace, you’ll—” He looked up suddenly, his expression changed to one of horror. “Oh, no, Grace.

Your mother’s here.”

“What?” I said, instantly imagining the worst. Mémé had died. Dad had a heart attack. Mom was tracking me down to break the news. Please, not Nat or Margs, I prayed.

“She’s dancing,” Julian said, craning his neck. “With one of Cambry’s friends. Tom, I think.”

“Dancing? Is my father here?” I stood behind Julian, peeping over his shoulder.

“I don’t see him. Maybe she just…felt like dancing,” he said. “Oh, she’s coming our way. Hide, Grace! You’re supposed to be in New York!”

I slipped into Julian’s office before my mother could see me. Mature? No. But why ruin a happy night when good old hiding would do the trick? I pressed my ear against the door so I could hear.

“Hello, Nancy!” Julian’s voice, purposefully loud, came to me easily. “How nice to see you!”

“Hello, Julian dear,” Mom said. “Oh, isn’t this fun! Now, I know I’m not single, but I just felt like dancing! Is that all right?”

“Of course!” Julian said heartily. “You’ll leave a few broken hearts behind, but of course! Stay a while! Have fun!

Shall we dance?”

“Actually, sweetheart, could I use your phone for one second?”

“My phone? In my office?” Julian practically yelled.

“Yes, dear. Is that all right?”

“Um, well, sure! Of course you can use the phone in my office!”

With that, I leaped away from the door, jerked open the closet door and popped in, closing the door behind me.

Just in the nick of time.

“Thanks, Julian dear. Now you go! Shoo! Don’t let me keep you from your guests.”

“Sure, Nancy. Um, take your time.” I heard the door close, smelled the leather from Julian’s jacket. Heard the beeping of the phone as my mother called someone. Waited with thudding heart.

“The coast is clear,” she murmured, then replaced the receiver.

The coast is clear? Clear for what? For whom? I was tempted to crack the closet door, but didn’t want to give myself away. After all, not only was I not in New York City with my doctor boyfriend, but I was hiding in a closet, spying on my mother. The coast was clear. That did not sound good.

Crap. I knew things weren’t great with my parents, but then again, that was the norm. Did Mom have someone on the side? Was she cheating on Dad? My poor father! Did he know?

Indecision kept me standing where I was, my throat tight, heart galloping. I realized I was gripping the sleeve of Julian’s coat. Calm down, Grace, I urged myself. Maybe the coast is clear didn’t sound quite as clandestine as I thought. Maybe Mom was talking about something else… But, no. The office door opened again, then closed.

“I saw you dancing out there,” came a man’s gruff voice. “You’re that sculptor, aren’t you? Every man was watching you. Wanting you.”

Okay, well, that statement wasn’t true. I frowned. Every man out there, save about two, was gay. If they were watching my mother, it was for fashion tips.

“Lock the door.” Mom’s voice was low.

My eyes widened in the dark closet. God’s nightgown! I clenched the sleeve more tightly, my fingernails digging into the soft leather.

“You’re so beautiful.” The voice was hoarse…but familiar.

“Shut up and kiss me, big boy,” Mom ordered. There was silence.

Cold with dread, I cracked the door the smallest fraction and took a peek. And just about peed my pants.

My parents were making out in Julian’s office.

“What’s your name?” my father asked, breaking off from the kiss and looking at Mom with smoky eyes.

“Does it matter?” Mom said. “Kiss me again. Make me feel like a woman should.”

My astonishment turned to horror as dear old Dad grabbed my mother and kissed her sloppily…oh, God, there was tongue. I jerked back, shuddering, and closed the door as quietly as I could…not that it mattered, they were moaning rather loudly…and stuffed the jacket sleeve into my mouth to keep from screaming, a massive case of the heebie-jeebies rolling through me from head to toe. My parents. My parents were role-playing. And I was stuck in a closet.

“Oh, yes. More. Yes,” my mother groaned.

“I want you. Since the moment I walked into this seedy little joint, I wanted you.”

I jammed my fingers in my ears hard. Dear God, I prayed. Please strike me deaf right now. Please? Pretty please? I could, of course, just open the closet door and bust them. But then I’d have to explain what I was doing in there in the first place. Why I was hiding. Why I hadn’t revealed myself sooner. And then I’d have to hear my parents explain what they were up to.

“Oh, yes, right there!” my mother crooned. My fingers weren’t working, so I tried the heels of my hands. Alas, I could still hear a few words. “Lower…higher…”

“Ouch! My sciatica! Not so fast, Nancy!”

“Just stop talking and do it, handsome.”

Oh, please, God. I’ll become a nun. Really. Don’t you need nuns? Make them stop. At the sound of another groan, I tried to go to my happy place…a meadow full of wildflowers, guns firing, cannons booming, Confederate and Yankee soldiers dropping like flies…but no.

“Oh, baby,” my mother crooned.

I could not stay in here and listen to my parents doing the wild thing, but just as I was about to burst forth and stop them in the name of decency, my mother (or God) intervened.

“Not here, big boy. Let’s get a room.”

Thank you, Lord! Oh, and about that nun thing…how about a nice fat donation to Heifer International instead?

I waited a few more minutes, taking cleansing breaths, then risked another look. They were gone.

The door burst open and I flinched, but it was just Julian.

“Everything okay?” Julian exclaimed. “Did she find you? She didn’t say a word, just scooted out the door.” Julian took a better look at me. “Grace, you’re white as a ghost! What happened?”

I made a strangled noise. “Um…you might want to burn that desk.”

Then, eager to leave this office and never return, I sidled past him, waved to Kiki, who was still dancing with the straight guy, and headed for home. As I drove, shuddering, feeling that Satan had cigarette-burned a hole into my soul, there was part of me that was…shudder…quite happy that my parents…gack…could still get it on. That there was more than irritation and obligation driving their marriage, no matter how yucky it was for their child. I rolled down the window and took a few gulps of the clean spring air. Perhaps a strong dose of hypnotherapy could erase this night from my mind forever.

But yes. It was good to know that my parents still, er, loved each other.

Shudder. I pulled into my driveway.

Callahan’s house was still dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE NEXT DAY, I found myself once again sitting in the bosom of my family—Margs, Natalie and the sexpot formerly known as my mother were dress shopping at Birdie’s Bridal.

Well, Mom and Natalie were dress shopping. Margaret and I were drinking strawberry margaritas from a thermos Margs had thoughtfully brought along as we sat in the dressing room, waiting for Natalie to emerge in another dress. Actually, dressing room was a misnomer. Dressing hall, really, because Birdie’s had couches, an easy chair, coffee table and a huge, curtained area for the bride to try on dresses before coming out to dazzle her entourage.

“You’ve earned this,” Margaret muttered, taking a slug herself straight from the thermos.

“I really have,” I agreed. Mom and Nat were behind the curtain, Mom fussing away. “A little tuck in here, move your arm, honey, there…”

Mom seemed so normal today. I wondered if she was thinking about almost shtupping Dad at Jitterbug’s last night. Blecch. Or perhaps she was remembering the day she and I went wedding dress shopping. Margaret had had a deposition, Nat was still at Stanford, so it was just Mom and me, and we’d had a lovely time. Granted, I bought the first dress I tried on…not really the princess bride–type, to be honest, and one white dress looked about as good as another. (I’d kind of been hoping for a hoop skirt, sort of like the one Ms. Mitchell described Scarlett wearing in Chapter Two of Gone With the Wind, but Mom’s look of incredulity had squashed that one.) I barely remembered what my actual wedding dress really looked like, aside from being white and simple. I’d have to sell it on eBay. Wedding dress: Never been worn.

“Ooh, that one’s pretty, too!” I chirruped as Nat emerged from behind the curtain. She looked like a bride should …flushed, beaming, eyes sparkling, sweetly modest.

“The first one was better,” Margaret said. “I don’t like those froufrou things along the neckline.”

“Froufrou’s out,” I seconded, taking another slug of my drink.

“I don’t know,” Natalie murmured, staring at herself. “I kind of like froufrou.”

“It’s nice froufrou,” I amended hastily.

“You look beautiful,” Mom announced staunchly. “You could wear a garbage bag and you’d look beautiful.”

“Yes, Princess Natalie,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. “You could wear toad skins and you’d be beautiful.”

“Sack cloth and ashes, I was thinking,” I added, earning a gratifying snort from my older sister.

Nat grinned, but her eyes were distant. “I don’t care what I wear. I just want to be married,” she murmured.

“Blecch,” said Margaret. I grinned.

“Of course you do,” Mom said, patting her shoulder. “I felt the same way. So did Margaret.”

“Did I?” Margaret mused.

Mom, belatedly aware that perhaps there were other feelings to be considered, glanced at me with a nervous smile. I smiled back. Once, yes, I’d felt that way about marriage. Once, being married to Andrew was all that I’d wanted, too. Nights of movies and Scrabble games, weekends spent antiquing or on the battlefield, leisurely sex on a bed strewn with sections of the New York Times. A couple of kids down the road. Long summers spent vacationing on Cape Cod or driving across country. Yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah.

And sitting here, admiring my sister, I could finally see that, even back then before Andrew’s revelation, all those imaginings had felt a little…thin. I’d pictured that future with a determination that should’ve clued me in. It was all too good to be true.

“How was your overnight in the city, Grace?” Natalie asked, snapping out of her daze.

I glanced at Margaret, who’d been clued in before. “Well, I’m sorry to say that Wyatt and I are—” I paused for regretful effect “—taking a break.”

“What?” Natalie and Mom chorused.

I sighed. “You know, he’s such a great guy, but really, his work is just too demanding. I mean, you guys never even got to meet him, right? What does that say about the kind of husband he’d be?”

“Crappy,” Margaret announced. “Plus, I never thought he was all that.”

“Quiet, Margaret,” Mom said, coming to sit at my side to administer a few maternal pats.

“Oh, Grace,” Natalie said, biting her lip. “He sounded so wonderful. I—I thought you were madly in love. You were talking about getting married a little while ago!”

Margaret choked on her drink. “Well,” I said, “I just don’t want a husband who can’t really, um, be devoted to the kids and me. You know. Running off all the time to the hospital was getting a little old.”

“But he was saving children’s lives, Grace!” Natalie protested.

“Mmm,” I said, taking a sip of margarita. “True. Which makes him a great doctor, but not necessarily a great husband.”

“Maybe you’re right, honey. Marriage is hard enough,” Mom said. I forced myself not to picture last night, but of course, it was seared onto my eyelids, Mom and Dad…bleccch!

“How are you taking it, Grace?” Margaret asked, as she’d been instructed in the car ride here.

“You know, I’m actually fine with it,” I answered blithely.

“You’re not heartbroken?” Natalie asked, kneeling in front of me, a vision in her white dress.

“No. Not even a little. It’s for the best. And I think we’ll stay friends,” I said, getting an elbow in the ribs from Margaret. “Or not. He might be transferring to Chicago. So we’ll see. Mom, how’s your art coming along?” A subject guaranteed to take the focus off my love life.

“It’s getting a little dull,” Mom said. “I’m thinking of going male. I’m tired of all those labias and ovaries. Maybe it’s time for a good old-fashioned penis.”

“Why not flowers, Mom? Or bunnies or butterflies? Does it have to be genitalia?” Margs asked.

“How are we doing in here?” Birdie of Birdie’s Bridal bustled in holding another dress. “Oh, Natalie, honey, you look dazzling! Like an ad in a magazine! Like a movie star! A princess!”

“Don’t forget Greek goddess,” Margaret added.