Too Good to Be True

“Holy shit,” she yelped, her face incredulous. At that moment, Grady Jones, a pharmacist by day, fired a cannon from fifty yards away, and Margaret dropped dutifully to the ground. “You slept with him!” she exclaimed. “With Callahan, didn’t you?”

“A little quieter, please, Margaret, you’re supposed to be dead, okay?” I dismounted from Snowlight and gave him a carrot from my pocket, stalling so I could talk to my sister. “And, yes, I did. Last night.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?” I asked. “What about ‘Grace, you deserve some fun’?”

Margaret adjusted her rifle so she wasn’t lying on it. “Grace, here’s the thing. You do deserve fun. You definitely do. And Callahan is probably a tremendous amount of fun.”

“He is. So what’s the problem?”

“Well, fun’s not really what you’re looking for, is it?”

“Yes! It…well, what do you mean?”

“You. You’re looking for happily ever after. Not a fling.”

“Quiet down! You’re supposed to be dead!” snapped a passing Union soldier.

“This is a private conversation,” Margaret snapped back.

“This is a battle,” he hissed.

“No, honey, this is called pretending. I hate to break it to you, but we’re not really in the Civil War. If you’d like to feel a bit more authentic, I’d be happy to stick this bayonet up your ass.”

“Margaret! Stop. He’s right. Sorry,” I said to the Union soldier. Luckily, I didn’t know him. He shook his head and continued, only to be shot a few yards later.

I looked back down at my sister, who had draped her arm across her face to shield her eyes from the sun. “About Callahan, Margs. He happens to be looking for the whole shmere, too. Marriage, a couple of kids, a lawn to mow. He said so.”

Margaret nodded. “Well. Good for him.” She was quiet for a minute. Shots rang in the distance, a few cries. In another minute, I’d have to remount Snowlight, join a reconnaissance party and catch a little friendly fire in the arm, resulting in a gruesome amputation and my eventual death, but I lingered a little longer, the sun beating on my head, the sharp, sweet scent of grass rising all around us.

“One more thing, Gracie.” Margaret paused. “Did Callahan ever tell you exactly what happened with his embezzlement?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’ve asked once or twice, but he hasn’t told me.”

“Ask again,” she advised.

“Do you know?” I asked.

“I know a little. I did some digging.”

“And?” I demanded.

“He ever mention a brother to you?” Margaret asked, sitting up and squinting at me.

“Yes. They’re estranged.”

Margaret nodded. “I bet they are. It seems the brother was the president of the company Cal embezzled from.”

God’s nightgown! I guess my stupefaction showed, because Margaret reached out to pat my shin. “Ask, Grace. I bet he’ll come clean now, since you’re bumping uglies and all.”

“Such a way with words. No wonder juries love you,” I murmured automatically.

“General Jackson! Your opinion is required over here!” called my father, and so I remounted and left my sister to nap in the grass.

For the rest of the battle, my mind fretted over Margaret’s little bombshell, and though I went through the motions, being Stonewall Jackson was a bit wasted on me this day. When I finally took the bullet, taking care to slide off Snowlight as he fainted from fear at the barrage of blanks, I was relieved. I uttered the General’s poetic last words…“‘Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees,’” and our battle was over. Granted, it actually took Stonewall Jackson eight days to die, but even Brother Against Brother wasn’t willing to spend a week reliving the deathwatch.

BY THE TIME I CAME HOME, it was almost five o’clock. It felt like I’d been away from home for days, not hours. Of course, last night, I’d been at Callahan’s. The very thought weakened the old knees, and a pleasant tightness squeezed my chest. But now, mingling with that was knowledge that it was time for Cal to tell me about his past.

First, though, I had a dog to worship, a dog who was leaping repeatedly at my side, barking to remind me just who my true love was supposed to be. I apologized profusely to Angus for my absence (despite the fact that my mother had come by and fed him hamburger meat, taken him for a walk, brushed him and given him a new and very jaunty red bandana). Grand-maternal devotion apparently not enough, Angus had chewed up a slipper to punish me for my absence. He was a bad doggy, but I didn’t have the heart to say so, him being so dang adorable and all.

A hard knock came at the front door. “Coming!” I said.

Callahan O’ Shea stood on my front porch, hands on his hips, looking mad as hell.

“Hi,” I said, blushing in spite of his expression. His neck was beautiful, tanned to the color of caramel, just waiting to be tasted.

“Where the hell have you been?” he barked.

“I—I was at a battle,” I said. “I left you a note.”

“I didn’t get a note,” he said.

“I left it by the phone,” I replied, raising my eyebrows. He scowled, quite steamed, apparently. It was rather adorable.

“Well, what did it say?” he demanded.

“It said…well, you’ll read it when you get home,” I said.

“Was this a one-night stand, Grace?” His voice was irritable and hard.

I rolled my eyes. “Come in, Cal,” I said, tugging his hand. “I wanted to talk to you anyway, but, no, this wasn’t a one-night stand. God’s nightgown! What kind of girl do you think I am, huh? First things first, though. I’m starving.

You want to order a pizza?”

“No. I want to know why I woke up alone.”

He sounded so mad and sullen and adorable that I couldn’t suppress a smile. “I tried to wake you, bub. You were out cold.” He narrowed his eyes. “Look, if you want me to go over and show you the note, I’ll be happy to.”

“No. It’s fine.” He didn’t smile.

“Fine, huh?”

“Well, no, Grace, it’s not fine. I stomped around all day, not knowing where you were. I practically scared your mother to death when I came over, and she wouldn’t unlock the door to talk to me, and, yes, I’m in a pretty crappy mood.”

“Because you didn’t find the note, Grumpy. Which was very cute, if I do say so, and gave no indication of a onenight stand. Now how about that pizza, or should I chew off my own arm? I’m starving.”

“I’ll cook,” he grunted, still glaring.

“I thought you were mad at me,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t say it would be good.” Then he wrapped his arms around me, lifting me so my toes were off the ground, and kissed the stuffing out of me.

“Dinner can wait,” I breathed.

Oh, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, given that we had Things To Discuss, but come on! Those soft blue eyes, that tousled hair…Did I mention he carried me? All the way up the stairs, over his shoulder, caveman style? And he wasn’t even out of breath at the top? Come on! And God, the way he kissed me, urgent, hungry kisses that melted my bones and heated my core to the point that I didn’t even notice Angus chewing on Cal’s leg until he started laughing against my mouth, then grabbed Angus and put him out in the hall, where my little dog barked twice before trotting off to destroy something else.

Looking at Callahan there, leaning against my bedroom door, his shirt unbuttoned, his eyes heavy-lidded and hot …well, I almost didn’t need the sex, if I could just stare at him, that little smile finally playing at the corner of his mouth…Actually, what was I saying? I did need the sex. No point in wasting a man who looked at me like that.

Margaret was sitting on the chaise lounge on the patio when we came downstairs a good while later. Angus lay sprawled on her lap, groaning occasionally as she stroked his fur.

“I heard zoo noises,” Margs called, turning her head as we entered the kitchen. “Figured it was safer to stay outside.”

“Want a glass of wine, Margaret?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said listlessly.

Callahan did the honors, opening the fridge as if he lived there and getting out a bottle of chardonnay. “This okay?” he asked.

“That’s great,” I said, handing him the corkscrew. “Thanks, bub. And not just for uncorking the wine.”

He grinned. “You’re very welcome. To all my skills. Want me to cook something?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “Margs, you want to eat with us?”

“No, thanks. The pheromones alone in there would choke me.”

I opened the screen door and sat next to my sister, sliding my bare feet against the brick of the patio. “Everything all right, Margaret?” I asked.

“Stuart’s on a date,” she announced. “With your coworker, Eva or Ava or some other sex-kitten, porn-star name.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh, Margs. Are you sure it’s a date?”

“Well, he’s having dinner with her, and he took great pains to remind me who she was.” Her voice deepened to impersonate Stuart’s formal voice. “‘You remember, Margaret. Rather attractive, teaches history with Grace…’ Asshole.” Margaret’s mouth gave a telltale wobble.

“You know, she might just be trying to butter him up for his support on her being chairman of our department,” I suggested. “She must know he’s friends with the headmaster.”

“He wouldn’t go against you, Grace,” she replied.

“I’m harboring his wife. He might,” I said. She didn’t say anything else. I glanced at Callahan through the screen door. He was chopping something at the counter, and he looked so right there that it made me a little dizzy. Then I immediately felt a pang of guilt for feeling so happy when Margaret was suffering.

“Margaret,” I said slowly, turning back to my sister, who was staring at her knees, “maybe it’s time for you to go back to Stuart. Get some counseling and all that. Things aren’t getting any better with you staying here.”

“Right,” she said. “Except it would look like I’m crawling back because I’m jealous, which is true, now that I think of it, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking that if he’s going to cheat on me, I’ll come to heel like some trick dog.” Angus barked in solidarity. “If he wants me back, he should bloody well do something!” She paused. “Other than screwing another woman,” she added.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Nothing. Listen, I’m going down cellar, okay? To watch one of your geeky movies or something, is that all right?”

“Sure,” I said. “Um, I might stay over at Cal’s tonight.”

“Okay. See you later.” She got up, gave my shoulder a squeeze and went into the kitchen. “Listen, Shawshank, you need to talk to my sister about your sordid past. Okay? Have fun.” She took her glass of wine and disappeared down cellar.

I sat alone on the patio, listening to the birds begin their evening chorus. The peace of the season, the smell of freshly cut grass, the gentling sky made me so happy. From the kitchen came the sounds of Callahan cooking, the hiss of something in the frying pan, the cheerful clatter of plates. I felt such a surge of…well, it was too early to say love, but you know. Contentment. Pure, underrated contentment. Angus licked my ankle as if he understood.

Cal opened the door and brought out our plates, setting one in my lap. An omelet and whole wheat toast. Perfect.

He sat down in the chair vacated by Margaret and took a bite of toast. “So. My sordid past,” he said.

“Maybe I should know what you did that landed you in prison.”

“Right,” he answered tightly. “You should know. You eat, I’ll talk.”

“I just think I should hear it from you, Cal. Margaret knows—”

“Grace, I was planning to tell you today, okay? That’s why I was ticked when you weren’t around. So eat.”

Obediently, I took a bite of the omelet, which was hot and fluffy and utterly delicious. Giving him what I hoped was an encouraging smile, I waited.

Cal put his plate down and turned his chair so it faced me better. He sat leaning slightly forward, his big hands clasped loosely in front of him, and stared at me for a minute, which made chewing a bit awkward. Then he sighed and looked down.

“I didn’t exactly embezzle the money. But I knew about it, I didn’t report the person who did embezzle it, and I helped it stay hidden.”

“Well, then, who took it?” I asked.

“My brother.”

I nearly choked. “Oh,” I whispered.

For the next half hour, Callahan told me a pretty fascinating story. How he and his brother, Pete, owned a large construction company. About Hurricane Katrina and an endless supply of reconstruction the government was paying for. About the frenetic nature of the business, the orders that went missing, the insurance claims, the criminal underbelly of New Orleans. And then, one night, how he found a Cayman Islands account under his own name with $1.6 million in it.

“Holy crap, Cal,” I breathed.

He didn’t answer, just nodded.

“What did you do?”

“Well, it was four in the morning, and I was fairly stunned, seeing my own name there on the computer screen. I was afraid to look away, too, thinking my brother—because it couldn’t have been anyone but him—that he might move the money. Or spend it. God, I don’t know. So I opened another account and transferred the whole amount.”