Too Good to Be True

Cal’s eyebrows bounced up in surprise. “Really?”

“Yup,” I said. “But once he and Natalie met, it seemed pretty clear that she was the one for him. Not me.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at me, frowning slightly. “Are you okay with them being together?”

he asked finally. Angus shook the cuff of his jeans.

“Oh, sure,” I answered. I paused. “It was really tough at first, but I’m fine now.”

Cal studied me for another minute. Then he bent, picked up Angus, who replied with a growl before gnawing on Cal’s thumb. “I’d say she’s more than fine, wouldn’t you, Angus?” he asked. Then he leaned in and kissed my neck, and it dawned on me in a sweetly painful rush that I was crazy in love with Callahan O’ Shea.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

BUT BEING CRAZY ABOUT HIM didn’t mean things were perfect.

“I think we should just wait a little bit,” I said to Cal a few days later as we drove to West Hartford.

“I think it’s a bad idea,” he said, not looking at me. We were on our way to that most distressing of family gatherings—Mom’s art show. Well, actually, most of my family gatherings were distressing, but Mom’s shows were special. However, it was the only night before Nat’s wedding that my family could get together. The official Meet the Family horror show.

“Callahan, trust me. It’s my family. They’re going to…well, you know. Flip a little. No one wants to hear that their baby girl is dating a guy with a record.”

“Well, I do have a record, and I think we should just get it out in the open.”

“Okay, listen. First of all, you’ve never been to one of my mother’s shows. They’re weird. My dad will be tense as it is, Mom will be fluttering all over the place…Secondly, my grandmother is deaf as a stone, so I’d have to yell, and it’s a public place and all that. It’s just not the time, Cal.”

I’d told my parents and Natalie that I was dating the boy next door. I hadn’t told them anything else.

My parents were concerned, thinking I had dumped a perfectly good workaholic doctor for a carpenter. That was bad enough…wait till they found out about his nineteen months behind bars. Not that there were bars at his prison, but such a distinction was going to be lost on the Emerson family, whose line could be traced back to the Mayflower.

“I’m actually surprised you haven’t told them yet,” Cal said.

I glanced over at him. His jaw was tight. “Listen, bub. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to hide anything. I just want them to know you and like you a little bit first. If I walk in and say, ‘Hi, this is my boyfriend who was recently released from prison,’ they’ll have kittens. If they see what a great guy you are first, it won’t be so bad.”

“When will you tell them?”

“Soon,” I bit out. “Cal. Please. I have a lot on my mind. School’s ending, I still haven’t heard about the chairmanship, one sister’s getting married, the other’s ready to jump out of her skin…Can we just let my folks meet you without dumping your prison record on them? Please? Let me have one major crisis at a time? I promise I’ll tell them soon. Just not tonight.”

“It feels dishonest,” he said.

“It’s not! It’s just…parceling out information, okay? We don’t have to go around introducing you as Callahan O’ Shea, ex-con. Do we?”

He didn’t answer for a minute. “Fine, Grace. Have it your way. But it doesn’t feel right.”

I took his hand. “Thanks.” After a minute, he squeezed back.

“YOU’RE DATING THE HELP? You threw over that nice doctor for the help?” Mémé’s expression was that of a woman who’d just bitten into a lizard. Actually, of a lizard biting into a lizard. She wheeled a little closer, hitting a pedestal and causing Into the Light (supposedly a birth canal, but actually more resembling the Holland Tunnel) to wobble precariously. I steadied it, then looked down at my disapproving grandmother.

“Mémé, please stop calling Callahan the help, okay? You’re not in Victorian England anymore,” I started. “And as I said—” here I took a breath, weary with the lie “—Wyatt, though a very nice man, just wasn’t a good fit. Okay?

Okay. Let’s move on.”

Margaret, lurking nearby, raised an eyebrow. I yearned for more wine and ignored her and Mémé, who was once again labeling the Irish as beggars and thieves.

Chimera Art Gallery was littered with body parts. Apparently, Mom wasn’t the only one who was doing anatomy these days, and she was quite irritable that another artist was also featured (joints…ball-and-socket, gliding and cartilaginous, not nearly as popular as Mom’s more, ah, intimate items, most of which looked like they belonged in a sex shop). I dragged my eyes off Yearning in Green (use your imagination) and sidled over to Callahan, who was talking to my father.

“So! You’re a carpenter!” Dad boomed in the hearty voice he used on blue-collar workers, a little loud and with an occasional grammatical lapse to show that he, too, was just an average joe.

“Dad, you hired Cal to replace my windows, remember? So you already know he’s a carpenter.”

“Restoration specialist?” Dad suggested hopefully.

“Not really, no,” Callahan answered evenly, resisting Dad’s efforts to glam him up. “I wouldn’t say a specialist in anything, though. Just basic carpentry.”

“He does beautiful work,” I added. Cal gave me a veiled look.

“What I wouldn’t give to trade in my law books for a hammer!” Dad trumpeted. I snorted—in my memory, at least, it had always been Mom who did the needed household repairs; Dad couldn’t even hang a picture. “You always a carpenter?” my father continued, dropping a verb to demonstrate his camaraderie with the working man.

“No, sir. I used to be an accountant.” Cal looked at me again. I gave him a little smile and slipped my hand in his.

My mom, apparently having overheard, pounced on us. “So you had a revelation, Callahan?” she asked, caressing a nearby sculpture in a most pornographic way. “The same happened with me. There I was, a mother, a housewife, but inside, an artist was struggling for recognition. In the end, I just had to embrace my new identity.”

“Dance hall hussy?” I muttered to Margaret. I’d told Margs about our parents’ attempted tryst—why should I suffer alone?—and she snorted. Mom shot me a questioning look but dragged Cal over to Want, describing the wonders of self-expression. Callahan tossed me a wink. Good. He was relaxing.

“Hey, guys! We made it!” My younger sister’s mellifluous voice floated over the hum of the crowd.

Natalie and Andrew were holding hands. “Hi, Grace!” my younger sister said, leaping over to hug me.

“What about me?” Margaret growled.

“I was getting there!” Nat said, grinning. “Hello, Margaret, I love you just as much as I love Grace, okay?”

“As you should,” Margs grumbled. “Hi, Andrew.”

“Hi, ladies. How’s everyone?”

“Everyone’s suffering, Andrew, so join the crowd,” I said with a smile. “Nice of you guys to come.”

“We wanted to meet Callahan officially,” Natalie said. “You and Wyatt were together for what, two months? And I never got to even shake his hand.” Nat looked over at Cal. “God, Grace, he is really gorgeous. Look at those arms. He could pick up a horse.”

“Hello, I’m standing right here,” Andrew said to my sister. I smiled at my wineglass, a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. That’s right, Andrew, I thought. That big, strong, gorgeous man is your replacement. I wondered what Cal would think of my ex. Cal glanced over at me, smiled, and the glow became a lovely ache. I smiled back, and Cal returned his attention to my mom.

“Crikey, look at her,” Nat said to Margaret. “She’s in love.”

I blushed. Andrew caught my eye, a questioning eyebrow raised.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Nat,” Margs replied. “Grace, you’re in deep, poor slob. And hey, speaking of poor slobs, Andrew, make yourself useful and get us more wine.”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew answered obediently.

“By the way,” I said, “Mom wants you to pick out a wedding present. A sculpture.” I lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, sweetie, let’s pick fast,” Natalie said. “The smallest one, whatever it is. My God, look at that. Portals of Heaven. Wow. That is large.” They meandered off.

Dad approached Margs and me. “Gracie-Pudding,” he said, “can I have a word?”

Margaret heaved a sigh. “Rejected again. People wonder why I’m so mean. Fine. I’ll just go browse the labias.”

Dad flinched at the word and waited till she was out of hearing range.

“Yes, Dad?” I said, picking up a shoulder joint to admire. Oops. It came apart in my hands.

“Well, Pudding, I just have to ask myself if maybe you broke things off prematurely with the doctor,” Dad said, watching me fumble the joint parts. “Sure, he has to work a lot, but think of what he’s working on! Saving children’s lives! Isn’t that the kind of man you want? A carpenter…he…well, not to be snobby or anything, honey…”

“You’re sounding pretty snobby, Dad,” I said, trying to fit the humerus (or was it the ulna? I got a B-in biology) back into the socket. “Of course, you think being a teacher is akin to being a field hand, so…”

“I think nothing of the sort,” Dad said. “But still. You’d probably make more picking cotton.”

Callahan, having been released from my mother’s death grip, came over to me.

“Here y’ are!” Dad barked heartily, slapping Callahan on the back hard enough to make his wine slosh. “So, big guy, tell me about yourself!”

“What would you like to know, sir?” Cal asked, taking my hand.

“Grace says you used to be an accountant,” Dad said with an approving smile.

“Yes,” Cal answered.

“And I take it you went to college for this?”

“Yes, sir. I went to Tulane.”

I gave Dad a look that was meant to convey See? He’s really nice and also Lay off the questions, Dad. He ignored it. “So, Callahan, why’d you leave—”

Mom interrupted. “Do you have family in the area, Callahan?” she asked, smiling brightly.

“My grandfather lives at Golden Meadows,” Cal answered, turning to her.

“Who is he? Do I know him?” Mémé barked, wheeling closer and almost toppling a breast from a nearby pedestal.

“His name is Malcolm Lawrence,” Cal answered. “Hello, Mrs. Winfield. Nice to see you again.”

“Never heard of him,” Mémé snapped.

“He’s in the dementia unit,” Callahan said. I squeezed his hand. “My mother died when I was little, and my grandfather raised my brother and me.”

Mom’s eyebrows raised. “A brother? And where does he live?”

Cal hesitated. “He…he lives in Arizona. Married, no kids. So not much family to speak of.”

“You poor thing!” Mom said. “Family is such a blessing.”

“Is it?” I asked. She clucked at me fondly.

“You. Irishman.” Mémé poked Cal’s leg with a bony finger. “Are you after my granddaughter’s money?”

I sighed. Loudly. “You’re thinking of Margaret, Mémé. I don’t really have a lot, Cal.”

“Ah, well. I guess. I’ll have to date Margs, then,” he said. “And speaking of sister swapping,” he added, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

“Hi, I’m Andrew Carson.” The Pale One approached, my glowing, beautiful sister in tow. Andrew pushed up his glasses and stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Callahan O’ Shea,” Cal returned, shaking Andrew’s hand firmly. Andrew winced, and I bit down on a smile.

That’s right, Andrew! He could beat you to a pulp. Not that I was a proponent of violence, of course. It was just true.

“It’s great to see you again, Callahan,” Natalie said.

“Hello, Nat,” Cal returned with a smile, the one that could charm the paint off walls. Natalie blushed, then mouthed Gorgeous! I grinned back in complete agreement.

“So you’re a…plumber, is it?” Andrew said, his eyes flicking up and down Cal’s solid frame, a silly little grin on his face, as if he were thinking, Oh, yes, I’ve heard of blue-collar workers! So you’re one of those!

“He’s a carpenter,” Natalie and I said at the same time.

“It’s so great to work with your hands,” Dad boomed. “I’ll probably do more of that once I retire. Make my own furniture. Maybe build a smokehouse.”

“A smokehouse?” I asked. Cal smothered a smile.

“Please, Dad. Don’t you remember the radial saw?” Natalie said, grinning at Callahan. “My father almost amputated his thumb the one time he tried to make anything. Andrew’s the same way.”

“That was a rogue blade,” Dad muttered.

“It’s true,” Andrew said amenably, slipping an arm around Natalie. “Grace, remember when I tried to fix that cabinet when we first moved in together? Practically killed myself. Never tried that again. Luckily, I can afford to pay someone to do it for me.”