Too Good to Be True (15 page)

“I thought you were a feminist,” I said.

“I am,” she said.

“Well, you could’ve fooled me! Maybe it’s just that enough time passed and I actually got over him on my own. Maybe it’s springtime. Maybe I’m just having a really good time at work these days. Did you hear that I’m up for the chairmanship of the department? Maybe I’m just doing fine on my own and it has nothing to do with Wyatt Dunn.”

“Mmm. Well. Whatever,” Mom said. “I have to go, dear. Bye! Don’t shlunch.”

“She’ll be the death of me,” I announced as I went back inside. “If I don’t kill her first, that is.”

Margaret burst into tears.

“God’s nightgown!” I said. “I didn’t mean it! Margs, what’s wrong?”

“My idiot husband!” she sobbed, slashing her hand across her face to wipe away the tears.

“Okay, okay, honey. Settle down.” I handed her a napkin to blow her nose and patted her shoulder as Angus happily licked away her tears. “What’s really going on, Margs?”

She took a shaky breath. “He wants us to have a baby.”

My mouth dropped open. “Oh,” I said.

Margaret never wanted kids. Actually, she said that the memory of Natalie hooked up to a respirator was enough to crush any maternal instincts she might’ve had. She always seemed to like kids well enough—gamely holding our cousins’ babies at family gatherings, talking to older kids in a pleasingly adult way. But she also was the first to say she was too selfish to ever be a mother.

“So is this up for discussion?” I asked. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty fucking awful, Grace,” she snapped. “I’m hiding at your house, flirting with your hunky neighbor, not speaking to my husband, and
Mom
is giving me lectures on marriage! Isn’t it obvious how I feel?”

“No,” I said firmly. “You’re also bawling into my dog’s fur. So spill, honey. I won’t tell anyone.”

She shot me a watery, grateful look. “I feel kind of…betrayed,” she admitted. “Like he’s saying I’m not enough. And you know, he’s…he can be really irritating, you know?” Her breath started hitching out of her again. “He’s not the most exciting person in the world, is he?”

I murmured that, no, of course he wasn’t.

“And so I feel like he just hit me upside the head.”

“So what do you think, Margs? Do you think you might want a baby?” I asked.

“No! I don’t know! Maybe! Oh, shit. I’m gonna take a shower.” She stood up, handed me my doggy, who snagged the last bit of poppy seed roll from my plate and burped. And thus ended the sisterly heart-to-heart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

O
N
W
EDNESDAY EVENING
, I was getting ready for my date with Lester the metalsmith. He’d called at last, sounded normal enough, but let’s be honest. With a name like Lester, being a member of an artisan’s cooperative and having his looks summarized as
attractive in his own way…
well. My hopes were flying pretty low.

Nonetheless, I figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for me to get out of the house. I could practice my feminine wiles on him, try a few of the techniques Lou had urged during our Meeting Mr. Right class. Yes, I was that desperate.

Margaret was working—since our chat over the weekend, she’d kept mum on the subject of her husband. Angus watched as I resignedly followed Lou’s advice…a skirt short enough to show that, yes, I had fabulous legs. A little lipstick, a little holy water on the hair, and I was ready to go. I kissed Angus repeatedly, asked him not to feel jealous, lonely or depressed, told him he could watch HBO and order pizza, realized that I was far, far down the path to “Weird Dog Lady” and headed out.

Lester and I were meeting at Blackie’s, and I figured I’d walk. It was a beautiful night, just a little cool, and in the west, there was the thinnest line of red as the sunset held on a little longer. I looked for a moment at my own house. I’d left the Tiffany lamp on for Angus, and my hanging porch light was on. The buds of the peonies were tight with promise…in another week or so, they’d burst into fragrant, lush blossoms that scented the whole house. The slate walk was edged with lavender, ferns and heather, and hostas huddled in a thick green mass at the base of my mailbox.

It was a perfect house, sweet enough to be featured on the cover of a magazine, cozy, welcoming, unique. Only one thing was missing—the husband. The kids. The whole adorable family I’d always envisioned…the one that was getting harder and harder to imagine.

You might wonder why I didn’t sell the house after Andrew broke it off with me. It was, after all, supposed to be
our
house. But I loved it, and it had so much potential. The thought of not hearing the Farmington River shushing gently in the distance, of letting someone else plant bulbs and hang ferns on the front porch…I just couldn’t do it. And yes, maybe I was holding on to the last piece I had of Andrew and me. We’d planned to be so happy here….

So rather than becoming our house, it became mine. That house was my grief therapy, and as I polished it and made it a sanctuary of comfort and beauty and surprising little delights, you can bet that I imagined my revenge on Andrew. That I’d meet someone else, someone better, smarter, taller, funnier, richer, nicer…someone who freakin’ adored me, thank you so much. And Andrew would see. It was his stupid loss. And he could just be lonely and miserable for the rest of his stupid life.

Obviously, it didn’t turn out that way, or I wouldn’t be standing here on the sidewalk, a fake boyfriend on one hand, a metalsmith on the other, an ex-con who made my girl parts sit up and bark in the background.

“Get going,” I told myself. Margaret might be a bit off love these days, but she wouldn’t fix me up with a bad person. Lester the metalsmith. It was kind of hard to get excited about him. Lester. Les. Nope. Nothing.

Blackie’s was packed, and immediately, I regretted arranging the date this way. What was I supposed to do, just start tapping men on the shoulder and asking if they were Lester the metalsmith?
Is there a metalsmith in the building? Please, if you’re a metalsmith, report to the bar immediately.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked as I pushed my way forward.

“A gin and tonic, please?” I asked.

“Coming up,” he said.

Well, here I was, once again trying to convey The Look, the confidence, the appeal, the
I’m just an amused observer of life
look that didn’t say
Quite eager to find boyfriend so I won’t have to be alone when sister marries ex-fiancé, which seems like it’ll be happening soon, damn it. Good dancer a plus
.

“Excuse me, are you Grace?” came a voice at my shoulder. “I’m Lester.”

I turned. My eyes widened. Heart rate stopped entirely, then kicked in at about one hundred and eighty beats per minute.

“You are Grace, right?” the man asked.

“Thank you,” I murmured. As in “Thank you,
God!
” Then I closed my mouth and smiled. “Hi. I mean, yes. I’m Grace. Hello. I’m fine, thanks.”

So I was a babbling idiot. So would you be, if you’d seen this guy. Dear God in heaven, oh, Margaret, thank you, because before me stood a man the likes that every woman on the face of the earth would want to devour with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Black hair. Black gypsy eyes. Killer dimples. Shirt open to reveal swarthy skin and completely lickable neck. Like Julian, sort of, but more dangerous, less adorable. Swarthier. Taller. Heterosexual. Praise be.

The bartender handed me my drink, and I passed him a twenty in a daze. “Keep the change,” I murmured.

“I got us a table,” Lester said. “Over there, in the back. Shall we?”

He led the way, which meant I got to look at his ass as we twisted our way through the crowd. Vowing to send Margaret some flowers, do her laundry and bake her brownies, I mentally thanked her for fixing me up with Lester the metalsmith, who was so much more than “attractive in his own way.”

“I was really psyched when Margaret called,” Lester said, sitting down. He already had a beer, and he took a sip from it now. “She’s so cool.”

“Oh,” I said, still in full idiot mode. “That’s…yes. She is. I love my sister.”

He grinned, and a little whimper came from the back of my throat.

“So you work at a school?” he said.

I gave myself a mental shake. “Yes, I do,” I answered. “I’m a history teacher at Manning Academy.”

I managed to complete several sentences on what I did and where, but I couldn’t relax. This man was just unbelievably good-looking. His hair was thick and kind of long, waving gracefully around his face. He had incredible hands, strong and dark with long fingers and a healing cut I yearned to kiss better.

“So, Lester, what kind of metalsmithing do you do?” I asked, swallowing.

“Well, actually, I brought you one of my pieces. A little gift to say thanks for meeting me.” He reached into a battered leather bag next to him and fumbled for something.

A gift. Oh! I melted like…well, like a hunk of molten metal, of course. He
made
me something.

Lester straightened up and put the object on the table.

It was beautiful. Made from iron, an abstract person rose up from the base, the metal twisting gracefully in a fluid arc, arms raised to heaven, iron hair flowing as if greeting a gust of wind on a summer day. “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s one of a series I’m doing now, and they’re selling really well. But yours is special, Grace.” He paused, looked at me with those dark, dark eyes. “I think you’re great, Grace. I’m hoping that we’ll really connect. This is sort of a good faith gift.”

“Wow,” I said. “Yes.” As in Yes,
I
will
marry you and bear us four healthy children.

He grinned again, and I fumbled for my drink and drained it.

“Excuse me one second,” Lester said. “I have to make one quick call, and I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I managed. I could use the time to get myself under control, since I was practically teetering on the brink of orgasm. Who could blame me? Mr. Beautiful Gypsy Man
liked
me. Wanted a
relationship
with me. Could it really be this easy? Imagine bringing him home to meet the gang! Imagine having him as my date the next time Natalie and Andrew invited me over. Imagine Callahan O’ Shea seeing me with Beautiful Gypsy Man! Wouldn’t that be the coolest! Good God!

I snatched my cell phone from my bag and punched in my home number.

“Margaret,” I muttered urgently when she picked up. “I love him! Thank you! He’s amazing! He’s not attractive in his own way! He’s unbelievably gorgeous!”

“I just turned on
Gods and Generals,
” Margaret said. “Do you really watch this crap?”

“He’s amazing, Margs!”

“Okay. Glad to be of service. He seemed pretty hot to meet you. Actually, he asked me out first, but I flashed the wedding ring. I regret that now,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.

“Oh, here he comes. Thanks again, Margs. Gotta go.” I pushed End and smiled as Lester returned and sat down. My whole body pulsated with desire.

For the next half hour or so, we managed to talk. Actually, I was the one having a hard time of it and so tried instead to show that I was a good listener, despite the fact that I was barely paying attention, thanks to the lust that roiled inside me. Dimly, I heard Lester tell me about his family, how he became a metalsmith, where he showed in New York and San Francisco. He’d been in a long-term relationship (with a woman, which put any lingering fears to bed), but things hadn’t worked out. Now he was looking to settle down. He loved to cook and couldn’t wait to make me dinner. He wanted children. He was perfect.

Then his cell phone rang. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, Grace,” he said with an apologetic smile, glancing at the screen of the phone. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”

“No, no, go ahead,” I said, sipping my G&T.
Do whatever you want, baby. I’m yours.

Lester flipped open his phone. “What do you want, bitch?” he demanded, his face contorting with fury.

I choked and sputtered, lurching up straight in my seat. Around us, patrons grew still. Lester ignored us all.

“Well, guess where I am?” he barked, turning slightly away from me. “I’m at a
bar
with a
woman!
So there, you disgusting whore! And I’m going to take her back to our house and I’m going to have
sex
with her!” His voice grew louder and louder, cracking with intensity. “That’s right! On the
couch,
in our
bed,
on the kitchen
floor,
on the goddamn
kitchen table!
How do you like that, you cheating, miserable skank?” Then he flipped his phone shut, looked at me and smiled. “So where were we?” he asked pleasantly.

“Uh…” I said, glancing around in frozen horror. “Was that your ex?” I asked.

“She means nothing to me anymore,” Lester said. “Hey, feel like going back to my place? I can cook us some dinner.”

All my internal organs seemed to retract in horror. Suddenly, I wanted no part of Lester’s kitchen, thanks very much. “Gee…um, Lester. Do you think I’d be out of line if I suggested you, uh, weren’t really over her yet?” I tried to smile.

Lester’s face crumpled. “Oh, crap,” he sobbed, “I still love her! I love her and it’s killing me!” He lowered his head to the table and banged his forehead repeatedly, sobbing, snuffling, tears spurting out of his eyes.

I caught the eye of our waitress and pointed to my drink. “I’ll have another,” I called.

A
N HOUR AND A HALF LATER
, I finally walked Lester to his car, having heard all about Stefania, the coldhearted Russian woman who’d left him for another woman…how he’d gone to her house and bellowed her name over and over and over until the police were summoned and dragged him away…how he’d called her one hundred and seven times in a single night…how he’d defaced Russia from an antique map in the public library and had to serve a hundred hours of community service. I nodded and murmured, sipping my much-needed alcohol (I was walking home, what was the harm?).
Artists,
I thought as I listened to his tirade. I’d been dumped, too, yet you didn’t see me crapping on anyone’s lawn. Maybe Kiki would like him….

“So, hey. Good luck, Les,” I said, rubbing my hands on my upper arms. The night had grown cooler, and mist hung around the streetlamps.

“I hate love,” he declared to the heavens. “Just crush me now, why don’t you? Kill me, universe!”

“Chin up,” I said. “And…well. Thanks for the drinks.”

I watched as he drove out of the parking lot—no way in hell I was getting in the car with him, no matter how benign his offer of a ride had been. Sighing, I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock on a Wednesday night. Another man down.

Drat. I’d forgotten my statue inside, and whether its maker was insane or not, I liked it. In fact, it might well have more value in the near future.
Metalsmith institutionalized. Prices soar.
I made a mental note to strangle Margaret as soon as I got home. She was a lawyer, after all. Maybe next time she fixed me up, she could run a quick background check.

I went back inside, retrieved my little statue, wove my way once again through the sea of bodies crammed into Blackie’s and pushed the door to leave. It was stuck. I pushed harder and it opened abruptly, thudding against someone who was trying to come at the same moment.

“Ouch,” he said.

I closed my eyes. “Watch where you’re going,” I muttered by way of greeting.

“I should’ve known it was you,” Callahan O’ Shea said. “Hitting the sauce, Grace?”

“I was on a date, thanks very much. And you’re in no position to point fingers. An Irishman in a bar. How novel.”

“I see we’re drunk again. Hope you’re not driving.” His gaze wandered past me toward the bar. I turned to look. An attractive blond woman gave him a little wiggle of her fingers and smiled.

“I’m not drunk! And I’m not driving, so don’t worry. Enjoy your date. Tell her to order a double.” With that, I walked past him into the chilly night.

Callahan O’ Shea may have been an arrogant, irritating man, but I had to admit, he was right about my ability to hold my liquor. Granted, I had planned on having some food, but when the waitress did come by, Lester had been at the height of his tirade against love, and ordering buffalo wings seemed insensitive. Well. I wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit buzzed. Add to that the thick scent of lilacs, and it was actually a rather nice sensation.