Too Good to Be True (18 page)

“You shouldn’t give him a ride, Grace!” Mémé snapped. “He’s likely to strangle you and dump your body in the lake.”

“Is this true?” I asked Callahan.

“I was thinking about it,” he admitted.

“Well. Your guilty secret is out.”

He smiled. “Allow me.” He took the handles of Mémé’s chair and started off. “Which way, ladies?”

“Is that Irishman pushing me?” Mémé demanded, craning her neck around to see.

“Oh, come on now, Mémé,” I said, patting her shoulder. “He’s a big, brawny, good-looking guy. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“You sound like a tramp,” she muttered. But she did, bidding us a sharp good-night at her apartment door. She stared pointedly at Callahan until he took the hint and walked a few paces down the hall so as not to see the heaps of gold lying about in her dragon lair and thus be tempted to rob her blind.

“Good night, Mémé,” I said dutifully.

“Don’t trust that man,” she whispered. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I glanced down the hall, tempted to ask just how he looked at me. “Okay, Mémé.”

“What a sweet old lady,” Callahan said as I rejoined him.

“She’s pretty horrible,” I admitted.

“Do you visit her a lot?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Duty,” I answered.

“You do a lot for your family, don’t you?” he asked. “Do they do anything for you?”

My head jerked back. “Yes. They’re great. We’re all really close.” For some reason, his comment stung. “You don’t know my family. You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Mmm,” he said, cocking his eyebrow. “Saint Grace the Martyr.”

“I’m not a martyr!” I exclaimed.

“Your sister moved in with you and bosses you around, your grandmother treats you like dirt, but you don’t stick up for yourself, you lie to your mother about liking her sculptures…yes, that sounds pretty martyrish to me.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped. “To the best of my knowledge, you have two relatives, one of whom isn’t speaking to you and one who can’t. So what do you know about family?”

“Well, looky here. She has teeth after all.” He sounded perversely pleased.

“You know, you are certainly not obliged to take me up on my offer of a ride, Callahan O’ Shea. Feel free to ride your bike and get hit by a car for all I care.”

“And with you on the road, there’s a good chance of that happening, isn’t there?”

“I repeat. Shut up or go home alone.”

“All right, all right. Settle down,” he said. I walked faster, irritated, my dancing shoes tapping loudly on the tile floor.

We walked back to the front desk to fetch my wee beastie from Shirley. “Was he a good boy?” I asked her.

“Oh, he was an angel!” she cooed. “Weren’t you?”

“What sedative did you use?” Callahan asked.

“You’re the only one he doesn’t like,” I lied as Angus bared his crooked little teeth at Callahan O’ Shea and growled his kitten-purr growl. “He’s an excellent judge of character.”

It was raining outside, a sweet-smelling rain that would have my peonies (and hair) three inches taller by morning. I waited, still miffed, as Cal unchained his bike from a lamppost and wheeled it to my car. I popped open the trunk and waited, but Cal just stood there, getting rained on, looking at me.

“Well?” I asked. “Put it in.”

“You don’t have to give me a ride if you don’t want to, Grace. I made you mad. I can ride my bike home.”

“I’m not mad. Don’t be dumb. Put your bike in the car. Angus and I are getting wet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I watched as he picked it up and maneuvered it in. It wouldn’t fit all the way, so I made a mental note to drive slowly so as not to damage two forms of Callahan’s transportation in one night, then got in the car with my dog. A quick look in the rearview mirror assured me that, yes, my hair was in fact possessed by evil spirits. I sighed.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” Callahan said as he got in.

“I’m not mad,” I answered.

“It’s all right with me if you are,” he answered, buckling his seat belt.

“I’m not!” I practically shouted.

“Have it your way,” he said. His arm brushed mine, and a hot jolt of electricity shot through my entire body. I stared straight ahead, waiting for it to fade.

Cal glanced at me. “Does that dog always sit on your lap when you’re driving?”

“How’s he going to learn if he doesn’t practice?” Callahan smiled, and I felt my anger (yes, yes, so I was still a little bit mad) fade away. The lust remained. I backed (carefully) out of my parking space. Callahan O’ Shea smelled good. Warm, somehow. Warm and rainy, the ever-present smell of wood mingling in an incredible combination. I wondered if he’d mind if I buried my face in his neck for a while. Probably shouldn’t do that while I was driving.

“So how’s your grandfather doing these days?” I asked.

“He’s the same,” Cal answered, looking out his window.

“Does he recognize you, do you think?” I asked, belatedly realizing that that was none of my business.

Callahan didn’t answer for a second. “I don’t think so.”

A hundred questions burned to be asked.
Does he know you were in prison? What did you do before prison? Why doesn’t your brother speak to you? Why’d you do it, Cal?

“So, Cal,” I began, taking a left on Elm Street, Angus helping me steer, “how’s your house coming along?”

“It’s pretty nice,” he said. “You should come over and take a look.”

I glanced at him. “Sure.” I hesitated, then decided to go for it. “Callahan, I was wondering. What did you do in your pre-prison life?”

He looked at me. “I was an accountant,” he said.

“Really?” I’d have guessed something outdoor-related—cowboy, for example. Not a desk job. “Don’t want to do that again, then? Kind of boring, is it?”

“I lost my license when I broke the law, Grace.”

Oh, crap, right. “So why
did
you break the law?” I asked.

Cal merely looked at me. “Why do you want to know so badly?”

“Because!” I answered. “It’s not every day you live next door to a convicted felon.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be thought of as a convicted felon, Grace. Maybe I want to be thought of as the person I am now. Make up for lost time and leave the past behind and all that crap.”

“Ah, how sweet. Well, I am a history teacher, Mr. O’ Shea. The past matters very much to me.”

“I’m sure it does.” His voice was cool.

“The best indicator of the future is past behavior,” I intoned.

“Who said that? Abe Lincoln?”

“Dr. Phil, actually.” I smiled. He didn’t smile back.

“So what are you saying, Grace? You expect me to embezzle from you?”

“No! Just…well, you obviously felt the need to break the law, so what does that say? It says something, but since you won’t open your mouth and speak, I don’t know what it is.”

“What does your past say about you?” he asked.

My past was Andrew. What did it say? That I wasn’t a good judge of character? That when compared with Natalie, I didn’t measure up? That I wasn’t quite good enough? That Andrew was a jerk?

“There’s the lake,” I commented. “If you’re planning on dumping my body there, you’d better get to it.”

His mouth pulled up in one corner, but he didn’t answer.

We pulled onto our street. “About your truck,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I’ll call my insurance agent tomorrow.”

“I take it you have him on speed dial,” Callahan said.

“Very funny.”

He laughed, an ashy, low laugh that hit me right in the pit of my stomach. “Thanks for the ride, Grace,” he said.

“If you ever want to confess your sins, I’m available.”

“Now you’ve gone from a martyr to a priest. Good night, Grace.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“I
T’S…UH, BEAUTIFUL
,” I said, blinking down at the ring. Oh, heck, it was. The diamond was about a carat, maybe a little more, a nice chunky thing, pear-shaped, pretty setting. I loved it. I
owned
it, in fact. Well, no, that’s not quite true. I
owned
its twin, which sat in my jewelry box at home, waiting for me to pawn it. For heaven’s sake. Couldn’t Andrew be a little more original? I mean, come on! He’d picked sisters to become his fiancées…at least he could’ve picked out different rings, for crying out loud.

“Thanks,” Nat said, blissfully unaware that we now had matching engagement rings from the same man. We were sitting in the backyard of our parents’ house, just Nat and me. The rest of the gang was inside—Andrew, Mémé, Margaret, Mom and Dad.

“You’re sure this is okay with you?” Natalie asked, slipping her hand into mine.

“The only thing that’s not okay is you constantly asking if I’m okay,” I said a bit sharply. “Really, Natalie. Please stop.” Then, guilty at my irritation, I squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

“You’ve been just amazing, Grace. Getting Andrew and me together…that was above and beyond the call.”

You’re telling me.
I gave a snort, then glanced at my little sister. The sun was shining on her hair, her dark gold eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she gazed at her ring.

“So have you set a date?” I asked.

“Well, I wanted to ask your opinion on that,” she said, looking at me. “Andrew and I kind of felt it should be soon. Get it out of the way, you know? Then we could just be married. Nothing huge. Just the family and a few friends and some dinner afterward. What do you think?”

“Sounds pretty,” I said.

“Grace,” she began hesitantly, “I was wondering if you’d be my maid of honor. I know the circumstances are pretty weird, but I had to ask you. And if you don’t want to, of course I understand. But ever since I was little, I always imagined it would be you. Margaret as a bridesmaid, of course, but you as my number one, you know?”

It was impossible to say no. “Sure,” I murmured. “I’d be honored.” My heart was beating in slow, rolling thumps, making me feel a little ill.

“Thank you,” Nat whispered, hugging me. For a minute, it was like we were little again, her face warm and smooth against my neck, me petting her silky blond hair, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” I whispered, a couple tears slipping out of my eyes. “I still want to give you piggyback rides and braid your hair.”

“I love you, Grace,” she murmured.

“I love you, too, Nattie Bumppo,” I said around the rock in my throat. My little sister, whom I had helped bathe and diaper, whom I’d read to and cuddled, was leaving me in one of the most profound ways a sister could. For twenty-five years, I had been Natalie’s favorite person, and she’d been mine, and now that was changing. When I was with Andrew, let’s face it, he hadn’t deposed Natalie from the throne in my heart. Sure, I loved him…but Natalie was
part
of me. Part of my soul and heart, the way only sisters could be.

Dozens of memories flashed through my head. Me at age ten, when I’d had my tonsillectomy, waking up from a restless, narcotic-induced sleep to find that Natalie had drawn eighteen pictures of horses for me, laying them on my bedroom floor, propping them on my chair and desk so everywhere I looked, I’d see horses. The time I beat up Kevin Nichols when he put gum in her hair. Me leaving for William & Mary, and Natalie’s face contorting with the effort of smiling so I wouldn’t see that she was, in fact, sobbing.

I loved her, and had always loved her, so much that it hurt. I could not—would not—let Andrew come between us.

She squeezed me hard, then sat up. “I can’t believe I still haven’t met Wyatt,” she said.

“I know,” I seconded. “He’s dying to meet you, too.” Wyatt was, alas, at a medical convention in San Francisco. I’d briefly flirted with the idea of telling my family Wyatt and I had broken up, then I decided I needed him a little longer. This morning, I’d Googled
medical conventions
and
surgeons
and found one in the City by the Bay. Extremely convenient.

“Things are good with you two?” Nat asked.

“Oh, I guess. He works too much. If there’s one fly in the ointment, it’s that.” My evil plan was to plant these seeds so I could ease everyone into the idea of a breakup. “He’s always at the hospital, and now he’s up in Boston…He’s so devoted to his work. I guess it’s the classic complaint of the doctor’s wife.”

Oops. Hadn’t actually meant to say that last sentence. Natalie’s face glowed even more beautifully, if possible.

“Do you think you guys might get married?”

Oh, crap. “Um, well…I don’t know. The work thing is something we have to figure out. And of course, I’ve been burned before.”

And again. Didn’t mean to say that last bit. Natalie flinched.

“I mean, I’ve picked the wrong guy before, so I want to be careful and all. Make sure he’s the right one.”

“But you think he is?”

I tipped my head, pretending to consider the question. After all, Wyatt and I were going to have to break up. Rather soon, in fact, since obviously I couldn’t keep this up forever. “He’s…” I smiled at Natalie in what I imagined was modest adoration. “He’s pretty wonderful, Nat. I just wish we had more time together.”

The back door banged open, and Margaret appeared before us. “Grace, your dog just broke a vulva. And Mom wants you to come in and eat, anyway.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “And did it ever occur to you two that I might be jealous of your little club? Christ Almighty and His five sacred wounds, girls! Can’t I be included once in a while?”

“She swears like some ex-nun turned sailor,” Natalie murmured.

“Yeah. You have to wonder how she spends her free time,” I seconded.

“Quit your whining,” Nat called to our big sis. “You two are living together, so don’t talk to me about clubs, okay?”

Margaret tromped over to us. “Move over, favorite,” she grumbled, shoving my shoulder so she could sit down. “Is everything okay out here? I’ve been spying through the windows.”

“Everything’s great. I’m Nattie’s maid of honor,” I said. It felt okay. Yes. It would be fine.

“God’s sandals, Natalie! You want Andrew’s former fiancée to be your fucking maid of honor?”

“Yes,” Nat answered calmly. “But only if she wants to be.”

“And I do,” I said, sticking my tongue out at Margaret.

“So? What am I, Nat? Can I maybe sweep up for you? Maybe I could do dishes at the reception and peek out at you once in a while, if you don’t think I’ll be blinded with your golden beauty, your majesty.”

“God, listen to her,” Nat giggled. “Would you be my bridesmaid, Margaret dear?”

“Oh, gosh, thanks, yes. I can’t wait.” Margaret shot me a look. “Maid of honor, huh? Freaky.”

“Margs, you’ve met Wyatt, right?” Natalie asked.

Margaret stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Sure,” she answered. I closed my eyes.

“What do you think?” Nat sat up straighter, grinning. She always did love girl talk.

“Well, aside from that sixth toe on his left foot, he’s pretty cute,” Margs said.

“Very funny,” I answered. “It’s barely a nub, Natalie.”

Natalie was laughing. “What else, Margs?”

“Well, the way he sucks on Grace’s ear is pretty disgusting. Especially in church. Yick.”

“Come on, I’m serious,” Natalie wheezed, wiping her eyes.

“That wandering eye freaks me out.”

When our mother came out to find what was keeping her girls, she found us helpless with laughter on the bench under the maple tree.

My good humor remained as Angus and I walked home along the Farmington. A path meandered through the state forest that bordered the river, and though the gnats were out, they were harmless enough if I ignored them. Angus trotted ahead on his long leash, stopping frequently to pee, sniff and pee some more, making sure that all the other dogs who came down this path would know that Angus McFangus had been there before them.

Natalie and Andrew had set a date after poring over Mom’s calendar. June fourth, the day after Manning’s graduation. Four weeks from now. Four weeks to break up with my imaginary boyfriend, four weeks to possibly find a date for yet another wedding. I imagined being stag at this one. Bleecch. Yet the thought of turning myself inside out to find someone was equally distasteful.

Angus barked and trembled. Up ahead, someone was fly-fishing in the river, hip boots on, the long line of his pole arcing out in a golden, serpentine flash. The sun shone on his messy hair, and I smiled, somehow not surprised to see my neighbor.

“Catching anything, or are you just trying to look pretty?” I called.

“Howdy, neighbor,” he called back. “Haven’t caught a thing.”

“You poor slob.” I picked my way over the rocks to get closer. “Don’t blind me with your hook, okay?”

“Why? Seems like I owe you a few cuts and bruises,” he said, sloshing over toward me. Angus began yarping. “Quiet, you,” Cal said sternly, which set Angus off into hysterics.
Yarpyarpyarpyarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarp!

“You have such a way with animals,” I said. “Do small children burst into tears at the sight of you?”

He laughed. “What are you doing out here, Grace?”

“Oh, just headed for home,” I answered.

“Want to sit for a while? I have cookies,” he said temptingly.

“Are they homemade?” I asked.

“If by
homemade,
you mean
bought at the bakery,
then yes,” he answered. “They’re good. Not compared to your brownies, though. Those things were out of this world. Worth all the pain I had to go through to get them.”

“Aw. Well, that was such a nice compliment, maybe I’ll bake you some more.” I sat on a rock that jutted over the river, holding Angus on my lap, where he growled at the man in front of us.

“Why don’t you let Angus off the leash?” Cal suggested.

“Oh, no,” I said. “He’d go right for the water and get swept away.” I hugged my little pal a little closer. “We don’t want you to drown, do we, sweet coconut baby? Hmm? No. We don’t.”

“Some of us do,” Callahan said. The cookies were from Lala’s—sad, really, that I could recognize baked goods from twenty yards—crumbly and delicious peanut butter cookies with crystals of sugar sparkling in the crisscross marks.

Cal offered a cookie to Angus who snapped it up, catching part of Cal’s finger. Cal jerked his hand back, sighed, looked at the wounded extremity and held out his finger for my inspection. Two tiny drops of blood showed.

“You poor thing,” I said. “Shall I call 911?”

“Why don’t you call a lawyer?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Possibly Margaret. Your dog is becoming a menace. Between the two of you, I can’t believe I’m still alive.”

“Tragic, really. Well, you’ll be moving soon, right?”

“Yup. I’m sure you’ll miss me.”

Dang it. I would miss him. The sun shone on his hair, illuminating all the shades of brown and caramel and gold. It wasn’t fair that this guy could look like an ad for
Outdoor Living,
oozing sex appeal in wader boots and a flannel shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. His lashes were golden and straight and really just pointlessly attractive, and my girl parts were begging me to do something.

I cleared my throat. “So, Cal, how’s your love life? I happened to see you again with that blonde from the bar.”

“Spying again, Grace? I thought we had an understanding.”

I sighed in exasperation. “She was right on the front porch. I was weeding.” I paused. “You kissed her.”

“On the cheek,” he said.

“Mmm-hmm. Which some women find very romantic.” He said nothing. “So? What about the lawn you want to mow?”

“That’s kind of a crude way to refer to sex, isn’t it, Grace?”

I blinked, then laughed. “I meant what you said that time. You wanted a wife, some kids, a lawn to mow.”

“And I do.” He cast the line out again, not looking at me.

“So how’s the search going?” I asked.

“Not bad,” he answered after a beat or two. Angus growled.

Not bad. What did that mean? “Well.” I stood up and brushed off my jeans. “Thanks for the cookie, mister. Good luck with your fishing. For the wife
and
the trout.”

“Have a nice day, Grace.”

“You, too.”

As I walked the rest of the way home, I tried to talk myself out of lusting after Callahan O’ Shea. Reminded myself that he wasn’t husband material, not for me. We weren’t compatible. Because…um…well, because…

Let’s face it. Callahan O’ Shea was very fun to look at, that was true. Maybe he liked me. He
flirted
with me…a little. Sometimes. He flirted more with Margaret, to be honest. I’d seen them talking the other day, laughing like old friends over the back fence. Regrettably, I’d been on the phone at the time, so I hadn’t been able to eavesdrop.

One thing was certain however. I did not feel safe around him. Not that he would rob me, no, of course not. But if Andrew had broken my heart, imagine what Callahan O’ Shea could do to it. Crush it until there was nothing left but rubble. Let’s be honest. For someone like me—the little schoolteacher who danced with old people, loved Civil War movies and playing pretend—to be with someone like him, this vital, vaguely dangerous man who radiated and bristled with sex appeal…it had to be a bad idea. A disaster waiting to happen.

I just wished I could stop thinking about it.