Too Good to Be True (20 page)

Messages three through five were the same, I dimly noted, though Margaret’s language deteriorated as they went on. Horror rose like an icy tide. Message six was as follows. “Grace, where the hell are you? We’re leaving for the stupid restaurant right now. The Carsons, Andrew, Nat, Mom and Dad and Mémé. Call me! Our reservation is at seven.”

I looked at my watch. It was six-fifty-three.

Julian and Cambry were laughing now as Cambry wrote his phone number on a piece of paper. “Julian?” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“One sec, Grace,” said Julian. “Cambry and I—” Then he saw my expression. “What is it?”

“My family is on their way. Here,” I said.

His eyes popped. “Oh, shit.”

Cambry looked at us, confused. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“We need to leave right away,” I said. “Immediately. Family emergency. Here.” I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gift certificate Margaret’s secretary had printed off the Internet. Dread raced through my veins. I couldn’t be found here. I couldn’t! I’d just tell the family we’d gone somewhere else. That was it. No problem.

Just as we stood up to go, I heard the horrible sound of my mother’s nervous society laugh.
Ahahaha! Ahahaha! Oooh…ahahaha.
I looked at Julian. “Run,” I whispered.

“We need another exit,” Julian said to Cambry.

“Through the kitchen,” he answered instantly. The two of them were off, me right on their heels, when the strap of my pocketbook snagged on the chair of a nearby diner. He looked up.

“Oopsy,” he said. “You’re caught, honey.”
In more ways than one, mister.
I flashed him a panicked smile and tugged. The strap didn’t come free.

Years of dance training made Julian lithe and fast as a snake. He zigged and zagged through the tables toward the busy, open kitchen, failing to notice I wasn’t with him.

“Here you go,” said the diner, sliding the strap off the back of his chair. And just as I turned to gallop after my friend, I heard my mother’s voice.

“Grace! There you are!”

My entire family walked in. Margaret, wide-eyed. Andrew and Nat, holding hands. Dad pushing Mémé’s wheelchair, followed by Mom. And the Carsons, Letitia and Ted.

My mind was perfectly blank. “Hi, guys!” I heard myself saying in that out-of-body way. “What are you doing here!”

Nat gave me a hug. “Mom insisted that we crash. Just to say hello, not to spoil your special night.” She pulled back to look at me. “I’m really sorry. I told her no a million times, but you know how she is.”

Margaret caught my eye and shrugged. Well, hell, she tried. I could feel my heart thumping in sick, rolling beats, and hysterical laughter wriggled like a trout in my stomach.

“Grace, darling! You’ve been so secretive!” Mom burbled, her eyes darting to my table, where two martinis and an order of oysters Rockefeller sat abandoned. “I told Letitia here about your wonderful doctor boyfriend, and she said she couldn’t wait to meet him, and then I had to tell her that
we
haven’t met him, and then I thought, well, I’ll just kill two birds with one stone. You remember the Carsons, don’t you, dear?”

Of course I remembered them. I got to within three weeks of being their daughter-in-law, for heaven’s sake. Someday, a long, long time from now, I might forgive my mother. On second thought, no. In my experience, Mr. and Mrs. Carson were aloof, undemonstrative people, completely devoid of humor. They never expressed anything but the coolest politeness toward me.

“Hi, Mrs. Carson, Mr. Carson. Good to see you again.” The Carsons smiled insincerely at me. I returned their smile with equal affection.

“What are you eating? Are those oysters? I don’t eat shellfish,” Mémé boomed. “Disgusting, slimy, riddled with bacteria. I have irritable bowel syndrome as it is.”

“Grace, honey, I’m sorry if we’re horning in,” Dad murmured, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Your mother went a little berserk when she heard you weren’t coming. Don’t you look pretty! So where is he? As long as we’re here.”

Andrew caught my eye. He knew me pretty well, after all. He tilted his head to one side and smiled curiously.

“He’s…uh…he’s in the bathroom,” I said.

Margaret closed her eyes.

“Right. Um, not feeling that well, actually. I’d better go check on him. Tell him you’re here.”

My face burned as I walked (and walked, and walked, God, it seemed to be taking forever) through the restaurant. In the foyer, Cambry gestured down the hall toward the restrooms. Sure enough, there was Julian, lurking just inside the men’s room, peering out through the cracked door. “What should we do?” he whispered. “I told Cambry what was going on. He can help us.”

“I just told them Wyatt’s not feeling well. And you’re playing the part of Wyatt.” I glanced back toward the dining room. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph on rye bread, here comes my dad! Get in a stall. Hurry up!”

The door closed, and I heard the sound of a stall door slamming as Dad lumbered down the hall. “Honey? How’s he doing?”

“Oh, well, not so good, Dad. Um, he must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with him.”

“Poor guy. Helluva way to meet your sweetheart’s family.” Dad leaned amiably against the wall. “Want me to check on him?”

“No! No, no.” I pushed the men’s room door open a crack. “Hon? You doing okay?”

“Uhhnnhuh,” Julian said weakly.

“I’m here if you need me,” I said, letting the door close again. “Dad, I really wish you guys hadn’t come. This is—”
a ridiculous farce
“—our special night.”

He had the decency to look ashamed. “Well, your mother…you know how she is. She felt the whole family should be there to show the Carsons…well, that you’re okay with everything.”

“Right. And I am,” I said, cursing myself. I should’ve just gone to the stupid dinner, said that Wyatt had plans or emergency surgery or something. Instead, here I was, lying to my father. My dear old dad who loved me and played Civil War with me and paid for my new windows.

“Dad?” I said hesitantly. “About Wyatt…”

Dad patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Pudding. It’s embarrassing, sure, but no one will hold a little diarrhea against him.”

“Well, the thing is, Dad—”

“We’re just glad you’re seeing someone, honey. I don’t mind admitting that I was worried about you. Breaking up with Andrew, well, that was one thing. Everyone’s heart gets broken once or twice. And I knew it wasn’t your idea, honey.”

My mouth dropped open. “You did?” I’d taken such pains to tell everyone that it was mutual, that we just weren’t sure we were right for each other…

“Sure, Pudding. You loved him, clear as day. Letting your sister date him…” Dad sighed. “Well, at least you found someone else. The whole way here, Natalie was chattering on and on about how wonderful your young man was. I think she still feels pretty guilty.”

Well. There went my feeble desire to confess. A man came down the hall and paused, looking at us.

“My daughter’s boyfriend is sick,” Dad explained. “The runs.” I closed my eyes.

“Oh,” the man said. “Um…thanks. I guess I can wait.” He turned and headed back to the dining room.

Dad pushed the door open a little. “Wyatt, son? This is Grace’s dad, Jim Emerson.”

“Hello, sir,” Julian mumbled in a lower than normal voice.

“Anything I can get for you?”

“No, thanks.” Julian threw in a groan for authenticity. Dad winced and let the door close.

“Why don’t we go back, too, Dad?” I suggested. I cracked the door again. “Honey? I’ll be back in a sec.”

“Okay,” Julian said hoarsely, then coughed. Frankly, I thought he was overdoing it a bit, but hey. I owed the guy my firstborn. Dad took my hand as we went back to the dining room, and I gave him a grateful squeeze as we approached my family, who was now seated around a large table. The Carsons frowned at the menu, Mémé inspected the silverware, Mom looked like she could levitate with the amount of nervous energy buzzing through her. Andrew, Nat and Margaret all looked up at me.

“How’s he doing?” Natalie asked.

“Not that great,” I said. “A bad oyster or something.”

“I told you. Oysters are filthy bits of rubbery phlegm,” Mémé announced, causing a nearby diner to gag noticeably.

“You’re looking well, Grace,” Mrs. Carson said, tearing her eyes from the menu. She tilted her head as if impressed that I hadn’t slashed my throat when her son dumped me.

“Thanks, Mrs. Carson,” I said. For about a month, I’d called her Letty. We had lunch together once to talk about the wedding.

“I have some Imodium in here somewhere,” Mom said, fumbling through her purse.

“No, no, that’s okay. It’s more of…well. We’re going to head home. I’m so sorry. Wyatt would just love to meet everyone, but you understand.” I stifled a sigh. Not only was I dating an imaginary man, he had diarrhea, as well. So classy. Definitely the kind to make Andrew jealous.

Wait a second. To the best of my knowledge, Wyatt Dunn was not invented to make anyone jealous. I glanced at Andrew. He was looking at me, still holding Natalie’s hand, and in his eyes was a hint of something. Affection? His mouth tugged up on one side, and I looked away.

“I’ll walk you to the car,” Natalie said.

“Stay here,” Margs all but barked. “He doesn’t want to meet you under these circumstances, dummy.” Natalie sank back down, looking wounded.

I kissed my mother’s cheek, waved to Mémé and finally left the dining room. Cambry the waiter was waiting outside the bathroom door. “You can leave the back way,” he murmured, pushing open the bathroom door. “Julian? Coast is clear.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said to my friend. “And thank you,” I added, pressing a twenty on Cambry. “You were really nice.”

“You’re welcome. It was kind of fun,” Cambry said. He led us to another exit, farther away from the main dining room, shook hands with Julian, holding on a little too long.

“Well, I know I had a good time,” Julian announced as we pulled out of the parking lot. “And, Grace, guess what? I have a date! So every cloud has a silver lining.”

I glanced at my buddy. “You were great in there,” I said.

“Faking diarrhea is a specialty of mine,” he said, and with that, we laughed so hard I had to pull over.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“W
HY WOULD YOU TEACH
the American Revolution at the same time as the Vietnam War?” asked Headmaster Stanton, frowning.

Ten of us—the Headmaster, Dr. Eckhart, seven trustees and me—sat around the vast walnut conference table in Bigby Hall, the main administrative building of Manning, the one that was featured on the cover of all our promotional brochures. I was making my presentation to the Board of Trustees, and I felt ill. I’d been up till 2:00 a.m. perfecting my talk, practicing over and over till I thought I had it right. This morning, I’d gotten up at six, dressed in one of my Wyatt outfits, taking care to combine conservatism with creativity, tamed my hair, ate a good breakfast despite the churning stomach and now was wondering if I should’ve bothered.

It wasn’t going well. I’d finished my talk, and the seven members of the board, including Theo Eisenbraun, Ava’s reputed lover, stared at me with varying degrees of confusion. Dr. Eckhart appeared to be dozing, I noted with rising panic.

“That’s an excellent question,” I said in my best teacher voice. “The American Revolution and the Vietnam War have a lot in common. Most history departments teach chronologically, which, to be honest, I think can get a little stale. But in the Revolution, we have a situation of an invading foreign army up against a small band of poorly armed citizens who won the war through cunning, use of the terrain and just a simple refusal to give up. The same can be said for Vietnam.”

“But they happened in different centuries,” said Adelaide Compton.

“I’m aware of that,” I said, a bit too sharply. “I feel that teaching by theme and not simply by timeline is the way to go. In some cases, anyway.”

“You want to teach a class called ‘The Abuse of Power’?” asked Randall Withington, who’d been a U.S. senator for our fair state some time ago. His already-florid face seemed a bit more mottled than usual.

“I think it’s a very important aspect of history, yes,” I said, cringing internally. Senator Withington had been ousted on charges of corruption and, er, abuse of power.

“Well, this is all very interesting,” said Hunter Graystone III, who was Hunter IV’s father and a Manning alumnus. He indicated my fifty-four-page document—curriculum for all four years, required courses, electives, credits, budget, field trips, staffing suggestions, teaching strategies, the role of parents, meshing the history curriculum with other subjects. I’d color-coded it, included pictures, graphs, charts, had it printed up and bound at Kinko’s. Mr. Graystone had yet to open it. Damn it. I’d given Hunter a B on his midterm (quite fair, let me tell you), and Mr. Graystone had reminded me of this very fact when I introduced myself a half hour ago. “Why don’t you just sum things up for us, Ms. Emerson?”

Dr. Eckhart looked up—not asleep, thank goodness—and gave me a little nod of encouragement.

“Sure,” I said, trying to smile. “Well, here it is in a nutshell.” Taking a deep breath, I decided to give it all I had, my blank-faced audience aside. “I want Manning students to understand the impact of history on where we are today. I want the past to come alive for them, so they can appreciate the sacrifices that have gotten us to this point.” I looked around at each board member in turn, willing them to
feel
my love for the subject. “I want our students to learn from the past in a way much more profound than memorizing dates. I want them to feel how the whole world shifted because of the act of a single person, whether it was Henry VIII creating a new religion or Dr. King calling for equality on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.”

“And who is Dr. King?” Adelaide asked, frowning.

My mouth dropped open. “Martin Luther King, Jr.? The civil rights activist?”

“Of course. Right. Go on.”

Taking a steadying breath, I continued. “So many kids today see themselves as isolated from even the recent past, disconnected from their country’s policies, living in a world where there are too many distractions from true knowledge. Text messaging, video games, online chatting…they all detract from living in this world and understanding it. These kids have to see where we’ve been and how we got here. They have to! Because it’s our past that determines our future—as individuals, as a nation, as a
world.
They have to understand the past, because these kids
are
the future.”

My heart pounded, my face was hot, my hands shook. I took a shaking breath and folded my sweaty hands together. I was finished.

No one said anything. Not a word. Nothing, and not in a good way. Nope, it was fair to say there was the proverbial sound of crickets.

“So…you believe the children are our future,” Theo said, suppressing a grin.

I closed my eyes briefly. “Yes,” I said. “They are. Hopefully, they’ll have the ability to think when the fates call on them to act. So.” I stood up and gathered my papers. “Thank you all so much for your time.”

“That was…very interesting,” Adelaide said. “Er…good luck.”

I was assured that I’d be notified if I got through the next round. They were, of course, looking outside Manning, yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah. As for making it to the next round, my chances were dubious. Dubious at best.

Apparently, word of my impassioned speech got out, because when I ran into Ava later that day in the Lehring staff room, she smiled coyly. “Hello, Grace,” she said. Blink…blink…here it comes…and, yes, blink. “How was your presentation to the board?”

“It was great,” I lied. “Very positive.”

“Good for you,” she murmured, washing out her coffee cup, singing as she did. “‘I believe the children are our future…teach them well and let them lead the way—’”

I gritted my teeth. “How did yours go, Ava? Did the push-up bra sway the board in your favor, do you think?”

“Oh, Grace, I feel sorry for you,” she said, pouring herself some more coffee. “It’s not my cleavage they loved, hon. It’s my way with people. Anyway. Best of luck.”

At that moment, Kiki stuck her head in the door. “Grace, got a minute? Oh, hi, Ava, how are you?”

“I’m fantastic, thanks,” Ava half whispered. Blink. Blink. And blink again.

“You okay?” Kiki asked when I came into the hall and closed the door behind me.

“I’m crappy, actually,” I said.

“What happened?”

“My presentation didn’t go very well,” I admitted. All that work reduced to a Whitney Houston song. To my irritable disgust, my throat tightened with tears.

“I’m sorry, kid.” She patted my arm. “Listen, do you want to go to Julian’s Singles’ Dance Night this Friday? Take your mind off your troubles? I still haven’t met someone. God knows why. I’ve been trying those methods from Lou like they were sent from Mount Sinai, you know?”

“Kiki, that class was dumb, don’t you think? Do you really want to trick a guy into dating you by pretending you’re someone you’re not?”

“Is there another way?” she asked. I sighed. “Okay, okay, I know. But come to the dance with me. Please? Just to distract yourself?”

“Yick,” I answered. “I don’t think so.”

She lowered her voice. “Maybe you’ll find someone to take to your sister’s wedding,” she suggested, evil, blackhearted woman that she was.

I grimaced.

“It’s worth a shot,” she cajoled.

“Satan, get thee behind me,” I muttered. “Maybe. I’m not promising, but maybe.”

“Okay, great!” She glanced at her watch. “Dang it, I have to run. Mr. Lucky needs his insulin, and if I’m late, he craps all over the place and then has seizures. Talk to you later!” And she was off, running down the hall to the medical disaster that was her cat.

“Hello, Grace.”

I turned around. “Hi, Stuart! How are you? How’s everything?”

He sighed. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

I bit down on a wave of impatience. “Stuart, um…listen. You need to do something. I’m not your intermediary, okay? I want very much for you guys to work this out, but you need to take action. Don’t you think so?”

“I just don’t know what action to take,” he protested, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Well, you’ve been married to her for seven years, Stuart! Come on! Think of something!”

The door to the teacher’s lounge opened. “Is there a problem here?” Ava’s chest said. Well, her mouth said it, but with the amount of boob she was showing today, who could pay attention?

“No, no problem, Ava,” I said shortly. “Private conversation.”

“How are you, Stu?” she purred. “I heard your wife left you. I’m so sorry. Some women just don’t appreciate a truly decent man.” She shook her head sadly, blinked, blinked, blinked, then sashayed down the hall, her ass swaying.

Stuart stared after her.

“Stuart!” I barked. “Go see your wife. Please.”

“Right,” he muttered, tearing his eyes off Ava’s butt. “Will do, Grace.”

L
ATE THAT EVENING
, I sighed, triple circling
would of
in red pen and writing
would HAVE
in the margin of Kerry Blake’s paper. I was correcting papers on my bed, as Margaret was using the computer to play Scrabble downstairs in my tiny office. Would of. Come on!

Kerry was a smart enough girl, but even at the age of seventeen, she knew she’d never have to really work for a living. Her mother was a Harvard grad and managing partner at a Boston consulting firm. Her father owned a software company with divisions in four countries, which he often visited in his private jet. Kerry would get into an Ivy League school, regardless of her grades and test scores. And, barring some miracle, if she did decide to work instead of take the Paris Hilton route, she’d probably get some high-paying job with a great office, take three-hour lunches and jet around to meetings, where she’d do a negligible amount of work, taking credit for the grunts who worked under her. If Kerry didn’t know a past participle from a preposition, no one would care.

Except me. I wanted her to use her brain instead of coast on her situation, but Kerry didn’t really care what I thought. That was clear. The board of trustees might well share her ennui.

“Grace!” Margaret’s voice boomed through the house, making Angus jump. I swear, my older sister was becoming more and more like Mémé every day. “I’m making whole grain pasta with broccoli for dinner. Want some?”

I grimaced. “No, thanks. I’ll throw something together later on.” Something with cheese. Or chocolate. Possibly both.

“Roger that. Oh, shit. Stuart’s here.”

Thank
God.
I leaped to the window, Angus bouncing merrily behind me. Sure enough, my brother-in-law was coming up the path. It was almost dark, but his standard white oxford glowed in the dimming light. I moved out into the hallway to eavesdrop better, shutting the door behind me so Angus wouldn’t blow my cover. Margaret stomped to answer the soft knock. I could see the back of her head, but no more.

“What do you want?” she asked ruthlessly. I detected a note of pleasure under her tone…Stuart was finally
doing
something, and Margaret appreciated that kind of thing.

“Margaret, I think you should come home.” Stuart’s voice was quiet, and I had to strain to hear. He didn’t say anything else.

“That’s it?” Margaret barked, echoing my own thought. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What more would you like me to say, Margaret?” he asked wearily. “I miss you. I love you. Come home.”

My eyes were suddenly wet.

“Why? So we can stare at each other every night, bored out of our minds?”

“I never felt that way, Margaret. I was very happy,” Stuart said. “If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine, but all these other complaints…I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m no different from how I’ve always been.”

“Which may be the problem,” Margaret said sharply.

Stuart sighed. “If there’s something specific you want me to do, I’ll do it, but you have to tell me. This isn’t fair.”

“If I tell you, then it doesn’t count,” Margaret retorted. “It’s like planned spontaneity, Stuart. An oxymoron.”

“You want me to be unexpected and surprising,” Stuart said, his voice suddenly hard. “Would you like it if I ran naked down Main Street? How about if I started shooting heroin? Shall I have an affair with the cleaning woman? Would that be surprising enough?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse, Stuart. Until you figure it out, I have nothing to say. Goodbye.” Margaret closed the door and leaned against it, then, a second later, peeked out the transom window. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. I heard the sound of a car motor starting. Apparently, Stuart was gone.

Margaret caught sight of me, crouched at the top of the stairs. “So?” she asked.

“Margaret,” I began cautiously, “he loves you and he wants to make you happy. Doesn’t that count, honey?”

“Grace, it’s not that simple!” she said. “He’d love it if every night of our life was the same as the night before. Dinner. Polite conversation about literature and current events. Sex on the prescribed days. The occasional dinner out, where he takes half an hour to order a bottle of wine. I’m so bored I could scream!”

“Well, here’s what I think, roomie,” I said, my own voice growing hard. “He’s a decent, hardworking, intelligent man and he adores you. I think you’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

“Grace,” she said tightly, “since you’ve never been married, your opinion really doesn’t count a whole heck of a lot right now. So mind your own business, okay?”

“Oh, absolutely, Margs. Hey, by the way, how much longer do you think you’ll be staying?” Sure, it was bitchy, but it felt good.

“Why?” Margaret said. “Am I cutting in on your time with Wyatt?” With that, she stomped back into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, feeling that I really should have control of my own house and shouldn’t have to hide in my bedroom, I went downstairs. Margaret was standing at the stove, stirring her pasta, tears dripping off her chin. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

“Sure,” I sighed, my anger evaporating. Margaret never cried. Never.

“I do love him, Grace. I think I do, anyway, but sometimes I just felt like I was suffocating, Grace. Like if I started screaming, he wouldn’t even notice. I don’t want a divorce, but I can’t be married to a piece of cardboard, either. It’s like we work in theory, but when we’re actually together, I’m dying. I don’t know what to do. If just once he could move outside the stupid box, you know? And the idea of a baby…” She started to sob. “It feels like Stuart wanting a baby means I’m not enough anymore. And he was the one who was supposed to adore me.”