Too Good to Be True (22 page)

“I know,” I admitted. Ava and I had both made it to the second round of interviews for the chairmanship, much to my surprise. I still wasn’t entirely hopeful, but Margs was right. Callahan O’ Shea’s past would matter at Manning. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it would.

“Just be sure you know what you want, kiddo,” Margs said. “That’s all I’m saying. I think Cal’s pretty damn fun, and you could probably use some fun. But keep in mind that you’re a teacher at a prep school, and this just might matter to the good people at Manning. Not to mention Mom and Dad.”

I didn’t answer. As usual, Margaret was right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I
’VE BEEN COMMISSIONED
to do a sculpture of a baby in utero for Yale New Haven’s Children Hospital,” Mom announced the next night at dinner. We were at the family domicile—me, Margaret, Mémé, Mom and Dad—eating dinner.

“That sounds nice, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of her excellent pot roast.

“It’s coming along beautifully, if I do say so myself,” she agreed.

“Which you do say, every half hour,” Dad muttered.

“I almost died in childbirth,” Mémé announced. “They had to put me under. When I came to three days later, they told me I had a beautiful son.”

“My kind of labor and delivery,” Margaret murmured, knocking back her wine.

“The problem with the sculpture is that the baby’s head keeps breaking off—”

“Less than reassuring for the expectant mothers, I’m guessing,” Margaret interjected.

“—and I can’t find a way to keep it on,” Mom finished, glaring at Margs.

“How about duct tape?” Dad suggested. I bit down a laugh.

“Jim, must you constantly belittle my work? Hmm? Grace, stop shlunching, honey. You’re so pretty, why do you shlunch?”

“You can always tell breeding by good posture,” Mémé said, fishing the onion out of her martini and popping it into her mouth. “A lady never hunches. Grace, what is wrong with your hair today? You look like you just stepped out of the electric chair.”

“Oh, do you like it, Mémé? It cost a fortune, but, yes, electrocution was just the look I was going for. Thanks!”

“Mother,” Dad said, “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”

Mémé raised a sparse eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered, did you? I thought you forgot. No one has said a word about it.”

“Of course I remembered,” Dad said wearily.

“Has he ever forgotten, Eleanor?” Mom asked sharply in a rare show of solidarity with Dad.

“Oh, he forgot once,” Mémé said sourly.

“When I was six,” Dad sighed.

“When he was six. I thought he’d at least make me a card, but, no. Nothing.”

“Well, I thought we’d take you out to dinner on Friday,” Dad said. “You, Nancy and me, the girls and their boys. What do you think? Does that sound nice?”

“Where would we go?”

“Somewhere fabulously expensive where you could complain all night long,” Margaret said. “Your idea of heaven, right, Mémé?”

“Actually,” I said on impulse, “I can’t come. Wyatt’s presenting a paper in New York, and I said I’d go down to the city with him. So sorry, Mémé. I hope you have a lovely night.”

Granted, yes, I’d been planning to tell the family that Wyatt and I had parted ways—Natalie’s wedding would demand attendance, and obviously Wyatt couldn’t show, being imaginary and all. But the idea of spending a Friday night listening to Mémé detail her nasal polyps and having Mom and Dad indulge in their endless bickering, sitting in the glow of Andrew and Natalie while Margaret sniped at everyone…nope. Callahan O’ Shea was right. I did a lot for my family. More than enough. Wyatt Dunn could give me one last excuse before, alas, we were forced to break up for good.

“But it’s my birthday.” Mémé frowned. “Cancel your plans.”

“No,” I said with a smile.

“In my day, people showed respect to their elders,” she began.

“See, I was thinking the Inuit have it right,” Margaret said. “The ice floe? What do you say, Mémé?”

I laughed, receiving a glare from my grandmother. “Hey, listen, I have to go. Papers to grade and all that. Love you guys. See you at home, Margs.”

“Cheers, Grace,” she said, toasting me with a knowing grin. “Hey, does Wyatt have a brother?”

I smiled, patted her shoulder and left.

When I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later, I looked over at Callahan’s house. Maybe he was home. Maybe he’d want company. Maybe he’d almost kiss me again. Maybe there’d be no “almost” about it.

“Here goes nothing,” I said, getting out of the car. Angus’s sweet little head popped up in the window, and he began his yarping song of welcome. “One second, sweetie boy!” I called, then walked over to 36 Maple. Right up the path. Knocked on the door. Firmly. Waited.

There was no answer. I knocked again, my spirits slipping a notch. Glancing down the street, I noticed belatedly that Cal’s truck wasn’t there. With a sigh, I turned around and went home.

The truck wasn’t there the next day, or the next. Not that I was spying, of course…just glancing out my window every ten minutes or so in great irritation, acknowledging the fact that…yikes…I missed him. Missed the joking, the knowing looks, the brawny arms. The tingling wave of desire that one look from Callahan O’ Shea could incite. And God, when he touched my face that night on the roof, I’d felt like the most beautiful creature on earth.

So where was he, dang it? Why did it bug me so much that he’d gone off for a few days? Maybe he was back in an orange jumpsuit, stabbing trash on the side of the freeway, having broken parole somehow. Maybe he was a CIA mole and had been called up to serve, like Clive Owen’s assassin character in
The Bourne Identity.
“Must go kill someone, dear…I’ll be late for dinner!” Seemed to fit Callahan more than being an accountant, that’s for sure.

Maybe—maybe he had a girlfriend. I didn’t think so, but I just didn’t know, did I?

On Friday night, tired of torturing myself about Callahan, I decided that going to Julian’s singles’ night with Kiki was a better way to spend my time than wondering where the hell Callahan O’ Shea had gone. I was supposed to be in New York with Wyatt, and Margaret was growling in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of paper and an open bottle of wine, complaining about having to go to dinner with our family.

And so it was that at nine o’clock, instead of watching Mémé wrestle food past her hiatal hernia and listening to my parents snipe, I was instead dancing to Gloria Estefan at Jitterbug’s singles’ night. Dancing with Julian, dancing with Kiki, dancing with Cambry the waiter and having a blast.

There were no men here for me…Kiki had claimed the only reasonably attractive straight guy, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Apparently, Cambry had brought a lot of his friends, so aside from a scattering of middle-aged women (Julian’s usual crowd for this event), the night had taken on a decidedly gay-man feel.

I didn’t mind a bit. This only meant that the men danced well, dressed beautifully and flirted outrageously in one of the unfairnesses of life—gay men were generally better boyfriends than straight guys, except on the sex front, where things tended to fall apart. Still, I’d bet a gay boyfriend would at least tell me if he was going out of town for a few days. Not that Callahan was my boyfriend, of course.

I let the music push those thoughts away and found that after a while, I was twirling, laughing, showing off my dancing skills, being told I was
fabulous
again and again by Cambry’s pals.

As the music pulsed in my ears and I salsa-stepped with one good-looking guy after another, I felt a warm wave of happiness. It was nice to be away from my family, nice not to be looking for love, nice to be just out having fun. Good old Wyatt Dunn. This last date was definitely our best.

When Julian went to the back to change the music, I followed him. “This is great!” I exclaimed. “Look at all the people here! You should make this a regular thing. Gay Singles’ Night.”

“I know,” he said, grinning as he shuffled through his song list. “What should we do next? It’s ten o’clock already. Man! The night has flown by. Maybe some slower stuff, what do you think?”

“Sounds good to me. I’m beat. This is quite a bit livelier than Dancin’ with the Oldies. My feet are killing me.” Julian grinned. He looked as ridiculously handsome as ever, but happier, too. The shadow that made him so tragically appealing seemed to have lifted. “How are things with Cambry?” I asked.

Julian blushed. “Fairly wonderful,” he admitted shyly. “We’ve had two dates. I think we might kiss soon.”

I patted my friend’s arm. “I’m glad, honey,” I told him.

“You’re not feeling…neglected?”

“No! I’m happy for you. It’s been a long time coming.”

“I know. And, Grace, you’ll—” He looked up suddenly, his expression changed to one of horror. “Oh, no, Grace. Your mother’s here.”

“What?” I said, instantly imagining the worst. Mémé had died. Dad had a heart attack. Mom was tracking me down to break the news.
Please, not Nat or Margs,
I prayed.

“She’s dancing,” Julian said, craning his neck. “With one of Cambry’s friends. Tom, I think.”

“Dancing? Is my father here?” I stood behind Julian, peeping over his shoulder.

“I don’t see him. Maybe she just…felt like dancing,” he said. “Oh, she’s coming our way. Hide, Grace! You’re supposed to be in New York!”

I slipped into Julian’s office before my mother could see me. Mature? No. But why ruin a happy night when good old hiding would do the trick? I pressed my ear against the door so I could hear.

“Hello, Nancy!” Julian’s voice, purposefully loud, came to me easily. “How nice to see you!”

“Hello, Julian dear,” Mom said. “Oh, isn’t this fun! Now, I know I’m not single, but I just felt like dancing! Is that all right?”

“Of course!” Julian said heartily. “You’ll leave a few broken hearts behind, but of course! Stay a while! Have fun! Shall we dance?”

“Actually, sweetheart, could I use your phone for one second?”

“My phone? In my office?” Julian practically yelled.

“Yes, dear. Is that all right?”

“Um, well, sure! Of course you can use the phone in my office!”

With that, I leaped away from the door, jerked open the closet door and popped in, closing the door behind me. Just in the nick of time.

“Thanks, Julian dear. Now you go! Shoo! Don’t let me keep you from your guests.”

“Sure, Nancy. Um, take your time.” I heard the door close, smelled the leather from Julian’s jacket. Heard the beeping of the phone as my mother called someone. Waited with thudding heart.

“The coast is clear,” she murmured, then replaced the receiver.

The coast is clear? Clear for what? For whom? I was tempted to crack the closet door, but didn’t want to give myself away. After all, not only was I
not
in New York City with my doctor boyfriend, but I was hiding in a closet, spying on my mother. The coast was clear. That did not sound good.

Crap. I knew things weren’t great with my parents, but then again, that was the norm. Did Mom have someone on the side? Was she cheating on Dad? My poor father! Did he know?

Indecision kept me standing where I was, my throat tight, heart galloping. I realized I was gripping the sleeve of Julian’s coat.
Calm down, Grace,
I urged myself. Maybe
the coast is clear
didn’t sound quite as clandestine as I thought. Maybe Mom was talking about something else…

But, no. The office door opened again, then closed.

“I saw you dancing out there,” came a man’s gruff voice. “You’re that sculptor, aren’t you? Every man was watching you. Wanting you.”

Okay, well,
that
statement wasn’t true. I frowned. Every man out there, save about two, was gay. If they were watching my mother, it was for fashion tips.

“Lock the door.” Mom’s voice was low.

My eyes widened in the dark closet. God’s nightgown! I clenched the sleeve more tightly, my fingernails digging into the soft leather.

“You’re so beautiful.” The voice was hoarse…but familiar.

“Shut up and kiss me, big boy,” Mom ordered. There was silence.

Cold with dread, I cracked the door the smallest fraction and took a peek. And just about peed my pants.

My parents were making out in Julian’s office.

“What’s your name?” my father asked, breaking off from the kiss and looking at Mom with smoky eyes.

“Does it matter?” Mom said. “Kiss me again. Make me feel like a woman should.”

My astonishment turned to horror as dear old Dad grabbed my mother and kissed her sloppily…oh, God, there was tongue. I jerked back, shuddering, and closed the door as quietly as I could…not that it mattered, they were moaning rather loudly…and stuffed the jacket sleeve into my mouth to keep from screaming, a massive case of the heebie-jeebies rolling through me from head to toe. My parents. My parents were
role-playing
. And I was stuck in a closet.

“Oh, yes. More. Yes,” my mother groaned.

“I want you. Since the moment I walked into this seedy little joint, I wanted you.”

I jammed my fingers in my ears hard.
Dear God,
I prayed.
Please strike me deaf right now. Please? Pretty please?
I could, of course, just open the closet door and bust them. But then I’d have to explain what I was doing in there in the first place. Why I was hiding. Why I hadn’t revealed myself sooner. And then I’d have to hear my parents explain what they were up to.

“Oh, yes, right there!” my mother crooned. My fingers weren’t working, so I tried the heels of my hands. Alas, I could still hear a few words. “Lower…higher…”

“Ouch! My sciatica! Not so fast, Nancy!”

“Just stop talking and do it, handsome.”

Oh, please, God. I’ll become a nun. Really. Don’t you need nuns? Make them stop.
At the sound of another groan, I tried to go to my happy place…a meadow full of wildflowers, guns firing, cannons booming, Confederate and Yankee soldiers dropping like flies…but no.

“Oh, baby,” my mother crooned.

I could not stay in here and listen to my parents doing the wild thing, but just as I was about to burst forth and stop them in the name of decency, my mother (or God) intervened.

“Not here, big boy. Let’s get a room.”

Thank you, Lord! Oh, and about that nun thing…how about a nice fat donation to Heifer International instead?

I waited a few more minutes, taking cleansing breaths, then risked another look. They were gone.

The door burst open and I flinched, but it was just Julian.

“Everything okay?” Julian exclaimed. “Did she find you? She didn’t say a word, just scooted out the door.” Julian took a better look at me. “Grace, you’re white as a ghost! What happened?”