Too Good to Be True (32 page)

“Hi, Mr. Lawrence, it’s Grace,” I whispered, sitting down next to him. “The one who reads to you, remember?
My Lord’s Wanton Desire?
The duke and the prostitute?”

Of course, he didn’t answer. To the best of my recollection, I’d never heard the voice of Cal’s grandfather. I wondered what he’d sounded like when he was a younger man, teaching Cal and his brother to fly-fish, helping them with their homework, telling them to finish their vegetables and drink their milk.

“Listen, Mr. Lawrence,” I said, putting my hand on his thin and vulnerable arm. “I just wanted to tell you something. I was dating your grandson for a little while. Callahan. And basically, I screwed things up and he broke up with me.” I rolled my eyes at myself, not having planned on a deathbed confession. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you what a good man he is.”

A lump came to my throat, and my voice dropped back to a whisper. “He’s smart and funny and thoughtful, and he’s always working, you know? You should see the house he just fixed up. He did such a beautiful job.” I paused. “And he loves you so much. He comes here all the time. And he’s…well, he’s a good-looking guy, right? Chip off the old block, I’m guessing.”

The sound of Mr. Lawrence’s breathing was barely audible. I picked up his gnarled, cool hand and held it for a second. “I just wanted to say that you did a great job raising him. I think you’d be really proud. That’s all.”

Then I leaned over and kissed Mr. Lawrence’s forehead. “Oh, one more thing. The duke marries Clarissia. He finds her in the tower and rescues her, and they live…you know. Happily ever after.”

“What are you doing, Grace?”

I jumped like someone had just pressed a brand against my flesh. “Mémé! God, you scared me!” I whispered.

“I’ve been looking for you. Dolores Barinski said you were supposed to come to the social, and it started an hour ago.”

“Right,” I said with a last glance back at Mr. Lawrence. “Well, let’s go, then.”

So I wheeled my grandmother down the hall, away from the last link I had to Callahan O’ Shea, knowing that I would probably not see Mr. Lawrence again. A few tears slipped down my cheeks. I sniffed.

“Oh, cheer up,” Mémé snapped omnisciently from her throne. “At least you have me. That man isn’t even related to you. I don’t know why you even care.”

I stopped the wheelchair and went around to face my grandmother, ready to tell her what a sour old pain in the butt she was, how vain and rude, how selfish and insensitive. But looking down on her thinning hair and wrinkled face, her spotted hands adorned with too-big rings, I said something else.

“I love you, Mémé.”

She looked up, startled. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you.”

She took a breath, frowning, her face creasing into folds. “Well. Are we going or not?”

I smiled, resumed pushing and headed to the social. It was in full swing, and I danced with all my regulars and a few people I didn’t recognize. I even took Mémé out for a spin in the wheelchair, but she hissed at me that I was making a fool of myself and wondered loudly if I’d had too much to drink at the club, so I took her back. Eventually. After two songs, that is.

My dress was admired, my hands were patted and held, even my hair was deemed pretty. I was, in other words, happy. Nat was heartbroken, and my own heart wasn’t doing too well, either. I’d ruined something lovely and rare with Callahan O’ Shea and made an idiot of myself in front of my family by faking a boyfriend. But that was okay. Well, the idiot part was okay. Callahan, though…I’d miss him for a long time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME
from Golden Meadows, it was nearly ten. Angus presented me with two rolls of shredded toilet paper, then trotted into the kitchen to show me where he’d vomited up a few wads. “At least you did it on the tile,” I said, bending down to pet his sweet head. “Thank you for barfing in the kitchen.” He barked once, then stretched out in Super Dog pose to watch me clean.

“I hope you’ll like our new place,” I said, donning the all-too-familiar rubber gloves I used when cleaning Angus’s, er, accidents. “I’ll pick us out a winner, don’t you worry.” Angus wagged his tail.

Becky Mango had called yesterday. “I know this might be weird,” she said, “but I was wondering if you might be interested in the house next door to you. The one Callahan fixed up? It’s just charming.”

I’d hesitated. I loved that house, heaven knew. But I’d already lived in a house that was all about one failed relationship. Buying Cal’s, though it cost roughly the same as mine, would’ve been too Miss Havisham for me. No. My next house would be about my future, not about my past. “Right, Angus?” I said now. He barked helpfully, then burped and flipped onto his back, craftily suggesting that I take a break from cleaning up his vomit to scratch his tummy. “Later, McFangus,” I murmured.

I blotted up his little mess, taking care not to let my hem get soiled. It was a pretty dress, but I was planning on taking it to the Salvation Army. I never wanted to see it again. That, and my wedding dress. Maybe Nat would want me to bring hers, too.

Tomorrow, I’d start packing. Even though I hadn’t found a house yet, I’d be moving soon. I could go through all my old tag sale finds, maybe have a sale of my own. Fresh start and all that.

As I Windexed the last traces of barf off of the floor and stuffed the paper towels into the trash, Angus leaped to his feet and flew out of the room in an explosion of barking.
Yarp! Yarpyarpyarp!

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked, coming into the living room

Yarpyarpyarp!

I peeked around the curtains through the window and my heart surged into my throat so hard I nearly choked.

Callahan O’ Shea was standing on the front porch.

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow and waited.

My legs barely held me as I opened the front door. With a snarl, Angus launched himself on Cal’s work boot. Cal ignored him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I whispered.

His gaze went to my hands, which were still protected by the rubber gloves. “What are you doing?”

“Um…cleaning up dog puke.”

“Pretty.”

I just stood there. Callahan O’ Shea. Here. On my porch, where we’d first met.

“Mind calling off your dog?” he asked as Angus, his mouth clamped onto a good part of Cal’s pant leg, swung his little head back and forth, growling his kittenish growl.

“Um…sure. Of course,” I said. “Angus! Down cellar, boy! Come on!” My knees were shaking, but I managed to pick up Angus and shove him through the cellar door, down with the girl part sculptures. He whined, then accepted his fate and grew quiet.

I turned back to Callahan. “So. What brings you to the neighborhood?” My throat was so tight my voice squeaked.

“Your sisters paid me a visit,” he said quietly.

“They did?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Today?”

“About an hour ago. They told me about Andrew.”

“Right.” I closed my mouth. “Big mess.”

“You beat him up, I hear.”

“Yes, I did,” I murmured. “One of my finer moments.” A thought occurred to me. “How did they know where to find you?” Callahan had certainly not left a forwarding address with me.

“Margaret called her pals at the parole office.”

I bit down on a smile. Good old Margs.

“Natalie told me I was an idiot,” Callahan murmured, his voice low enough to cause a vibration in my stomach.

“Oh,” I squeaked, leaning back against the wall for support. “Sorry. You’re not an idiot.”

“She told me how you came clean with everyone.” Cal took a step closer to me, and my heart thudded so hard I felt like I might imitate Angus and throw up myself. “Said I was an idiot if I was going to just walk away from a woman like you.”

Callahan took my limp hand and removed the rubber glove, smiling a little as he did. He repeated the action on the other hand, I found myself staring at our hands, because it was hard to look in Cal’s eyes.

“The thing is, Grace,” he said gently, holding my sweaty hands in his own much more appealingly dry ones, “I didn’t really need to hear it. I’d already figured that out.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“But I have to admit, I thought it was nice that your sisters were finally doing something for you, instead of the other way around.” He tipped up my chin, forcing me to look into his pretty eyes. “Grace,” he whispered, “I
was
an idiot. I should know better than anyone that people get stupid around the folks they love. And that everyone deserves a second chance.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my eyes filling with tears.

“Here’s the thing, Grace,” Cal said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Ever since that first day when you smacked me in the head with your field hockey stick—”

“You just can’t let that go, can you?” I muttered.

He grinned fully now. “—and even when you hit me with the rake and dented my truck, and when you were spying on me from your attic and your dog was mauling me, Grace, I always knew you were the one for me.”

“Oh,” I whispered, my mouth wobbling like crazy. Not my best look, to be sure, but I couldn’t help it.

“Give us another chance, Grace. What do you say?” His smile told me he was fairly sure of the answer.

Instead of answering, I just wrapped my arms around him and kissed him for all I was worth. Because when you meet The One, you just know.

EPILOGUE

Two years later

“W
E ARE NOT NAMING OUR SON
Abraham Lincoln O’ Shea. Think of something else.” My husband pretended to scowl at me, but his look was somewhat marred by Angus licking his chin. We were lying in bed on a Sunday morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, the smell of coffee mingling with the sweet scent drifting from the small vase of roses on the night table.

“You already rejected Stonewall,” I reminded him, rubbing my enormous stomach. “Stonewall O’ Shea. There certainly wouldn’t be any other little boys in kindergarten with that name.”

“Grace. Your due date was four days ago. Come on. Be serious. This is our child. And if he has to have a Civil War name, it’s got to be Yankee. Okay? We’re both from New England, after all. Angus, get your tongue out of my ear. Yuck.”

I giggled. When we first moved in together, Callahan took Angus to an eight-week-long obedience course. Children need structure, Cal had told me, and ever since, the dog had been insanely devoted to him.

I tried again. “How about Ulysses S. O’ Shea?”

“I’d settle for Grant. Grant O’ Shea. That’s a compromise, Grace.”

“Grant O’ Shea. Nope. Sorry. How about Jeb?”

“That’s it, missy.” He pounced, tickled, and a second later we were making out like a couple of teenagers.

“I love you,” he whispered, his hand on my tummy.

“I love you, too,” I whispered back.

Yep, we got married. I got the boy next door. And for that matter, the house next door, as well. Cal said it didn’t seem right that it belong to anyone but us, and we bought it together, two weeks after Natalie’s nonwedding.

Living next door to my old place didn’t bother me a bit. I was grateful to that house, where my sore and sad heart had slowly mended. It was where I first met my husband, after all.

Speaking of Natalie, she was doing fine. She was single still, working a lot, and seemed happy. She dated a little here and there, but nothing serious yet. Stuart and Margaret had become parents about a year ago—James, a colicky baby who cried the first four months of his life before transforming into a dimpled, chubby little Buddha of smiles and drool, and Margaret loved him beyond reason.

“God, you smell good,” Cal muttered from the region of my neck, which he was nuzzling most pleasantly. “Want to fool around?”

I looked at him, his long, straight lashes and perpetually tousled hair, those soft, dark blue eyes…
I hope our son looks just like him,
I thought, and my heart ached with such love that I couldn’t answer. Then there was a different ache, and soggy feeling to go with it.

“Honey?” Callahan asked. “You okay?”

“You know what? I think my water just broke.”

Thirty minutes later, Cal was trying to get me out the front door as Angus barked maniacally in the cellar, enraged at the unceremonious way Callahan had dumped him there, but Cal was in no mood for niceties, racing around like the house was on fire. I knew from Margaret’s long and gruesome labor, which she enjoyed discussing in great detail, that the baby would probably take the better part of a day to come. The obstetrician had said the same thing, but Cal was convinced that I was about to squat and push his child out right here and now…or worse, on the side of the road between here and the hospital.

“Do you have my lollipops?” I asked calmly, consulting my list from birthing class.

“Yup. I sure do.” He looked nervous—
terrified
might have been a better word—and I found it quite adorable. “Come on, honey, let’s go. Baby’s coming, don’t forget.”

I gave him a pointed look. “I’ll try to remember, Callahan. What about my pretty bathrobe? My hair’s going to be bad enough. At least I can look nice from the neck down.” I looked back at the list. “Don’t forget the camera, of course.”

“Got it, Grace. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s not have the baby in the hall here.”

“Cal, I’ve had two contractions. Relax.” He made a noise in the back of his throat, which I kindly ignored. “Did you remember the baby clothes? That little blue sleeper with the dog on it?”

“Yes, honey, please, I checked the list already. Think we can leave for the hospital before the kid turns three?”

“Oh, my focal point! Don’t forget that.” The birthing instructor had said to bring an object to concentrate on during the contractions, something I liked looking at.

“Got it.” He reached up over the front door and took down the focal point—my field hockey stick, which Cal had hung up the day we moved in. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s go meet our boy. Want me to carry you? It’s faster. I’ll do that. Just put your arm around my neck, honey. Come on. Let’s go.”

Nineteen and a half very impressive and memorable hours later, we learned several things. One, I could be very, very loud when the situation demanded it. Two, while Cal was pretty amazing during labor and delivery, he also tended to cry when his wife was in pain. (Just when you think you can’t love a guy any more…) And three, ultrasounds are still wrong once in a while.

Our boy was a girl.

We named her Scarlett.

Scarlett O’ Hara O’ Shea.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-2738-9

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

Copyright © 2009 by Kristan Higgins

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