Too Good to Be True (8 page)

“Well, what do you know?” she asked.

“He was in Petersburg. Virginia. Three years? Five? Three to five? What would that be for? Nothing bad, right? Nothing scary?”

“Could be anything.” Margaret’s voice was blithe. “People serve less time for rape and assault.”

“Oh, good God!”

“Settle down, settle down. Petersburg, huh? That’s a minimum security place, I’m pretty sure. Listen, Grace, I can’t help you now. Call me later. Google him. Gotta go.”

“Right. Google. Good idea,” I said, but she’d already hung up. I jabbed on my computer, sweating. A glance out the dining-room windows revealed that Callahan O’ Shea had gone back to work. The rotting steps of his front porch had been removed, the shingles mostly gone. I pictured him stabbing trash along a state highway, wearing an orange jumpsuit. Oh, shit.

“Come on,” I muttered, waiting for my computer to come to life. When the Google screen came on, finally, I typed in
Callahan O’ Shea
and waited. Bingo.

Callahan O’ Shea, lead fiddler for the Irish folk group
We Miss You, Bobby Sands,
sustained minor injuries when the band was pelted with trash Saturday at Sullivan’s Pub in Limerick.

Okay. Not my guy, probably. I scrolled down. Unfortunately, that band had quite a bit of press, recently…they were enraging crowds by playing “Rule Britannia” and the clientele wasn’t taking it well.

It was then that my Internet connection, never the most reliable of creatures, decided to quit. Crap.

With another wary glance next door, I let Angus into the fenced-in backyard, then went back into my kitchen to scare up some lunch. Now that my initial shock was wearing off, I felt a little less panicky. Calling on my vast legal knowledge, obtained from many happy hours with
Law & Order,
two blood relatives who were lawyers and one ex-fiancé of the same profession, I seemed to believe that three to five in a minimum security prison wouldn’t be for scary, violent, muscular men. And if he
had
done something scary…well. I’d move.

I swallowed some lunch, called Angus back in, reminded him that he was the very finest dog in the universe and not to so much as look at the big ex-con next door, and grabbed my car keys.

Callahan O’ Shea was hammering something on the front porch as I approached my car. He didn’t
look
scary. He looked gorgeous. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, but still. Minimum security, that was reassuring. And hey. This was my house, my neighborhood. I would not be cowed. Straightening my shoulders, I decided to take a stand. “So what were you in for, Mr. O’ Shea?” I called.

He straightened up, glanced at me, then jumped off the porch, scaring me a little with the quick grace of his move. Very…predatory. Walking up to the split rail fence that divided our properties, he folded his arms again. Ooh.
Stop it, Grace.

“What do you think I was in for?” he asked.

“Murder?” I suggested. May as well start with my worst fear.

“Please. Don’t you watch
Law & Order?
”

“Assault and battery?”

“No.”

“Identity theft?”

“Getting warmer.”

“I have to get back to work,” I snapped. He raised an eyebrow and remained silent. “You dug a pit in your basement and chained a woman there.”

“Bingo. You got it, lady. Three to five for woman-chaining.”

“Well, here’s the thing, Callahan O’ Shea. My sister’s an attorney. I can ask her to dig around and uncover your sordid past—”
already did, in fact
“—or you can just come out and tell me if I need to buy a Rottweiler.”

“Seemed to me like your little rat-dog did a pretty good job on his own,” he said, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, making it stand on end.

“Angus is not a rat-dog!” I protested. “He’s a purebred West Highland terrier. A gentle, loving breed.”

“Yes. Gentle and loving is just what I thought when he sank his little fangs into my arm the other night.”

“Oh, please. He only had your sleeve.”

Mr. O’ Shea extended his arm, revealing two puncture marks on his wrist.

“Damn,” I muttered. “Well, fine. File a lawsuit, if a felon is allowed to do that. I’ll call my sister. And the second I get back to school, I’m going to Google you.”

“All the women say that,” he replied. He turned back to his saw, dismissing me. I found myself checking out his ass.
Very
nice. Then I mentally slapped myself and got into my car.

R
ECALCITRANT
C
ALLAHAN
O’S
HEA
might not be too forthcoming about his sordid past, but I felt it certainly behooved me to know just what kind of criminal lived next door. As soon as my Twentieth Century sophomores were finished, I went to my tiny office and surfed the Net. This time, I was rewarded.

The
Times-Picayune
in New Orleans had the following information from two years ago.

Callahan O’ Shea pleaded guilty to charges of embezzlement and was sentenced to three to five years at a minimum security facility. Tyrone Blackwell pleaded guilty to charges of larceny…

The only other hits referred to the ill-fated Irish band.

Embezzlement. Well. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Not that it was good, of course…but nothing violent or scary. I wondered just how much Mr. O’ Shea had taken. I wondered, too, if he was single.

No. The last thing I needed was some sort of fascination with a churlish ex-con. I was looking for someone who could go the distance. A father for my children. A man of morals and integrity who was also extremely good-looking and an excellent kisser who could hold his own at Manning functions. Sort of a modern-day General Maximus, if you will. I didn’t want to waste time on Callahan O’ Shea, no matter how beautiful a name he had or how good he looked without a shirt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“V
ERY GOOD
, M
RS
. S
LOVANANSKI
, one
two
three snap, five
six
seven pause. You got it, girl! Okay, now watch Grace and me.” Julian and I did the basic salsa step twice more, me smiling gamely and swishing so my skirt twirled. Then he twirled me left, spun me back against him and dipped. “Ta-da!”

The crowd went wild, gingerly clapping their arthritic hands. It was Dancin’ with the Oldies, the favorite weekly event at Golden Meadows Retirement Community, and Julian was in his element. Most weeks, I was his partner and co-teacher. Also, Mémé lived here, and though she was about as loving as the sharks who ate their young, a Puritanical familial duty had been long drilled into my skull. We were, after all, Mayflower descendants. Ignoring nasty relatives was for other, luckier groups. Plus, dancing opportunities were few and far between, and I loved to dance. Especially with Julian, who was good enough to compete.

“Does everyone have it?” Julian asked, checking our couples. “One
two
three snap…other way, Mr. B.—five
six
seven, don’t forget the pause, people. Okay, let’s see what we can do when the music’s on! Grace, grab Mr. Creed and show him how it’s done.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bruno had already taken the dance floor. Their osteoporosis and artificial joints couldn’t quite pull off the sensuality the salsa usually required, but they made up for it in the look on their faces…love, pure and simple, and happiness, and joy, and gratitude. It was so touching, so lovely, that I miscounted, resulting in a stumble for Mr. Creed.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing him a little more firmly. “My fault.” From her chariot of doom, my grandmother made a disgusted noise. Like a lot of GM residents, she came each week to watch the dancers. Then Mrs. Slovananski cut in—she’d had her eye on Mr. Creed for some time, rumor had it—and I went over to one of the spectators as Julian carefully dipped Helen Pzorkan so as not to aggravate her weak bladder.

“Hey, Mr. Donnelly, feeling up to a turn on the dance floor?” I said to one of the many folks who came to watch, enjoying the music from eras gone by, but a little shy or stiff to venture out.

“I’d love to, Grace, but my knee isn’t what it used to be,” he said. “Besides, I’m not much of a dancer. I only looked good when my wife was with me, telling me what to do.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I reassured him, patting his arm.

“Well,” he said, looking at his feet.

“How did you and your wife meet?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, smiling, his eyes going distant. “She was the girl next door. I don’t remember a day that I didn’t love her. I was twelve when her family moved into the neighborhood. Twelve years old, but I made sure the other boys knew she’d be walking to school with me.”

His voice was so wistful that it brought a lump to my throat. “How lucky, to meet when you were so young,” I murmured.

“Yes. We were lucky,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Lucky indeed.”

You know, it sounded so noble and selfless, teaching a dance class to the old folks, but the truth was, this was usually the best night of my week. Most nights I spent home, correcting papers and making up tests. But on Mondays, I put on a flowing, bright-colored skirt (often with sequins, mind you) and set off to be the belle of the ball. Usually I went in early to read to some of the nonverbal patients, which always made me feel rather holy and wonderful.

“Gracie,” Julian called, motioning for me. I glanced at my watch. Sure enough, it was nine o’clock, bedtime for many of the residents. Julian and I ended our sessions by putting on a little show, a dance where we’d really ham it up.

“What are we doing tonight?” I asked.

“I thought a fox-trot,” he said. He changed the CD, walked to the center of the floor and held out his arms with a flourish. I stepped over to him, swishing, and extended my hand, which he took with aplomb. Our heads snapped to the audience, and we waited for the music. Ah. The Drifters, “There Goes My Baby.” As we slow-slow-quick-quicked around the dance floor, Julian looked into my eyes. “I signed us up for a class.”

I tipped my head as we angled our steps to avoid Mr. Carlson’s walker. “What kind of class?”

“Meeting Mr. Right or something. Money-back guarantee. You owe me sixty bucks. One night only, two-hour seminar, don’t have kittens, okay? It’s sort of like a motivational class.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I said.

“Quiet. We need to meet people. And you’re the one faking a boyfriend. Might as well date someone who can actually pick up the check.”

“Fine, fine. It just sounds kind of…dumb.”

“And the fake boyfriend is smart?” I didn’t answer. “We’re both dumb, Grace, at least when it comes to men, or we wouldn’t be hanging out together three times a week watching
Dancing with the Stars
and
Project Runway
with this as the highlight of our social calendar, would we?”

“Aren’t we grouchy,” I muttered.

“And correct.” He twirled me swiftly out and spun me back in. “Watch it, honey, you almost stepped on my foot.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m meeting someone in half an hour. So there. I’m way ahead of you in the dating game.”

“Well, good for you. That’s a killer skirt you’re wearing. Here we go, two three four, spin, slide, ta-da!”

Our dance ended, and our captive audience once again applauded. “Grace, you sure live up to your name!” cooed Dolores Barinski, one of my favorites.

“Oh, pshaw,” I said, loving the compliment. The old folks, male and female, thought I was adorable, admired my young skin and bendable limbs. Of
course
it was the highlight of my social life! And it was so
romantic
here. Everyone here had a story, some hopelessly romantic tale of how they met their love. No one here had to go online and fill out forms that asked if you were a Sikh looking for a Catholic, if you found piercings a turnoff or a turn-on. No one here had to take a class to figure out how to make a man notice you.

That being said, I did have a date from one of my Web sites. eCommitment had come through. Dave, an engineer who worked in Hartford, wanted to meet me. Checking out his picture, I saw that, aside from a rather dated and conservative haircut, he was awfully cute. I e-mailed back, saying I’d love to meet for coffee. And just like that, Dave made a date. Who knew it was so easy, and why had I waited so long?

Yes, as I smooched withered cheeks and received gentle pats from soft, loving hands, I couldn’t help the hope that prickled in my chest. Dave and Grace. Gracie and Dave. As early as tonight, I might meet The One. I’d go into Rex Java’s, our eyes would meet, he’d slosh his coffee as he stood up to greet me, flustered and, dare I say, a little bit dazzled. One look and we’d just know. Six months from now, we’d be planning our wedding. He’d cook me breakfast on Saturday mornings, and we’d take long walks, and then, one day, when I told him I was pregnant, grateful tears would flood his eyes. Not that I was getting ahead of myself or anything.

Mémé left before the dance was over, so I didn’t have to undergo the usual criticism of my technique, hair, clothing choices. I bid goodbye to Julian. “I’ll call with the time and date of the class,” he said, kissing my cheek.

“Okay. No stone left unturned.”

“That’s my girl.” He winked and hefted his bag across his shoulder, waving as he left.

My hair felt a bit large, so I hit the loo to spritz on a little more frizz tamer/curl enhancer/holy water before my date with Dave. “Hi, Dave, I’m Grace,” I said to my reflection. “No, no, it’s natural. Oh, you love curly hair? Why, thank you, Dave!”

As I left the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of someone at the end of the hall, walking away from me. He turned left, heading for the medical wing. It was Callahan O’ Shea. What was he doing here? And why was I blushing like some schoolkid who was just busted for smoking in the bathroom? And why was I still staring after him when I had a date, a real live date, hmm? With that thought in mind, I headed out to my car.

R
EX
J
AVA’S
was about half-full when I got there, mostly high school kids, though none from Manning, which was in Farmington. I glanced around furtively. Dave didn’t appear to be here…there was a couple in their forties in one corner, holding hands, laughing. The man took a bite of the woman’s cake, and she swatted his hand, smiling. Show-offs, I thought with a smile. The whole world could see how happy they were. Over against the wall, a white-haired older man sat reading a paper. But no Dave.

I ordered a decaf cappuccino and took a seat, wondering if I should’ve changed out of my skirt before coming. Sipping the foam, I warned myself about getting my hopes up. Dave could be nice or he could be a jerk. Still. His picture was nice. Very promising.

“Excuse me, are you Grace?”

I looked up. It was the white-haired gentleman. He looked familiar…had he ever come to Dancin’ with the Oldies? It was open to the public, after all. Possibly a Manning connection?

“Yes, I’m Grace,” I said tentatively.

“I’m Dave! Nice to meet you!”

“Hi…uh…” My mouth seemed to be hanging open. “You’re Dave? Dave from eCommitment?”

“Yes! Great to see you! Can I have a seat?”

“Um…I…sure,” I said slowly.

Blinking rapidly, I watched as Dave sat, easing his leg out from the table. The man in front of me was sixty-five if he was a day. Possibly seventy. Thinning white hair. Lined face. Veiny hands. And was it me, or was his left eye made of glass?

“This is a cute place, isn’t it?” he said, scootching his chair in and looking around. Yep. The left eye didn’t move a bit. Definitely man-made.

“Yes. Um, listen, Dave,” I said, trying for a friendly but puzzled smile. “Forgive me for saying this, but your photo…well, you looked so…youthful.”

“Oh, that,” he laughed. “Thank you. So you said you’re a dog lover? Me, too. I have a golden retriever, Maddy.” He leaned forward and I caught a whiff of Bengay. “You mentioned that you also have a dog?”

“Um, yes. Yes, I do. Angus. A Westie. So. When was that taken? The picture?”

Dave thought a minute. “Hmm, let’s see now. I think I used the one taken just before I went to Vietnam. Do you like to eat out? I love it myself. Italian, Chinese, everything.” He smiled. He had all his own teeth, I had to give him that, though most of them were yellow with nicotine stains. I tried not to wince.

“Yeah, about the photo, Dave. Listen. Maybe you should update that, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” he said. “But you wouldn’t have gone out with me if you knew my real age, would you?”

I paused. “That’s…that’s exactly my point, Dave,” I said. “I really am looking for someone my own age. You said you were near forty.”

“I
was
near forty!” Dave chuckled. “Once. But listen, sweetheart, there are advantages to being with an older man, and I figured you gals would be more open to them if you met me in person.” He smiled broadly.

“I’m sure there are, Dave, but the thing is—”

“Oh, excuse me,” he interrupted. “I really should empty this leg bag. You don’t mind, do you? I was injured at Khe Sanh.”

Khe Sanh. Being a history teacher, I knew quite well that Khe Sanh was one of the bloodiest battles of the Vietnam War. My shoulders slumped. “No, of course I don’t mind. You go ahead.”

He winked his real eye and rose, walking to the restroom with a slight limp. Great. Now I’d have to stay, because I couldn’t walk out on a Purple Heart, could I? It would be unpatriotic. I couldn’t just say,
Sorry, Dave, I don’t date elderly wounded veterans who can’t pee on their own.
That wouldn’t be nice, not a bit.

So, in honor of my country, I spent another hour hearing about Dave’s quest for a trophy wife, his five children by three women, the amazing AARP discount he got on his La-Z-Boy recliner and which type of catheter worked best for him.

“Well, I should get going,” I said the moment I felt my duty to America had been served. “Uh, Dave, you have some very nice qualities, but I really am looking for someone closer to my own age.”

“You sure you wouldn’t like to go out again?” he asked, his good eye glued to my boobs as his fake eye pointed in a more northerly direction. “I find you very attractive. And you said you liked ballroom dancing, so I bet you’re quite…flexible.”

I suppressed a shudder. “Goodbye, Dave.”

Julian’s class was sounding better and better.

“N
O
D
ADDY YET
,” I said to Angus upon my arrival back home. He didn’t seem to care. “Because I’m all that you need, right?” I asked him. He barked once in affirmation, then began leaping at the back door to go out. “Yes, my darling. Sit…Sit. Stop jumping. Come on, boy, you’re wrecking my skirt. Sit.” He didn’t. “Okay, you can go out anyway. But next time, you’re sitting. Got it?” Out he raced toward the back fence.

I had one message. “Grace, Jim Emerson here,” said my father’s voice.

“Better known as ‘Daddy,’” I said to the machine, rolling my eyes with a smile.

The message continued. “I dropped by this evening but you were out. Your windows need replacing. I’m taking care of it. Think of it as a birthday present. Your birthday was last month, wasn’t it? Anyway, it’s done. See you at Bull Run.” The machine beeped.

I had to smile at my father’s generosity. Truthfully, I made enough to pay my bills, but as a teacher, I didn’t make nearly as much as the other folks in my family. Natalie probably made three times what I made, and it was only her first year in the working world. Margaret earned enough to buy a small country. Dad’s family “came from money,” as Mémé liked to remind us, and he made a very comfortable salary on top of that. It made him feel paternal, paying for home repairs to be done. Ideally, he’d have liked to do it himself, but he tended to injure himself around power tools, a fact he learned only after getting nineteen stitches from what he still called a “rogue” radial saw.