Too Good to Be True (9 page)

Returning to the living room, I sat on my couch and looked around. Maybe it was time to repaint a room, something I tended to do when down in the dumps. But no. After almost a year and a half of nonstop renovations, the house was pretty perfect. The living-room walls were a pale lavender with gleaming white trim and a Tiffany lamp in one corner. I’d bought the curved-back Victorian sofa at an auction and had it reupholstered in shades of green, blue and lavender. The dining room was pale green, centered around a walnut Mission-style table. The house wanted for nothing, except new windows. I probably needed another project. I almost envied Callahan O’ Shea next door, starting from scratch.

Yarp! Yarp! Yarpyarpyarp!
“Okay, what now, Angus?” I muttered, hauling myself off the couch. Opening the slider in the kitchen, I saw no sign of my furry white baby, who was usually easy to spot.
Yarp! Yarp!
I moved to the dining-room windows for a different view.

There he was. Crap. In a move he was bred for, Angus had tunneled under the fence and stood now in the yard next door, barking at someone. Three guesses as to whom. Callahan O’ Shea was sitting on his stairless front porch, staring at my dog, who yapped from the yard, leaping and snapping, trying to bite the man’s legs. With a sigh, I headed out the front door.

“Angus! Angus! Come, sweetie!” Not surprisingly, my dog failed to obey. Grumbling at my dog, I walked across my front yard to 36 Maple. The last thing I needed was another confrontation with the ex-con next door, but with Angus snapping and snarling at him, I didn’t have much choice. “Sorry,” I called. “He’s afraid of men.”

Callahan hopped off the porch, cut me a cynical glance. “Yes. Terrified.” At those words, Angus launched himself onto Callahan’s work boot, sinking his teeth into the leather and growling adorably.
Hrrrrr. Hrrrrr.
Callahan shook his foot, which detached Angus momentarily, only to have my little dog spring upon the shoe with renewed vigor.

“Angus, no! You’re being very naughty. Sorry, Mr. O’ Shea.”

Callahan O’ Shea said nothing. I bent over, grabbed my wriggling little pet by the collar and tugged, but he didn’t let go of the boot.
Please, Angus, listen.
“Come on, Angus,” I ground out. “Time to go inside. Bedtime. Cookie time.” I tugged again, but Angus’s bottom teeth were crooked and adorable, and I didn’t want to dislodge any.

However, I was hunched over, my head about level with Mr. O’ Shea’s groin, and you know, I was starting to feel a bit warm. “Angus, release. Release, boy.”

Angus wagged his tail and shook his head, the laces of the work boot clenched in his crooked little teeth.
Hrrrrr. Hrrrrr.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s not usually so—” I straightened up and bang! The top of my head cracked into something hard. Callahan O’ Shea’s chin. His teeth snapped together with an audible clack, his head jerked back. “Jesus, woman!” he exclaimed, rubbing his chin.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. The top of my head stung from the impact.

With a glare, he reached down and grabbed Angus by the scruff of his neck, lifted him—there was a small snap as the laces were tugged out of Angus’s mouth—and handed him to me.

“You’re not supposed to lift him like that,” I said, petting Angus’s poor neck as my dog nibbled my chin.

“He’s not supposed to bite me, either,” Callahan said, not smiling.

“Right.” I glanced down at my dog, kissed his head. “Sorry about your, um…chin.”

“Of all the injuries you’ve given me so far, this one hurt the least.”

“Oh. That’s good, then.” My face actually hurt from blushing. “So. Are you going to live here, or is this an investment or what?”

He paused, obviously wondering whether I was worth the effort of an answer. “I’m flipping it.”

“Oh,” I answered, relieved. Angus spotted a leaf blowing across my lawn and convulsed to be put down. After a second’s hesitation, I complied, relieved when he ran off to give chase. “Well. Good luck with the house. It’s very cute.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night.”

“’ Night.”

I took a few steps toward my house, then stopped. “By the way,” I added, turning back to my neighbor, “I did Google you and saw that you’re an embezzler.”

Callahan O’ Shea said nothing.

“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. Hannibal Lecter, at least he’s interesting.”

Callahan smiled at that, an abrupt, wicked smile that crinkled his eyes and lightened his face, and something twisted hard and hot in my stomach and seemed to surge toward my burly neighbor. That smile promised all kinds of wickedness, all sorts of heat, and I found that I was breathing rather heavily through my mouth.

And then I heard the noise, and so did Callahan O’ Shea. A little pattering noise. We both looked down. Angus was back, leg lifted, peeing on the boot he’d tried to eat a few moments before.

Callahan O’ Shea’s smile was gone. He raised his eyes to me. “I don’t know which one of you is worse,” he said, then turned and headed for his house.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HIRTEEN MONTHS, TWO WEEKS
and four days after Andrew called off our wedding, I thought I was doing fairly well. The summer after had been pretty rough without the daily presence of my students, but I threw myself into the house and became a gardener. When I was antsy, I tramped through the state forest behind my house, following the Farmington River miles upriver and down, getting chewed on by mosquitoes and scratched by branches, Angus leaping along beside me on his festive leash, pink tongue lapping the river, white fur spattered with mud.

I spent Fourth of July weekend at Gettysburg—the real Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania—with several thousand other reenactors, forgetting the ache in my chest for a few days in the thrill of battle. When I got back, Julian put me to work at Jitterbug’s, teaching basic ballroom. Mom and Dad invited me over often, but, fearful of upsetting me, they were painfully polite to each other, and it was so tense and freakish that I found myself wishing they’d just be normal and fight. Margaret and I drove up the coast of Maine so far north that the sun didn’t set till almost 10:00 p.m. We spent a few quiet days walking the shore, watching the lobster boats bob on their moorings and not talking about Andrew.

Thank God I had the house. Floors to sand, trim to paint, tag sales to attend so I could fill my little wedding cake of a home with sweet, thoughtful things that weren’t associated with Andrew. A collection of St. Nicholas statues that I’d line up on the fireplace mantel come Christmas. Two brass doorknobs carved with
Public School, City of New York
. I made curtains. I painted walls. I installed light fixtures. I even went on a date or two. Well, I went on one date. That was enough to show me that I didn’t want to get involved with anyone just yet.

School started, and I’d never loved my kids more. They may have had their little foibles, the overindulgences and the horrible speech patterns laden with
like
and
totally
and
whatever,
but they were so fascinating, so full of potential and the future. I lost myself in school, as I always did, watching among the resigned for the spark in one or two, the glow that told me someone connected with the past the way I had when I was a kid, that someone could
feel
how much history mattered to the present.

Christmas came and went, New Year’s, too. On Valentine’s Day, Julian came over armed with violent movies, Thai food and ice cream, and we laughed till our stomachs ached, both of us pretending to ignore the fact that this should’ve been my first anniversary and that Julian hadn’t been on a date in eight years.

And my heart mended. It did. Time did its work, and Andrew faded to a dull ache that I mostly only thought about when I was lying alone in bed. Was I over him? I told myself I was.

Then, a few weeks before Kitty the Hair Cutting Cousin’s wedding, Natalie and I went out for dinner. I had never told her the real reason Andrew and I had broken up. In fact, Andrew had never even said those words aloud. He didn’t have to.

Natalie picked the place. She was working at Pelli Clarke Pelli in New Haven, one of the top architectural firms in the country. She’d had to work late and suggested the Omni Hotel, which boasted a restaurant with a nice view and good drinks.

When I met her there, I was a little shocked at her transformation. Somewhere along the line, my little sister had gone from beautiful to stunning. Each time I’d seen her in grad school or at home, she’d been dressed in jeans or sweats, typical student clothing, and her long, straight, blond hair was all one length. Then, she looked like a classic American girl next door, wholesome and lovely. But when she started working for real, she invested in some clothes and a stylish haircut, started wearing a little makeup, and wow. She looked like a modern day Grace Kelly.

“Hi, Bumppo!” I said, hugging her proudly. “You look gorgeous!”

“So do you,” she returned generously. “Every time I see you, I think I’d sell my soul for that hair.”

“This hair is the devil’s hair. Don’t be silly,” I said, but I was pleased. Only Natalie could be sincere about that, the sweet angel.

I ordered my standard, generic G&T, not being a really sophisticated drinker. Nat ordered a dirty martini. “What kind of vodka would you like?” the waiter asked.

“Belvedere if you’ve got it,” she answered with a smile.

“We do. Excellent choice,” he said, obviously smitten. I smiled, wondering when my little sister had learned to drink good vodka.

And so we chatted, Natalie telling me about the team she was on at Pelli, the house they were designing that would overlook the Chesapeake Bay, how much she loved her work. By comparison, I felt a little…well, a little pedestrian, I guess. Not that teaching wasn’t incredibly fulfilling, because it was. I loved my kids, my subject, and I felt like Manning, with its faded brick buildings and stately trees, was part of my soul. But despite Natalie’s genuine interest in hearing about how Dr. Eckhart fell asleep at the department meeting when I suggested revamping the curriculum and why it bugged me that Ava had never given so much as a B-, my news sounded pale.

It was at that moment that we heard a burst of laughter. We turned and saw a group of six or eight men just coming off the elevator into the bar, and right in front was Andrew.

I hadn’t seen him since the day he dumped me, and the sight of him was like a kick in the stomach. The blood drained out of my face, then flooded back in a sickening rush. A high-pitched whine shrilled in my ear, and I was hot, then cold, then hot again. Andrew. Not very tall, not all that good-looking, still on the scrawny side, his glasses sliding down his sharp nose, his sweet, vulnerable neck…. My entire body roared at his presence, but my mind was completely blank. Andrew smiled at one of his buddies and said something, and once again, his compadres burst into laughter.

“Grace?” Natalie whispered. I didn’t answer.

Then Andrew turned, saw us, and the same thing that had just happened to me happened to him. He went white, then red, his eyes grew wide. Then he forced a smile and headed our way.

“Do you want to go?” Nat asked. I turned to look at her and saw, without much surprise, that she looked, well, utterly beautiful. A rosy flush stained her cheeks, not like mine, which could grill a steak. One of her eyebrows was arched delicately in concern. Her slender hands with their neat, unpolished nails reached out to touch my hand.

“No! No, of course not. I’m fine. Hi, there, stranger!” I said, standing up.

“Grace,” Andrew said, and his voice was so familiar it was like a part of me, almost.

“What a nice surprise,” I said. “You remember Nat, of course.”

“Of course,” he said. “Hello, Natalie.”

“Hi,” she said in a half whisper, cutting her eyes away.

I wasn’t sure why I asked Andrew to join us for a few minutes. He pretty much had to say yes. We all sat together, so civilized and pleasant it could’ve been high tea at Windsor Castle. Andrew gulped upon learning that Nat lived in the same city where he worked, but covered well.
Ninth Square, nice renovations over there. Oh, really, you’re at Pelli, how exciting…Funny. Small world. And you, Grace? How’s Manning? Kids good this year? Great. Um…are your parents well? Good, good. Margaret and Stu? Great.

And so we sat there, Nat, Andrew, me and the four-ton elephant that was tap-dancing on the table. Andrew chattered like a nervous monkey, and though I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears, I could see everything as clearly as if I were on some sense-enhancing drug. Natalie’s hands were shaking just slightly, and to hide this fact, she’d folded them primly on the table. When she glanced at Andrew, her pupils dilated, though she was trying not to look at him at all. Above the neckline of her silky blouse, her skin was flushed, nearly blotchy. Even her lips looked redder. It was like watching the Discovery Channel’s show on the science of attraction.

If Natalie was…affected, well, Andrew was terrified. His forehead was dotted with sweat, and the tips of his ears were so red they looked ready to burst into flame. His voice was faster than usual, and he made a point to smile at me often, though he couldn’t seem to look me straight in the eye.

“Well,” he said the minute he could escape, “I should get back to my workmates there. Um, Grace…you…you look great. Wonderful to see you.” He gave me a fast hug, and I could feel the damp heat from his neck, smell the childlike sweetness of his skin, like a baby at naptime. Then he stepped back abruptly. “Natalie, uh, take care.”

She lifted her gaze from the table, and the elephant seemed to trip, fall and crash right on top of the table. Because shining in her gorgeous, sky-blue eyes was a world of misery and guilt and love and hopelessness, and I, who loved no one as much as I loved Natalie, felt it like a shovel to the head. “Take care, Andrew,” she said briskly.

Both of us watched him walk away to rejoin his friends on the other side of the mercifully large restaurant.

“Want to go somewhere else?” Natalie suggested when Andrew was out of range.

“No, no, I’m fine. I like it here,” I said heartily. “Besides, dinner should be out soon.” We smiled at each other.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Oh, yeah,” I lied. “Sure. I mean, I loved him and all, he really is a great guy, but…you know. He wasn’t The One.” I made quote marks out of my fingers.

“He wasn’t?”

“Nope. I mean, he’s a great guy and all, but…” I paused, pretended to think. “I don’t know. There was something missing.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes thoughtful.

Our dinners came. I’d ordered a steak; Nat had salmon. The potatoes were great. We ate and chatted about movies and our family, books and TV shows. When we got the check, Natalie paid and I let her. Then we stood up. My sister didn’t look in Andrew’s direction, just walked smoothly to the door in front of me.

But I glanced back. Saw Andrew staring at Natalie like a junkie needing a fix, raw and hurting and naked. He didn’t see me looking—he only had eyes for Nat.

I caught up to my sister. “Thanks, Nattie,” I said.

“Oh, Grace, it was nothing,” she answered, perhaps a bit too emotionally for the circumstances.

My heart thudded in my chest on the elevator ride down. I remembered my fourth birthday. Remembered the barrettes. The Saturday-morning cuddling. Her face as I’d left for college. I remembered that hospital waiting room, the smell of old coffee, the glare of the lights as I’d promised God anything,
anything,
if He’d save my sister. I considered what was in Natalie’s eyes when she looked up at Andrew.

I imagined what kind of character it took to walk away from what might be the love of your life for the sake of another. To feel the big kablammy and not be able to do a thing about it. I wondered if I had the selflessness for an act of that magnitude. I asked myself what kind of heart I really had. What kind of sister I really was.

“I had this very strange thought,” I said as we walked back toward Natalie’s apartment, arm in arm.

“So many of your thoughts are strange,” she said, almost hitting our usual vibe.

“Well, this one is pretty out there, but it feels right,” I said, stopping on the corner of the New Haven Green. “Natalie, I think you should…” I paused. “I think you should go out with Andrew. I think he might’ve met the wrong sister first.”

Those amazing Natalie eyes flashed again—shock, guilt, sorrow, pain…and hope. Yup. Hope. “Grace, I would never…” she began.

“I know. I really do,” I murmured. “But I think you and Andrew should talk.”

I met Andrew for dinner a few days later. Told him the same thing I told Natalie. The same emotions flashed over his face as had flashed across hers, with one more. Gratitude. He put up a few gentlemanly objections, then caved, as I knew he would. I suggested they meet in person, rather than talk on the phone or e-mail. They took my suggestion. Natalie called me the day after their first meeting, and in tones of gentle wonder, told me how they’d walked through New Haven, ending up shivering on a bench under the graceful trees in Wooster Square, just talking. She asked, repeatedly, if this was really okay, and I assured her it was.

And it was, except for just one problem, so far as I could see. I wasn’t sure I was quite over Andrew myself.