Too Good to Be True (12 page)

“So you’re afraid to
commit,
afraid things won’t work
out,
so you can’t
fail
if you don’t
try,
correct? All right!” Lou said, not waiting for an answer. “And you, miss? What’s your name?”

I took a deep breath. “Hi. I’m Grace.” I paused. “I’m currently pretending to have a boyfriend. My sister’s dating my ex-fiancé, and to make everyone think I was fine with that, I told my family I’ve been seeing this fabulous guy. How’s that for pathetic? And like you, Karen, I’ve been on some astonishingly bad dates, and I’m getting a little nervous, because my sister and Andrew are getting serious, and I’d really like to find someone. Soon. Very soon.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“I’ve made up boyfriends, too,” Karen said, nodding her head slowly. “The best man I ever dated was all in my head.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed.

“I did it, too,” Michelle said. “I even bought myself an engagement ring. It was beautiful. Exactly what I wanted. For three months, I wore that thing. Told everyone I knew I was getting married. It got so I was trying on dresses on the weekends. Sick, really. Looking back, though, it was one of my happier times.”

“This brings up one of my
strategies,
” Lou announced. “Men love women who are
taken,
so Grace, your little
ruse
isn’t the worst idea in the
world.
It’s a great way to get a man
intrigued.
A woman who is sought out by other
men
shows that she has a certain
appeal!
”

“Or a certain lack of
honesty,
” I offered.

Lou guffawed heartily. Beside me, Julian winced. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought this was worth a shot.”

“It’s only sixty bucks,” I whispered back. “Plus we can get margaritas after.”

“Let’s get
going
with the class. Some of these
things
are going to sound a little
silly,
maybe, a little old-
fashioned,
but the name of the class is Meeting Mr.
Right,
and my methods
work
.” He paused. “For you, Julian, I’m not so sure, but give it a try and let me know how it’s going, okay?”

“Sure,” Julian said glumly.

For the next hour, I bit my lip to keep from snorting and did not look at Julian, who was similarly struggling. Everything Lou said sounded silly, all right. Downright idiotic, sometimes. It was like we were stepping back in time to the 1950s or something.
Be feminine and proper.
An image of me clubbing Callahan O’ Shea came to mind. So proper, so ladylike.
No swearing, smoking or drinking more than one small glass of wine, which should not be finished. Make the man feel strong. Make yourself as attractive as possible. Makeup at all times. Skirts. Be approachable. Smile. Laugh, but quietly. Flutter your eyelashes. Bake cookies often. Exude serenity and grace. Ask for a man’s help and flatter his opinions.

Gack.

“For example,” Lou said, “you should go to the
hardware
store. There are lots of
men
at a
hardware
store. Pretend you don’t
know
which
lightbulb
to choose. Ask for the man’s
opinion
.”

“Come on!” I blurted. “Lou, please! Who would want to date a woman who can’t choose her own lightbulb?”

“I
know
what you’re
thinking,
Grace,” Lou sang out. “This is not
me.
But let’s face it.
‘You’
isn’t working, or
‘you’
wouldn’t be in this
class
. Am I right?”

“He’s got us there,” Karen admitted with a sigh.

“T
HAT WAS FAIRLY
DEMEANING
,” I said, mimicking Lou’s rolling speech pattern as we sat at Blackie’s a half hour later, slurping down margaritas.

“At
least
it’s
over,
” Julian said.

“Okay, stop, you two. He has a point. Listen to this,” Kiki said, reading one of the handouts. “‘When in a restaurant or bar, square your shoulders, look around carefully and say to yourself,
I am the most desirable woman here.
This will help you exude the confidence necessary to make men notice you.’” She frowned in concentration.

“I am the most desirable woman here,” Julian said with mock earnestness.

“Problem is, you are,” I answered, nudging him in the ribs.

“Too bad you aren’t straight,” Kiki said. “Then you and I could hook up.”

“If I were straight, Grace and I would be married and have six kids by now,” Julian said valiantly, putting his arm around me.

“Aw,” I said, tilting my head against his shoulder. “Six, though? Seems like a lot.”

“I’m gonna try it,” Kiki said. “It’s our homework, right? So here goes nothing. By the way,
I
am the most desirable woman here, and I’m exuding confidence.” She smiled and stood up, then walked over to the bar, crossing her arms and leaning on the counter so her breasts swelled like ocean waves in a storm surge.

A man noticed immediately. He turned, smiled appreciatively and said something.

It was Callahan O’ Shea.

My face flushed. “Crap,” I hissed. God forbid that Kiki mention the class, for one, since Callahan would know I wasn’t dating anyone, and for two…well…if Kiki was turning over a new leaf with men, shouldn’t she know Callahan was recently released from prison? And should he know she tended to be a little wacko when it came to men?

“Maybe I should warn her,” I murmured to Julian, not taking my eyes off the two of them. “That’s my neighbor. The ex-con.” I’d told Julian about Cal’s past.

“Oh, I don’t know. Embezzlement didn’t sound so bad,” Julian said, sipping his piña colada. “And God, Grace. You didn’t tell me he was so hot.”

“Yeah, well…” My voice trailed off. Kiki said something, Callahan replied, and Kiki threw her head back, laughing. My eye twitched. “I…I’ll be right back,” I said.

Walking over to the bar, I touched Kiki’s arm. “Kiki, can I talk to you a sec?” I said. I turned to my neighbor. “Hi, Callahan.” I was already blushing. Wondered how my hair was. Dang it. I wanted to look pretty because Callahan O’ Shea was looking at me.

“Hi, Grace,” he said. He smiled…just a little, but enough. The man was just unfairly attractive.

“Oh, do you two know each other?” Kiki asked.

“Yes. We live next door to each other. He just moved in.”

I hesitated, not sure I was doing the right thing. But Kiki had been my friend for years. Wouldn’t I want to know if a guy I was interested in had just left prison? If she knew, she could make her own decision. Right?

Callahan was watching me. Dang it. I’d bet the farm that he knew what I was thinking.

“Kiki, Julian and I have a question,” I finally said.

“Sure,” she said uncertainly. I dragged her off a few paces, not looking at Cal. “Um, Kiki,” I whispered, “that guy just got out of prison. For embezzling over a million dollars.” I bit my lip.

She winced. “Oh, damn!” she said. “Isn’t this typical? Leave it to me to pick the criminal. Crap. Of course he’s gorgeous, too, right?”

“And he seems…well, he’s…I just figured you should know.”

“No, you’re right, Grace. I have a hard enough time as it is, right? Don’t need to date an ex-con.”

With me trailing a step or two behind, Kiki went back to the bar and took her drink from the bartender. Callahan was watching us. His smile was gone. “Cal, nice meeting you,” Kiki said politely.

His eyes flicked to me in a knowing glance, but he simply inclined his head in a courtly manner. “Have a good night,” he said, turning back to the baseball game on the TV above the bar. Kiki and I hightailed it back to our table.

Our artichoke dip had arrived, and Julian was already eating, gazing across the restaurant with his soulful gypsy eyes at a good-looking blond guy who was returning his gaze with equal intensity.

“Go for it,” I said, nodding toward the guy. “You’re the most desirable woman here.”

“He looks like that football player. Tom Brady,” Julian murmured.

“How do you know who Tom Brady is?” I asked.

“Every gay man in America knows who Tom Brady is,” he said.

“Maybe he
is
Tom Brady,” Kiki said. “You never know. Go ahead, give it a shot. Make him feel manly and smart. Use those feminine wiles.”

For a second, Julian seemed to consider it, then his shoulders dropped. “Nah,” he said. “Why do I need a man when I have you two beautiful girls?”

For the rest of the night, I shot little glances at Callahan O’ Shea’s back as he ate a hamburger and watched the baseball game. He did not look back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

O
N
S
ATURDAY MORNING
, I
WAS
once again wrenched out of bed by Angus’s hysteria and staggered down the stairs to open the door. This time, it was Margaret, a suitcase in tow, a glower on her face.

“I’m here,” she said. “Got any coffee?”

“Sure, sure, let me put it on,” I answered, still squinting. I’d been up late last night watching all two hundred and twenty-nine smarmily glorious minutes of
Gods and Generals,
weeping copiously as General Jackson barked out his last delirious orders to First Virginia. I think it’s fair to say I had a Confederate hangover, so Margaret in all her grouchy glory, first thing in the morning…ouch. I followed her as she stomped into the kitchen.

“So what happened?” I asked as I measured out coffee grounds.

“Here’s the thing, Grace,” Margaret said in her master and commander voice. “Don’t marry a man you love like a brother, okay?”

“Brothers, bad. Got it.”

“I’m serious, smart-ass.” She bent over and scooped up Angus, who was chewing on her shoe. “I said to Stuart last night, ‘How come we never have sex on the kitchen table?’ And you know what he said?” Margaret glared at me accusingly.

“What?” I asked, sitting down at the table with her.

She lowered her voice to imitate her husband. “‘I’m not sure that’s sanitary.’ Can you fucking believe that? How many men would turn down kitchen-table sex? You want to know when Stuart and I do it?”

“No, I absolutely do not,” I answered.

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday,” she snapped.

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds pretty good to—”

“It’s in his daily planner. He puts a little star in the nine o’clock slot to remind him. Intercourse with Wife. Check.”

“But still, it’s nice that he—”

“And that’s the whole problem, Grace. Not enough passion. So I’m here.”

“At the home of passion,” I murmured.

“Well, I can’t just stay there! Maybe he’ll notice me a little more now! Maybe not! I don’t really care at this point. I’m thirty-four years old, Grace. I want to have sex on the kitchen table! Is that so wrong?”

“I know I wouldn’t say so,” came a voice. We both turned. Callahan O’ Shea stood in the kitchen doorway. Angus exploded into his usual sound and fury, struggling to get out of Margaret’s arms. “I knocked,” Cal said, grinning. “Hi, I’m Callahan. The good-looking neighbor.”

Margaret’s expression morphed from furious to rapacious, a lion staring at a three-legged baby zebra. “Hi, Callahan the good-looking neighbor,” she said in a sultry voice. “I’m Margaret the horny sister.”

“The horny
married
sister,” I inserted. “Margaret, meet Callahan O’ Shea. Cal, my sister, pretty happily married for lo these many years, currently suffering from what I believe is called the seven-year itch.”

“Hey, it has been seven years, hasn’t it?” Margaret snapped out of her lustful daze. “So you’re the embezzler, huh?”

“That’s right.” Cal inclined his head, then turned to me. “Not fit for decent company, right, Grace?”

My face went nuclear. Ah, yes. Kiki and the warning. Callahan’s expression was decidedly cold.

“Grace, your windows came yesterday afternoon. If you want, I can get started today.”

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine this guy stealing my Victorian Santa collection. “Sure.”

“How about if I only work when you’re around?” he suggested. “That way you can keep an eye on your checkbook and family heirlooms, maybe pat me down before I go.”

“Or I can do that,” Margaret volunteered.

“Very funny,” I said. “Install the windows. Will it take long?”

“Three days. Maybe five, depending on how the old ones come out. I might need a hand with that, if your boyfriend’s around today.”

Gosh. Almost forgot about that pesky boyfriend. Margaret looked at me sharply. “Mmm. He’s working,” I said, shooting her a silent warning.

“He doesn’t seem to come around much, from what I’ve noticed.” Cal folded his big arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, he’s very busy,” I said.

“What does he do again?” Callahan asked.

“He’s a…” I really wished I’d picked something less sappy. “A pediatric surgeon,” I said.

“So noble,” Margaret murmured, smiling into her coffee cup.

Callahan’s hair was sticking up on one side, and my fingers wondered what it would feel like to run through that silky, misbehaving, adorable mess. I told my fingers to stop daydreaming.

“So, sure, okay, you can start today, Cal,” I said. “Would you like some coffee first?”

“No. Thank you,” he said. So much for my peace offering. “Where do you want me to start? And do you want to make a sweep of the room first?”

“Okay, listen. I’m sorry I told my friend you just got out of the slammer. But you
are
an admitted criminal, so…”

“So?” he said.

I sighed. “So you can start in here, I guess.”

“The kitchen it is.” He turned and walked down the hall toward the front door.

When he was safely outside, presumably to get my first window, Margaret leaned forward. “Are you guys fighting? And why did you tell him you have a boyfriend?” she asked. “He’s gorgeous. I’d do him in a New York minute.”

“We’re not fighting! We hardly know each other. And yes, he’s gorgeous, but that’s beside the point.”

“Why? I thought you were looking to get laid.”

“Shh! Lower your voice. I told him I was seeing someone.”

“Why’d you tell him that?” Margaret took a sip of her coffee.

I sighed. “Natalie was over last weekend, asking all these questions about Wyatt…” Margaret, the least fanciful creature on earth, never did understand the comfort of my imaginary boyfriends. “Anyway. I don’t think it’s a bad thing for him to think there’s a man who stops by occasionally. Just in case he’s casing my joint.”

“Wouldn’t mind if he cased mine.” I gave her a dirty look. “Right. Well. He’s hot. Wonder if he’s interested in an affair.”

“Margaret!”

“Relax. Just kidding.”

“Margs, speaking of dates, weren’t you going to fix me up with the blacksmith? I’m getting a little desperate here.”

“Right, right. Metalsmith. Lester. Weird. I’ll call him.”

“Great,” I muttered. “I can’t wait.”

She took another sip of coffee. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving. Oh, and I brought some dirty laundry, hope that’s all right. I just had to get out of the house. And if Stuart calls, I don’t want to talk to him, okay?”

“Of course. Anything else, Majesty?”

“Can you pick up some skim milk? This half-and-half will kill me.” Margaret was one of those people who ate nonfat cheese and didn’t know she was missing anything.

Callahan came into the kitchen carrying a new window and leaned it against the wall.

“Are you married, good-looking neighbor?” Margs asked.

“Nope,” came his answer. “Is that a proposal?”

Margaret grinned wickedly. “Maybe,” she murmured.

“Margaret! Leave him alone.”

“How much time did you actually serve, Al Capone?” Margs asked. “God, his ass in those jeans,” she whispered to me, not taking her eyes off his backside.

“Stop it,” I whispered back.

“Nineteen months,” Cal answered. “And thanks.” He winked at Margaret. My uterus twitched in response.

“Nineteen months on three-to-five?” Margs asked.

“Yup. You’ve done your homework,” he said, smiling at my sister. My beautiful sister. Beautiful, red-haired, smart as a whip, razor-witted sister in a high-income bracket and a size four to boot.

“Well, Grace asked me to check you out, being that you’re a threat to her security.”

“Shut it, Margaret,” I said, blushing.

“Any other questions?” Cal asked mildly.

“Have you had a woman since you got out?” Margaret asked, studying her fingernails.

“God’s nightgown!” I yelped.

“You mean did I swing by the local whorehouse on my way into town?” Cal asked.

“Correct,” Margaret affirmed, ignoring my offended squeaks.

“No. No women.”

“Wow. How about in the big house? Any girlfriends?” she asked. I closed my eyes.

Callahan, however, laughed. “It wasn’t that kind of prison.”

“You must be so lonely,” Margaret said, smiling wickedly at Cal’s back.

“Are you done interrogating him?” I snapped. “He has work to do, Margaret.”

“Party pooper,” Margaret said. “But you’re right. And I have to go into the office. I’m a lawyer, Callahan, did Grace tell you? Criminal defense. Would you like my card?”

“I’m completely reformed,” he said with a grin that promised all sorts of illicit behavior.

“I know people in the parole office. Very well, in fact. I’ll be watching.”

“You do that,” he answered.

“I’ll help you get settled,” I offered, hauling Margaret out of her chair and grabbing her suitcase. “You can’t have an affair with him,” I hissed once we were upstairs. “You will not cheat on Stuart. He’s wonderful, Margaret. And he’s heartbroken. I saw him at school the other day, and he looked like a kicked puppy.”

“Good. At least he’s noticing me now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re so spoiled.”

“I have to go to the office,” she said, ignoring my last comment. “I’ll see you for dinner, okay? Feel like cooking?”

“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t be here.”

“Why? Date with Wyatt?” she asked, raising a silken eyebrow.

I reached up to smooth my difficult hair. “Um, no. Well, yes. We’re going to Nat’s for dinner. Double date.”

“Holy Mary the Eternal Virgin, Grace,” my sister muttered.

“I know, I know. Wyatt will end up in emergency surgery, bless his talented heart.”

“You’re an idiot. Hey, thanks for letting me crash here,” Margs said at the door to the guest room, vaguely remembering that she should be grateful.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Leave Callahan alone.”

For the next few minutes, I found things to do upstairs, away from my neighbor. Took a shower. As the warm water streamed over me, I wondered what would happen if Callahan O’ Shea walked in. Tugged his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, slid out of those faded jeans and stepped in here with me, enfolding me in his brawny arms, his mouth hot and demanding, his—I blinked hard, turned the water to cold and finished up.

Margaret headed into her office, calling out a cheerful goodbye to Callahan and me, seeming rather depressingly chipper about leaving her husband. I wrote up a quiz on the Reconstruction for my seniors, using my laptop and not the larger computer downstairs. Corrected essays from my sophomores on the FDR administration. Downstairs, the whine of the saw and thump of the hammer and the offhanded, tuneless whistle of Callahan O’ Shea blended into a pleasant cacophony.

Angus, though he still growled occasionally, gave up trying to tunnel under my bedroom door and lay on his back in a puddle of sunlight, his crooked bottom teeth showing most adorably. I concentrated on my students’ work, writing notes in the margins, comments at the end, praising them lavishly for moments of clarity, pointing out areas that could’ve used some work.

I went downstairs a while later. Four of the eight downstairs windows were already in. Cal glanced in my direction. “I don’t think I’ll have to replace those sills. If the windows upstairs are as easy as the ones downstairs, I’ll be done Monday or Tuesday.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. “They look great.”

“Glad you like them.”

He looked at me, unsmiling, unmoving. I looked back. And looked. And looked some more. His was a rugged face, and yes, handsome, but it was his eyes that got me. Callahan O’ Shea had a story in those eyes.

The air seemed to thicken between us, and I could feel my face—and other parts—growing warm.

“I’d better get back to work,” he said, and, turning his back on me, he did just that.