Too Good to Be True (11 page)

Another glance at Mr. Lawrence revealed the same level of attention as before—that is to say, none. Mr. Lawrence was nonverbal, a tiny, shrunken man with white hair and vacant eyes, hands that constantly plucked at his clothes and the arms of his easy chair. In all the months I’d been reading to him, I had never heard him speak. Hopefully, he was enjoying our sessions on some level and not mentally screaming for James Joyce. “Well. Back to our story.
His mind raced. Dare he take the promise of forbidden passion and sheath his rock-hard desire in the heaven of her soft and hidden treasure?
”

“I think he should go for it.”

I jumped, dropping my tawdry paperback. Callahan O’ Shea stood in the doorway, shrinking the size of the room. “Irish! What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What are you doing here, is a better question.”

“I’m reading to Mr. Lawrence. He likes it.” Hopefully Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t lurch out of his two-year silence and deny that fact. “He’s part of my reading program.”

“Is that right? He’s also my grandfather,” Callahan said, crossing his arms.

My head jerked back in surprise. “This is your grandfather?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, I read to…to patients sometimes.”

“To everyone?”

“No,” I answered. “Just the patients who don’t get—” My voice broke off midsentence.

“Who don’t get visitors,” Callahan finished.

“Right,” I acknowledged.

I had started my little reading program about four years ago when Mémé first moved here. Having visitors was a huge status symbol at Golden Meadows, and one day I’d wandered into this unit—the secure unit—and found that too many folks were alone, their families too far to visit often or just unable to stand the sadness of this wing. So I started reading. Granted,
My Lord’s Wanton Desire
wasn’t a classic—not in literary terms, anyway—but it did seem to keep the attention of my listeners. Mrs. Kim in Room 39 had actually wept when Lord Barton popped the question to Clarissia.

Callahan pushed off from the doorway and came into the room. “Hi, Pop,” he said, kissing the old man’s head. His grandfather didn’t acknowledge him. My eyes stung a little as Cal looked at the frail old man, who, as always, was neatly dressed in trousers and a cardigan.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” I said, getting up.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for visiting him.” He hesitated, then looked up at me and smiled, and my heart swelled. “He liked biographies, back in the day.”

“Okay,” I said. “Personally, I think the duke and the prostitute are a little more invigorating, but if you say so.” I paused. “Were you guys close?” I found myself asking.

“Yes,” he answered. Callahan’s expression was unreadable, his eyes on his grandfather’s face as the old man plucked at his sweater. Callahan put his hand over the old man’s, stilling the nervous, constant movement. “He raised us. My brother and me.”

I hesitated, wanting to be polite, but curiosity got the better of me. “What happened to your parents?” I asked.

“My mother died when I was eight,” he said. “I never met my father.”

“I’m sorry.” He nodded once in acknowledgment. “What about your brother? Does he live around here?”

Cal’s face hardened. “I think he’s out West. He’s…estranged. There’s just me.” He paused, his face softening as he looked at his grandfather.

I swallowed. Suddenly, my family seemed pretty damn wonderful, despite Mom and Dad’s constant bickering, Mémé’s stream of criticism. The aunts and uncles, mean old Cousin Kitty…and my sisters, of course, that primal, ferocious love I felt for both my sisters. I couldn’t imagine being estranged from either of them, ever.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

Cal looked up, then gave a rueful laugh. “Well. I had a normal enough childhood. Played baseball. Went camping. Fly-fishing. The usual boy stuff.”

“That’s good,” I said. My cheeks burned. The sound of Callahan’s laugh reverberated in my chest. No denying it. I found Mr. O’ Shea way too attractive.

“So how often do you come here?” Callahan asked.

“Oh, usually once or twice a week. I teach Dancin’ with the Oldies with my friend Julian. Every Monday, seven-thirty to nine.” I smiled. Maybe he’d drop by. See how cute I looked in my swirly skirts, swishing away, delighting the residents. Maybe—

“Dance class, huh?” he said. “You don’t look the type.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“You’re not built like a dancer,” he commented.

“You should probably stop talking now,” I advised.

“Got a little more meat on your bones than those girls you see on TV.”

“You should definitely stop talking now.” I glared. He grinned.

“And aren’t dancers graceful?” he continued. “Not prone to hitting people with rakes and the like?”

“Maybe there’s just something about you that invites a hockey stick,” I suggested tartly. “I’ve never hit Wyatt, after all.”

“Yet,” Callahan responded. “Where is the perfect man, anyway? Still haven’t seen him around the neighborhood.” His eyes were mocking, as if he knew damn well why. Because no cat-loving, good-looking pediatric surgeon would go for a wild-haired history teacher who enjoyed pretending to bleed to death on the weekends. My pride answered before my brain had a chance.

“Wyatt’s in Boston this week, presenting a paper on a new recovery protocol in patients under ten,” I said. Good Lord. Where had I pulled that from? All those Discovery Health shows were starting to pay off, apparently.

“Oh.” He looked suitably impressed…or so it seemed to me. “Well. Any reason for you to hang around, then?”

I was dismissed. “No. None. So. Bye, Mr. Lawrence. I’ll finish reading the book when your charming grandson isn’t around.”

“Good night, Grace,” Callahan said, but I didn’t answer, choosing instead to walk briskly (and gracefully, damn it) out of the room.

My mood was thorny as I drove home. While Callahan O’ Shea was completely right to doubt the existence of Wyatt Dunn, it bugged me. Surely, were such a man to exist, he could like me. It shouldn’t seem so impossible, right? Maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there was a real pediatric surgeon with dimples and a great smile. Not just magicians with tendencies toward arson and religious nut jobs and too-knowing ex-cons.

At least Angus worshipped me. God must’ve had single women in mind when he invented dogs. I accepted his gift of a ruined roll of paper towels and a chewed-up sneaker, praised him for not destroying anything else and got ready for bed.

I imagined telling Wyatt Dunn about my day. How he’d laugh at the bad dates—well, of course, there would be no bad dates if he were a real person—but still. He’d laugh and we’d talk and make plans for the weekend. We’d have a gentle, sweet, thoughtful relationship. We’d hardly ever fight. He’d think I was the loveliest creature to walk the earth. He’d even adore my hair. He’d send me flowers, just to let me know he was thinking of me.

And even though I knew quite well he wasn’t real, I felt better. The old imaginary boyfriend was doing what he did best. I knew I was a good, smart, valuable person. If the dating pool of Connecticut failed to provide a worthy choice, well, what was the harm in a little visualization? Didn’t Olympic athletes do that? Picture a perfect dive or dismount in order to achieve it? Wyatt Dunn was the same idea.

The fact that Callahan O’ Shea’s face kept coming to mind was purely coincidental, I was sure.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“W
HO IS
J
EB
S
TUART
?” Tommy Michener suggested.

“Correct!” I said, grinning. His teammates cheered, and Tommy, who was captain of his team, flushed with pride. “Pick again, Tom!”

“I’ll stick with Civil War Leaders, Ms. Em,” he said.

“Leaders for a thousand. This vice president of the Confederacy was sickly his whole life, never weighing more than one hundred pounds.”

Hunter’s team buzzed in. “Who is Jefferson Davis?” Mallory guessed.

“No, honey, sorry, he was the
president
of the Confederacy. Tommy, does your team have a guess?” The kids huddled together, conferring.

Emma Kirk, the day student with a crush on Tommy, whispered into his ear. I’d made sure they were on the same team. He asked her a question. She nodded. “Who is Little Aleck Stephens?” Emma said.

“Yes, Emma! Well done!”

Tommy high-fived Emma, who practically levitated in pleasure.

I beamed at my students. Civil War Jeopardy! was a hit. With a glance at the clock, I was shocked to see our time was almost over. “Okay, Final Jeopardy! everyone. Ready? This Pulitzer Prize–winning author, whose book details the rise and fall of the South as seen through one woman’s eyes, never wrote another novel.”

I hummed the theme from
Jeopardy!
with gusto, strolling back and forth between the two groups of kids. Tommy’s team was kicking some serious butt; however my favorite student was showing off for Kerry, who was on the other team, and chances were he’d bet it all.

“Pens down. Okay, Hunter, your team had nine thousand points. Your wager? Oh, I see you’ve bet the farm. Very bold. Okay, Hunter. Your answer, please?”

He held up his team’s wipe away board. I winced. “No. Sorry, Hunter. Stephen Crane is not the answer. But he did write
The Red Badge of Courage,
which is about the Battle of Chancellorsville, so nice try. Tommy? What did you bet?”

“We bet it all, Ms. Em,” he said proudly, glancing over at Kerry and winking. Emma’s smile dropped a notch.

“And your answer, Tom?”

Tom turned to his team. “Who is Margaret Mitchell?” they chorused.

“Correct!” I shouted.

You’d think they’d won the World Series or something—screams of victory, lots of high fives and dancing around, a few hugs. Meanwhile, Hunter Graystone’s team groaned.

“Tommy’s team…no homework for you!” I announced. More cheering and high-fiving. “Hunter’s team, sorry, kids. Three pages on Margaret Mitchell, and if you haven’t read
Gone With the Wind,
shame on you! Okay, class dismissed.”

Ten minutes later, I was seated in the conference room in Lehring Hall with my fellow history department members—Dr. Eckhart, the chairman; Paul Boccanio, who was next in seniority; the unfortunately named Wayne Diggler, our newest teacher, hired last year right out of graduate school; and Ava Machiatelli, sex kitten.

“Your class sounded quite out of control today,” Ava murmured in her trademark phone-sex whisper. “So much chaos! My class could hardly think.”

Not that they need to for you to give them an A,
I grumbled internally. “We were playing Jeopardy!” I said with a smile. “Very invigorating.”

“Very noisy, too.” A reproachful blink…another…and, yes, a third blink.

Dr. Eckhart shuffled to the head of the table and sat down, an activity that took considerable time and effort. Then he gave his trademark phlegmy, barking cough that caused first-years to jump in their seats until about November. A distinguished gentleman with an unfortunate aversion to daily bathing, Dr. Eckhart was from the olden days of prep schools where the kids wore uniforms and could be locked in closets for misbehaving, if not beaten with rulers. He often mourned those happy times. Aside from that, he was a brilliant man.

He now straightened and folded his arthritic hands in front of him. “This year will be my last as chairman of the history department at Manning, as you have doubtless all heard.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t imagine Manning without old Dr. E. Who would huddle in a corner with me at trustee functions or the dreaded Headmaster’s Dinner? Who would defend me when angry parents called about their kid’s B+?

“Headmaster Stanton has invited me to advise the search committee, and of course I encourage all of you to apply for the position, as Manning has always prided itself on promotion from within.” He turned to the youngest member of our staff. “Mr. Diggler, you, of course, are far too inexperienced, so please save your energy for your classes.”

Wayne, who felt that his degree from Georgetown trumped all the rest of ours put together, slumped in his seat and sulked. “Fine,” he muttered. “Like I’m not headed for Exeter, anyway.” Wayne often promised to leave when things didn’t go his way, which was about twice a week.

“Complete your sentences, please, Mr. Diggler, until that happy day.” Dr. Eckhart smiled at me, then gave another barking cough. It was no secret that I was a bit of a pet with our elderly chair, thanks to regular infusions of Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies and my membership in Brother Against Brother.

“Actually, speaking of Phillips Exeter,” began Paul, blushing slightly. He was a balding, brilliant man with glasses and a photographic memory for dates.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Dr. Eckhart. “Are congratulations in order, Mr. Boccanio?”

Paul grinned. “I’m afraid so.”

It wasn’t that uncommon, prep schools poaching teachers, and Paul had a great background, especially given that he’d actually worked in the real world before becoming a teacher. Add to that his impressive education—Stanford/Yale, for heaven’s sake—and it was no wonder that he’d been nabbed.

“Traitor,” I murmured. I really liked Paul. He winked in response. “That leaves my two esteemed female colleagues,” Dr. Eckhart wheezed. “Very well, ladies, I’ll expect you to submit your applications. Prepare your presentations in paper form, none of this computer nonsense, please, detailing your qualifications and ideas for improvements, such as they may be, to Manning’s history department.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Ava murmured, batting her eyelashes like Scarlett O’ Hara.

“Very well,” Dr. Eckhart said now, straightening his stained shirt. “The search begins next week, when we shall post the opening in the appropriate venues.”

“You’ll be terribly missed, Dr. Eckhart,” I said huskily.

“Ah. Thank you, Grace.”

“Oh, yes. It won’t be the same without you,” Ava hastily seconded.

“Indeed.” He hauled himself out of the chair on his third attempt and shuffled out the door. I swallowed thickly.

“Good luck, girls,” Paul said cheerfully. “If you’d like to have a Jell-O wrestling match, winner gets the job, I’d be happy to judge.”

“We’ll miss you so,” I said, grinning.

“It’s so unfair,” whined Wayne. “When I was at Georgetown, I had dinner with C. Vann Woodward!”

“And I had sex with Ken Burns,” I quipped, getting a snort from Paul. “Not to mention the fact that I was an extra in
Glory.
” That part was true. I’d been eleven years old, and Dad took me up to Sturbridge so we could be part of the crowd scene as the 54th Massachusetts Regiment left for the South. “It was the best moment of my childhood,” I added. “Better even than when that guy from
MacGyver
opened the new mall.”

“You’re pathetic,” Wayne mumbled.

“Grow up, little man,” breathed Ava. “You don’t have what it takes to run a department.”

“And you do, Marilyn Monroe?” he snapped. “I’m too good for this place!”

“I’ll be happy to accept your resignation when I’m chair,” I said graciously. Wayne slammed his hands on the table, followed by some stomping, followed by his most welcomed departure.

“Well,” Ava sighed. “Best of luck, Grace.” She smiled insincerely.

“Right back at you,” I said. I didn’t really dislike Ava—prep schools were such tiny little worlds, so insulated from the rest of the world that coworkers became almost like family. But the idea of working under her, having her approve or disapprove my lesson plans, rankled. Watching her leave with Paul, her ass swinging vigorously under a too-tight skirt, I found that my teeth were firmly clenched.

For another minute or two, I sat alone in the conference room and allowed myself a tingling little daydream. That I got the chairmanship. Hired a fantastic new teacher to replace Paul. Revitalized the curriculum, raised the bar on grades so that an A in history from Manning meant something special. Increased the number of kids who took—and aced—the AP test. Got more money in the budget for field trips.

Well. I’d better get started on a presentation, just as Dr. Eckhart suggested. Tight sweaters and easy A’s aside, Ava had a sharp mind and was much more of a political creature than I was, which would definitely help her. Now I wished I had chitchatted a bit more at last fall’s faculty/trustee cocktail party, instead of hiding in the corner, sipping bad merlot and swapping obscure historical trivia with Dr. Eckhart and Paul.

I loved Manning. Loved the kids, adored working here on this beautiful campus, especially at this time of year, when the trees were coming into bloom and New England was at her finest. The leaves were just budding out, a haze of pale green, lush beds of daffodils edged the emerald lawns, the kids decorating the grass in their brightly colored clothing, laughing, flirting, napping.

I spied a lone figure walking across the quad. His head was down, and he seemed oblivious to the wonders of the day. Stuart. Margaret had e-mailed me to say that she’d be staying with me for a while, so I gathered things weren’t better on that front.

Poor Stuart.

“W
ELCOME TO
M
EETING
M
R.
R
IGHT
,” said our teacher.

“I can’t believe we’ve been reduced to this,” I whispered to Julian, who gave me a nervous glance.

“My name is
Lou,
” our teacher continued plummily, “and I’ve been happily
married
for sixteen
wonderful
years!” I wondered if we were supposed to applaud. Lou beamed at us. “Every single
person
wants to find The
One
. The one who makes us feel
whole.
I know that my
Felicia—
” he paused again, then, when we failed to cheer, continued. “My Felicia does that for
me.
”

Julian, Kiki and I sat in a classroom at the Blainesford Community Center. (Kiki’s perfect man had dumped her on Wednesday after she’d called his cell fourteen times in one hour). There were two other women, as well as Lou, a good-looking man in his forties with a wedding ring about an inch wide, just so there’d be no misunderstandings. His rhythmic way of talking made him seem like a white suburban rapper. I shot Julian a condemning stare, which he pretended to ignore.

Lou smiled at us with all the sunny optimism of a Mormon preacher. “You’re all
here
for a
reason,
and there’s no
shame
in admitting it. You want a
man
…um, I am correct in assuming you also want a man, sir?” he asked, breaking off from his little song to look at Julian.

Julian, clad in a frilly pink shirt, shiny black pants and eyeliner, glanced at me. “Correct,” he mumbled.

“That’s
fine!
There’s nothing
wrong
with that! These methods work for, er…anyway. So let’s go
around
and just introduce
ourselves,
shall we? We’re going to get pretty
intimate
here, so we might as well be
friends,
” Lou instructed merrily. “Who’d like to go first?”

“Hi, I’m Karen,” said a woman. She was tall and attractive enough, dark hair, dressed in sweats, maybe around forty, forty-five. “I’m divorced, and you wouldn’t believe the freaks I meet. The last guy I went out with asked if he could suck my toes. In the restaurant, okay? When I said no, he called me a frigid bitch and left. And I had to pay the bill.”

“Wow,” I murmured.

“And this was the best date I’ve had in a year, okay?”

“Not for
long,
Karen, not for
long,
” Lou announced with great confidence.

“I’m Michelle,” said the next woman. “I’m forty-two and I’ve been on sixty-seven dates in the past four months. Sixty-seven first dates, that is. Want to know how many second dates I’ve been on? None. Because all those first dates were with idiots. My ex, now, he’s already married again. To Bambi, a waitress from Hooters. She’s twenty-three, okay? But I haven’t met one decent guy, so I hear you, Karen.”

Karen nodded in grim sympathy.

“Hi, I’m Kiki,” said my friend. “And I’m a teacher in a local school, so is there a vow of confidentiality in this class? Like, no one’s going to out me on the street, right?”

Lou laughed merrily. “There’s no
shame
in taking this
class,
Kiki, but if you’re more
comfortable,
I think we can all agree to keep our
enrollment
to
ourselves!
Please continue. What drove you to this
class?
Are you past
thirty?
Afraid you’ll never meet Mr.
Right?
”

“No, I meet him all the time. It’s just that I tend to…maybe…rush things a little?” She glanced at me, and I nodded in support. “I scare them away,” she admitted.

Julian was next. “I’m Julian. Um…I’m…I’ve only had one boyfriend, about eight years ago. I’m just kind of…scared. It’s not that I can’t meet a man…I get asked out all the time.” Of course he did, he looked like Johnny Depp, and already I could see the speculation in Karen’s eyes…
Hmm, wonder if I could get this one to jump the fence…