Too Good to Be True (19 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
T WAS QUITE A RELIEF
to have Julian back as a regular feature in my life. And not only did I have him, but also the handsome and debonair Tim Gunn, since
Project Runway
was on. Margaret had deigned to come downstairs, I’d made popcorn and brownies, and it was the happiest I’d felt in a good while.

This week had been tough at school. The kids were dying to do anything but learn, and the seniors’ year had basically ended once they’d heard from the colleges. I understood, had shown
Glory
instead of making them work, but still. I couldn’t do nothing, either, which was what Ava was doing…letting the seniors text their friends and gossip, despite the fact that classes wouldn’t end for weeks.

Speaking of Ava, her presentation to the board had been (from her own account, anyway) dazzling. The fact that she was sleeping with the chairman (according to Kiki, seconded by Paul and hinted at by Ava herself) certainly wasn’t hurting her cause. My presentation was soon, and I’d been going over it feverishly, wondering if I should pull back on the changes I wanted to make, stick with the status quo a bit more.

On the dating front, eCommitment had offered up a mortician whose passion was taxidermy (understandable, I guess, but that didn’t mean I had to date him) and an unemployed man who lived in his parents’ basement and collected Pokémon cards. Come on! I was tired of looking. Granted, I hadn’t been at it very long, but I wanted a break. I’d break up with Wyatt and just tell my family he was a workaholic, the end. Then I could relax and just enjoy life. I thought it was a great plan.

“Which one is that again?” Margaret asked, stuffing more popcorn into her mouth. She was supposedly working on a brief and did indeed have a yellow legal pad next to her, but it was forgotten as she succumbed to the siren call of my favorite show.

“That’s the one who made his mother a gown when he was six,” Julian answered, stroking Angus’s back. “The prodigy. He’s cute, too. I think he might be gay.”

“Really,” Margaret said. “Hmm. A guy who designs women’s clothing. Gay. Who knew?”

“Now, now. No need for stereotypes,” Julian chided.

“Said the gay male dance instructor,” Margaret added, grinning.

“Replied the angry, driven, heterosexual female defense attorney,” Julian countered.

“Retorted the man who spends thirty minutes on his hair each day, owns three cats and knits them sweaters,” Margaret said.

“Sniped the beautiful, bitter workaholic who walked out on her mild-mannered husband, essentially castrating him,” returned Julian. They grinned fondly at each other.

“You win,” Margaret said. “The angry hetero concedes to the dancing fairy.” Julian batted his impressive eyelashes at her.

“Children. Stop your bickering or there’s no ice cream for you,” I said, spreading my middle-child peacekeeping karma among them. “Oh, look, Tim’s giving them the challenge.” We fell silent, hanging on Tim Gunn’s every word. Of course, that was when the phone rang.

“Don’t get it,” hissed Julian, turning up the TV from the remote.

I disobeyed after glancing at the caller ID. “Hey, Nat.”

“Hi, Gissy! How’s it going?”

“I’m great,” I said, trying to listen to the show. Ooh. Dresses out of materials found at the dump. This would be a good one.

“What are you doing?” Natalie asked.

“Oh, um, we’re just watching
Project Runway,
” I answered.

“He’s there? Wyatt’s there?” Natalie squealed.

“No, Julian’s here. Wyatt’s in, um, Boston.”

Julian’s head snapped around, and he scootched closer to me so he could listen.
Project Runway
went into commercial.

“Well, listen, I wanted to ask you a favor. Andrew and I are going to come up on Friday for a family dinner. You know, the Carsons and you guys, and I wanted to make sure you could make it. With Wyatt.”

I winced.

“I think he can finally get away, don’t you, Grace? I mean, there are other doctors in Boston, right?” She chuckled.

“Uh, dinner? With the Carsons?” Margaret recoiled at the name, Julian looked stricken. They remembered the Carsons. I simulated shooting myself in the temple.

“Um…Friday?” I gestured to Margaret and Julian for help. “Gee, we, um…we sort of have plans.”

“Grace, come on!” Natalie said. “This is getting ridiculous.”

You have no idea,
I thought.

Margaret jumped up and pried the phone out of my hand. “Nat, it’s Margs.” Margaret listened for a second. “Well, shit, Nat, did you ever think that maybe Grace is afraid Wyatt will fall for you, too?”

“Stop! That’s not nice. Give me the phone, Margaret.” I wrestled the receiver out of my older sister’s hand and spoke soothingly to my younger sister. “I’m back, Nattie.”

“Grace, that’s not true, is it?” she whispered.

“Of course not! No!” I glared at Margaret, then lowered my voice. “I can tell you this, because I know you’ll understand.” Margaret sighed loudly. “Nat,” I continued, “you know how Wyatt and I don’t get to spend too much time together. And I told him I was losing patience. So he made these special plans…”

Nat was quiet for a minute. “Well, I guess you need a little time alone together.”

“Exactly. You understand. But tell the Carsons I said hello, and of course I’ll be seeing them soon at the wedding and all that.”

“Okay. Love you, Grace.”

“Love you, too, honey.” I clicked End and turned to my other sister and friend. “Wyatt and I are going to have a big fight,” I announced.

“Poor bastard. If only he wasn’t so committed to healing children,” Margaret said.

“I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken,” Julian said kindly.

I went into the kitchen for a drink of ice water, Angus pattering after me, hoping for a cookie. I obliged, knelt down and made my little dog sit up for his treat, then gave it to him and patted his head.

I was tired of Wyatt, tired of Margaret, too, tired of my parents’ bickering, tired of mean old Mémé, tired of Natalie and Andrew. For a second, I remembered Callahan O’ Shea asking me if my family did anything for me. Well. I was tired of thinking about him, too, because that just got me all hot and bothered and tingly in places long neglected, and then I didn’t sleep well, which made me feel more tired than ever.

When Natalie’s wedding was over, I was going to take a nice long vacation. Maybe go to Tennessee, see some of the battle sites down there. Maybe go to England. Or Paris, where I could possibly meet a real-life Jean-Philippe.

Angus rested his sweet head on my foot. “I love you, McFangus,” I said. “You’re Mommy’s best boy.”

Straightening up, I couldn’t help but check out Callahan O’ Shea’s house for signs of life. A soft light glowed in an upstairs window. Maybe a bedroom window. Maybe he was having sex with a potential wife. If I went upstairs, to the attic, for example, I might be able to see…or if I just bought some really good binoculars…or if I climbed up the lilac tree and went hand-over-hand along the drainpipe, then, yes, I’d have a perfect view of what was in that room. God’s nightgown, I was pathetic.

“Grace.” Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway. “Hey, you okay?”

“Oh, sure,” I said.

“Listen, I’m sending you and Julian out for dinner, okay? As a thank-you for letting me be such a pain in the ass and stay here.” Her voice was uncharacteristically kind.

“That’s nice of you.”

“I’ll have Junie make reservations, okay? Somewhere really swanky. Order lots to drink, get two desserts, the works.” She came over to me and put her arm around my shoulder, and from the porcupine sister, it was a horribly tender gesture. “And you can have all the more fun thinking of how you’re missing the Carsons.”

O
N
F
RIDAY NIGHT
, Julian and I were shown to a lovely table at Soleil, a beautiful restaurant overlooking the Connecticut River in Glastonbury. It was the kind of place I’d never eat in—very modern and expensive. We passed not only a glassed-in wine storage room on our way to our table, but a special, clear glass freezer full of designer vodka. On one end, the kitchen was exposed so we could see the chefs working madly away, sliding plates under the lights, chattering away in French. Our waiter, whose name was Cambry, handed us menu after menu—wine list, today’s specials, martini list, regular menu, staff picks, each bound in leather and printed in an elegant font. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, gazing at Julian. My friend ignored him, as was his custom.

“Look at this place, Grace,” Julian said as we pored over the martini list. “Just the sort of place Wyatt would take you.”

“You think? It’s a little too high pressure for me.”

“But he wants to impress you. He adores you.”

“That’s not enough, Wyatt,” I said with mock seriousness. “I understand how devoted you are to your work, but I want more. You’re a lovely man. Good luck. I’ll always care for you, but goodbye.”

Julian placed both of his hands over his heart “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I’ll always love you and regret that my work came between us, but I cannot abandon those poor children to some ham-handed caveman when I alone possess the necessary…” Julian’s head whipped around as a waiter passed. “Oh, that looks good. What is that, salmon? I think I might order that.” Julian looked back at me. “Where was I?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over. My family will be crushed.” My buddy laughed. “Julian,” I said more quietly, “you know how you said we weren’t going to keep looking for a man?”

“Yeah?” he said, frowning.

“Well, I still want a man.”

He sat back in his seat and sighed. “I know. Me, too. It’s just so hard.”

I sat back. “I have a crush on my neighbor. The ex-con.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Julian muttered.

“He’s just a little…”

“Much?” my friend suggested.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “I think he might like me, but as for doing anything about it, I’m just too…”

“Chickenshit?”

“Yes,” I admitted. Julian nodded in sympathy. “But what about you, Julian? You must have to fight men off with a stick. The waiter keeps looking at you. He’s cute. You could talk to him, at least.”

“Well, maybe I will.”

I gazed out the window at the river. The sun was sinking into a spectacular pile of buttery clouds, and the sky was pale peach and rose. It was lovely, and I felt myself relaxing.

“Okay, give it a try, Grace,” Julian said, once we’d ordered dinner (he’d ignored the cute waiter) and were sipping our cool and unusual martinis. “Remember Lou from Meeting Mr. Right? We already know rule number one.”

“I’m the most beautiful woman here,” I said obediently.

“Yes, Grace, but you have to feel it. Sit up straight. Stop shlunching.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, taking another sip.

“Rule number two. Look around the room and smile, because you know that every man here would be lucky to have you, and you can have any man you want.”

I did as told. My eyes stopped on an elderly man, well into his eighties. Sure,
he’d
be lucky to have me. As proven with Dave of the Leg Bag, I had a certain
je ne sais quoi
when it came to older men. But would the bartender, who looked hauntingly like a young Clark Gable
sans
moustache, feel that way?

“‘Believe in yourself,’” Julian intoned. “No, Grace, you’re doing it wrong. Look. What’s the problem?”

I rolled my eyes. “The problem is that it’s stupid, Julian. Put me next to I don’t know, Natalie, for example, or Margaret, for another, and I’m
not
the most beautiful woman in the room. Ask Andrew if he was lucky to have me, and he’d probably say hell yes! Because if it weren’t for me, he’d never have met his darling bride-to-be.”

“Ooh! Are we having our period? Sit and watch, darling,” Julian said, ignoring my diatribe. I watched sulkily as my buddy sat back in his seat and gazed around the room. Bing, bang, boom. Three women at three different tables stopped midsentence and blushed.

“Sure, you’re great with
women,
” I said. “But you don’t want to date
women.
Think I didn’t see you just about crawl under the table when our waiter was fawning all over you? Try it on the guys, Julian.”

He narrowed his lovely eyes at me. “Fine.” His own face grew a little pink, but I had to give him credit for trying.

And sure enough, his eyes met our waiter’s, who snatched a plate from the kitchen counter and practically vaulted over a table to get to us. “Here you are,” he breathed. “Oysters Rockefeller. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Julian said, looking up at him. The waiter’s lips parted. Julian didn’t look away.

Well, well. Would my friend actually break his self-imposed chastity and find Mr. Right after all? Smiling, I took a bite of the oysters—yummy—and decided to check my messages while the two good-looking men gazed soulfully at each other. Gracious! Julian was actually initiating conversation! Would wonders never cease.

I’d turned off my phone in last period today when giving my freshmen a test and hadn’t turned it back on. I wasn’t a cell phone lover, to be honest. Many was the day that I forgot to turn it on at all. But wait. This was odd. I had six messages.

I’d never had six messages before. Was something wrong? Had Mémé died? An unexpected wave of sadness hit me at the idea. Hitting the code for my voice mail, I glanced out the window and waited as Julian and Cambry the waiter flirted.

“You have six new messages. Message one.”
My older sister’s voice came on. “Grace, it’s Margaret. Listen, kid, don’t go to Soleil tonight, okay? I’m really sorry, but I think Junie told Mom where you were going when Mom called my office this afternoon. I guess Mom’s all hell-bent for leather to meet Wyatt, and she made a reservation for tonight. With the Carsons. So don’t go there. I’ll pick up the tab somewhere else, just charge it. Call me when you get this.”

The message was left at 3:45.

Oh…my…God.

Message two.
“Grace, Margs again. Mom just called me. The dinner is definitely at Soleil, so head somewhere else, okay? Call me.” That one was at 4:15.