Too Good to Be True (31 page)

“Grace?” she said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“I really liked Callahan.”

Hearing that was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt. It did. “Me, too,” I whispered. She squeezed my hand and had the sense not to say anything else. After a moment, I cleared my throat and glanced around at the restaurant. “Want to get back?”

“Nah,” she said. “Let everyone wonder. Maybe we could fake a cat fight, just for fun.”

I laughed. My Nattie of old. “I missed you,” I admitted.

“I missed you, too. It’s been so hard, wondering if you’re really as okay as you seemed, but afraid to ask. And I’ve been jealous, you know. You and Margs, living together.”

“Oh, well, then, you can take her. You and Andrew,” I said. “For as long as you want.”

“He wouldn’t survive the week.” She grinned.

“Nattie,” I said slowly, “about us being equals…” She nodded encouragingly. “I want you to do me a favor, Nat.”

“Anything,” she said.

I turned a little to better face her. “Nat, I don’t want to be maid of honor tomorrow. Let it be Margaret. I’ll be your bridesmaid, go down the aisle and all that, but not maid of honor. It’s too weird, okay? A little pimp-ish, you know?”

“Okay,” she said instantly. “But make sure Margaret doesn’t roll her eyes and make faces.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t guarantee anything,” I said with a laugh. “But I’ll try.”

Then I stood up and pulled my little sister to her feet. “Let’s go back, okay? I’m starving.”

We held hands all the way back to our table. Mom hopped up like an anxious sparrow when she saw us. “Girls! Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Mom. We’re fine.”

Mrs. Carson rolled her eyes and gave a ladylike snort, and suddenly, our mother wheeled on her. “I’ll thank you to wipe that look off your face, Letitia!” she said, her voice carrying easily through the restaurant. “If you have something to say, speak up!”

“I’m…I don’t…”

“Then stop treating my girls like they’re not good enough for your precious son. And Andrew, let me say this. We only tolerate you because Natalie asked us to. If you screw up any of my girls’ lives again, I will rip out your liver and eat it. Understand me?”

“I…I definitely do understand, Mrs. Emerson,” Andrew said meekly, forgetting that he was supposed to call Mom by her first name.

Mom sat back down, and Dad turned to her. “I love you,” he said, his voice awed.

“Of course you do,” she said briskly. “Is everyone ready to order?”

“I can’t eat beets,” Mémé announced. “They repeat on me.”

W
E ALMOST GOT THROUGH
the dinner without further incident. In fact, I was trying to resist the urge to lick my bowl clean of crème brûlée when there was a commotion at the front of the restaurant.

“I’m here to see my wife,” came a raised voice. “Now.”

Stuart.

He came into the dining room, dressed in his usual oxford and argyle sweater vest, tan trousers and tasseled loafers, looking like the gentle, sweet man he was. But his face was set, and his eyes, God bless him, were stormy.

“Margaret, this has gone on long enough,” he announced, ignoring the rest of us.

“Hmm,” Margaret said, narrowing her eyes.

“If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine. And if you want sex on the kitchen table, you’ll get it.” He glared down at his wife. “But you’re coming home, and you’re coming home now, and I will be happy to discuss this further once you’re naked and in my bed.” He paused. “Or on the table.” His face flushed. “And the next time you leave me, you’d better mean it, woman, because I’m not going to be treated like a doormat. Understand?”

Margaret rose, put her napkin by her plate and turned to me. “Don’t wait up,” she said. Then she took Stuart’s hand and let him lead her through the restaurant, grinning from ear to ear.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

T
HE MINUTE
I
CAUGHT SIGHT
of Andrew, I saw it.

Trouble.

The organ played Mendelssohn’s
Wedding March,
the fifty or so guests, most related to either the bride or groom, stood and turned to look at us, the freaky Emerson sisters. There was Stuart, looking smugly blissful, the expression of a man who saw a lot of action last night. I grinned at him. He nodded and touched his forehead with two fingers in a little salute. There were Cousin Kitty and Aunt Mavis, who both smiled with great false sympathy as I passed. Resisting the urge to give them the finger (we were in church, after all, and Mayflower descendants and all that crap), I looked ahead and, for the first time that day, saw the groom.

He ran a hand through his hair. Pushed up his glasses. Coughed into his fist. Didn’t look at me. Bit his lip.

Uh-oh. This did not look like a man whose dreams were all about to come true. This was more than the discomfort of standing in front of dozens of people. This was bad.

I gave Andrew a questioning look, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze bounced around the church, flitting from guest to guest like a housefly bouncing against a window, relentlessly seeking escape.

I hiked my skirt up a bit and stepped onto the altar, then made room for Margs. “We have a problem,” I whispered.

“What are you talking about? Look at her face,” she whispered back.

I looked at Natalie, beautiful, glowing, her sky-blue eyes shining. Dad looked tall and proud and dignified, nodding here and there as he walked his baby girl down the aisle to the grand music. “Take a look at Andrew,” I whispered.

Margaret obeyed. “Nerves,” she muttered.

But I knew Andrew better than that.

Nattie got to the altar. Dad kissed her cheek, shook Andrew’s hand, and then sat down with Mom, who patted his arm fondly. Andrew and Natalie turned to the minister. Nat was beaming. Andrew…not so much.

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Miggs began.

“Wait. I’m sorry,” Andrew interrupted, his voice weak and shaking.

“Holy Mary, Queen of Heaven,” Margaret breathed. “Don’t you dare, Andrew.”

“Honey?” Nat’s voice was soft with concern. “You okay?” My stomach clenched, my breath stopped. Oh, God…

Andrew wiped his forehead with his hand. “Nattie…I’m sorry.”

There was a stirring in the congregation. Reverend Miggs put a hand on Andrew’s arm. “Now, son,” he began.

“What’s wrong?” Natalie whispered. Margaret and I moved as one to flank her, instinctively wanting to protect her from what was about to come.

“It’s Grace,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I still have feelings for Grace. I can’t marry you, Nat.”

A collective gasp came from the assembled guests.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Margaret barked, but I barely heard her. A white roaring noise was in my ears. I watched as the blood drained from Natalie’s face. Her knees buckled. Margaret and the minister grabbed her.

Then I dropped my bouquet, shoved past Margaret, and punched Andrew as hard as I could. Right in the face.

The next few minutes were somewhat unclear. I know that Andrew’s best man tried to pull him to safety (my punch had knocked him down) as I repeatedly kicked my once-fiancé and very nearly brother-in-law in the shins with my pointy little shoes. His nose was bleeding, and I thought it was a great look for him. I remember my mother joining me to beat him about the head with her purse. She may have tried to rip out his liver and eat it, but I didn’t remember the details. Vaguely, I heard Mrs. Carson screaming. Felt Dad wrap his arms around my waist as he bodily dragged me off Andrew, who was half lying on the altar steps, trying to crawl away from my kicks and Mom’s ineffective but highly satisfying blows.

In the end, the groom’s guests scuttled out the back, leaving the Carsons, the best man and Andrew, a handkerchief pressed to his face, huddled on one side. Natalie sat stunned in the first pew on the bride’s side, surrounded by Margaret, me, Mom and Dad as Mémé herded people out of the church like some geriatric border collie in a wheelchair.

“Left at the altar,” Natalie murmured blankly.

I knelt in front of her. “Honey, what can we do?”

Her gaze found mine, and for a minute, we just looked at each other. I reached out and took her hand. “I’ll be okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

“He’s not worth your spit, Nattie,” Margaret said, stroking Natalie’s silky hair.

“Not worth the tissue you used to blow your nose,” Mom seconded. “Bastard. Idiot. Penis-head.”

Nat looked up at Mom, then burst out laughing, a hysterical edge to her voice. “Penis-head. That’s a good one, Mom.”

Mr. Carson came over warily. “Um, very sorry about all this,” he said. “Change of heart, obviously.”

“We got that,” Margaret snapped.

“We’re sorry,” he repeated, looking at Natalie, then at me. “Very sorry, girls.”

“Thanks, Mr. Carson,” I said. He nodded once, then went back to his wife and son. A moment later, the Carsons were gone, out the side door. I hoped vigorously that we’d never see them again.

“What do you want to do right now, honey?” Dad asked.

Nat blinked. “Well,” she said after a minute, “I think we should go to the club and eat all that good food.” Her eyes filled once more. “Yes. Let’s all do that, okay?”

“You sure?” I asked. “You don’t have to be brave, Bumppo.”

She squeezed my hand. “I learned from the best.”

A
ND SO IT WAS
that the Emerson side of the guest list went to the country club, ate shrimp and filet mignon and drank champagne.

“I’m better off without him,” Nat murmured as she drank what had to be her fifth glass of champers. “I know that. It’s just gonna take a while for that to sink in.”

“Personally, I hated him from the day Grace brought him home,” Margs said. “Smug little weenie. Estate law, please. Such a sissy.”

“How many men are stupid enough to dump two Emerson girls?” Dad asked. “Too bad we’re not mobbed up. We could have his body dumped in the Farmington River.”

“I don’t think the Mafia accepts white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, Dad,” Margaret said, patting Nat’s shoulder and pouring her more champagne. “But it’s a sweet thought.”

Nattie would be okay, I could tell. She was right. Andrew didn’t deserve her, and he never had. Her heart would heal. Mine did, after all.

I wandered over to sit with Mémé for a bit. She was watching Cousin Kitty, who was as sensitive as a rhino, dancing with her new husband to “Endless Love.” “So what do you think of all this, Mémé?” I asked.

“Bound to happen. People should be more like me. Marriage is a business arrangement. Marry for money, Grace. You won’t be sorry.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, patting her bony shoulder. “But really, Mémé, were you ever in love?”

Her rheumy eyes were faraway. “Not especially,” she said. “There was a boy, once…well. He wasn’t an appropriate match for me. Not from the same class, you see.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

She gave me a sharp look. “Aren’t we nosy today? Have you gained weight, Grace? You look a little hefty in the hips. In my day, a woman wore a girdle.”

So much for our heart-to-heart. I sighed, asked Mémé if she wanted another drink and wandered off to the bar. Margaret was already there.

“So?” I asked. “How was the kitchen table?”

“It actually wasn’t that comfortable,” she said, grinning. “You know, it was muggy last night, the humidity made me stick like Velcro, so when he actually—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I broke in. She laughed and ordered a glass of seltzer water.

“Seltzer, hmm?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, when I was living at your house, I kind of decided that maybe a baby…well, maybe it wouldn’t be awful. Someday. Maybe. We’ll see. Last night he said he wanted a little girl just like me—”

“Is he insane?” I asked.

She turned to look at me, and I saw her eyes were wet. “I just thought that was the sweetest thing, Grace. It really got to me.”

“Yes, but then you’d have to raise it. The Mini-Margs,” I said. “That man must really love you.”

“Oh, shut up, you,” she said, laughing in spite of herself. “The baby idea seems kind of…well. Kind of okay.”

“Oh, Margs.” I smiled. “I think you’d be a great mom. On many levels, anyway.”

“So you’ll babysit, right? Whenever I have spit-up in my hair and a screaming baby in my arms and I’m ready to stick my head in the oven?”

“Absolutely.” I gave her a quick hug, which she tolerated, even returned.

“You doing okay, Grace?” she asked. “This whole Andrew thing has come full circle, hasn’t it?”

“You know, if I never hear that name again, I’ll be glad,” I said. “I’m fine. I just feel so bad for Nat.”

But she’d be okay. Even now, she was laughing at something my father said. Both my parents were glued to her side, Mom practically force-feeding her hors d’ oeuvres. Andrew wasn’t worthy of her.

Or of me, for that matter. Andrew never deserved me. I could see that now. A man who accepts love as if it’s his due is, in a word, a jerk.

Callahan O’ Shea…he was another matter altogether.

“So what are your plans for the summer?” Margs asked. “Any offers on the house yet?”

“Two, actually,” I answered, taking a sip of my gin and tonic.

“I have to say, I’m surprised,” Margs commented. “I thought you loved that house.”

“I do. I did. I just…It’s time for a fresh start. Change isn’t the worst thing in the world, is it?”

“I guess not,” she said. “Come on, let’s go sit with Nattie.”

“Here they are!” Dad boomed as we approached. “Now the three prettiest girls in the world are all together. Make that four,” he quickly amended, putting his arm around Mom, who rolled her eyes.

“Dad, did Grace tell you she’s selling her house?” Margaret asked.

“What? No! Honey! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s not a group decision, Dad.”

“But we just put new windows in there!”

“Which the Realtor said would help it sell,” I said calmly.

“Where are you going, then?” Mom asked. “You wouldn’t go far, would you, honey?”

“Nope. Not far.” I sat next to Nat, who was doing that mile-long stare I had mastered myself a year and a half ago. “You okay, kiddo?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Well, not fine. But you know.” I nodded.

“Hey, did you ever hear about the history department job?” Margs asked.

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “They hired someone from outside. But she seems great.”

“Maybe she’ll give you a raise,” Dad speculated. “It’d be nice if you earned more than a Siberian farmer.”

“I was thinking of picking up work as a high-class hooker,” I said. “Do you know any politicians who are looking?”

Natalie laughed, and the sound made us all smile.

A while later, after dinner had been served, I headed into the ladies’ room. From the stalls came the voice of my smug cousin Kitty.

“…so apparently, she just was pretending to date someone so we wouldn’t feel sorry for her,” Kitty was saying. “The doctor was completely made up! And then there was something about a convict she’d been writing to in prison…” The toilet flushed, and Kitty emerged. From the next stall came Aunt Mavis. Upon sighting me, they both froze.

“Hello, ladies,” I said graciously, smoothing my hair in the mirror. “Are you enjoying yourselves? So much to gossip about, so little time!”

Kitty’s face turned as red as a baboon’s butt. Aunt Mavis, made of stronger stuff, simply rolled her eyes.

“Do you have any questions about my love life? Any gaps in your information? Anything you need from me?” I smiled, folded my arms across my chest and stared them down.

Kitty and Mavis exchanged a look. “No, Grace,” they said in unison.

“Okay,” I answered. “And just for the record, he was on death row. Sorry to say, the governor turned down his stay of execution, so I’m on the prowl again.” I winked, smiled at their identical looks of horror, and pushed my way into a stall.

When I rejoined my family, Nat was getting ready to go. “You can stay with me, Bumppo,” I said.

“No, thanks, Grace. I’ll stay with Mom and Dad for a few days. But you’re sweet to offer.”

“Want me to drive you?” I asked.

“No, Margs is taking me. We have to make a stop first. Besides, you’ve done enough today. Beating up Andrew…thanks for that.”

“My pleasure,” I said with complete sincerity. I kissed my sister, then hugged her a long, long time. “Call me in the morning.”

“I will. Thanks,” she whispered.

Walking to my car, I fished the car keys out of my bag. What seemed like aeons ago, I had promised my little old lady friends at Golden Meadows that I’d stop by tonight. They wanted to see my fancy dress and hear how the wedding went. Well, Dad had taken Mémé home before dinner. Chances were, the residents of Golden Meadows knew quite well how the wedding went.

But I figured I’d go just the same. Tonight was the Saturday Night Social. I could probably scare up someone to dance with, and though he wouldn’t be under eighty years old, I felt like dancing, oddly enough.

I drove across town and pulled into Golden Meadows’s parking lot. There was no sign of Callahan’s battered pickup truck. I hadn’t seen him since the day he left Maple Street, though I had stopped in to see his grandfather. As Cal had mentioned, the old man wasn’t doing well. We’d never even finished the book.

On impulse, I decided to stop in and see Mr. Lawrence. Who knew? Maybe Callahan would be there. Betsy, the nurse on duty, buzzed me in with a wave. “You just missed the grandson,” she said, cupping her hand over the receiver.

Drat. Well, Callahan wasn’t my reason for coming, not really. I walked down the hall amid the familiar, sad sounds of this particular ward—faint moans, querulous voices and too much quiet.

Mr. Lawrence’s door was open. He was asleep in his hospital bed, small and shrunken against the pale blue sheets. An IV, new from the last time I’d come by, snaked from a clear plastic tube into his arm, and tears pricked my eyes. I’d been coming to Golden Meadows long enough to know that in cases like this, an IV usually meant the patient had stopped eating and drinking.