Too Good to Be True

“What more would you like me to say, Margaret?” he asked wearily. “I miss you. I love you. Come home.”

My eyes were suddenly wet.

“Why? So we can stare at each other every night, bored out of our minds?”

“I never felt that way, Margaret. I was very happy,” Stuart said. “If you don’t want to have a baby, that’s fine, but all these other complaints…I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m no different from how I’ve always been.”

“Which may be the problem,” Margaret said sharply.

Stuart sighed. “If there’s something specific you want me to do, I’ll do it, but you have to tell me. This isn’t fair.”

“If I tell you, then it doesn’t count,” Margaret retorted. “It’s like planned spontaneity, Stuart. An oxymoron.”

“You want me to be unexpected and surprising,” Stuart said, his voice suddenly hard. “Would you like it if I ran naked down Main Street? How about if I started shooting heroin? Shall I have an affair with the cleaning woman?

Would that be surprising enough?”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse, Stuart. Until you figure it out, I have nothing to say. Goodbye.” Margaret closed the door and leaned against it, then, a second later, peeked out the transom window. “Goddamn it,” she muttered. I heard the sound of a car motor starting. Apparently, Stuart was gone.

Margaret caught sight of me, crouched at the top of the stairs. “So?” she asked.

“Margaret,” I began cautiously, “he loves you and he wants to make you happy. Doesn’t that count, honey?”

“Grace, it’s not that simple!” she said. “He’d love it if every night of our life was the same as the night before.

Dinner. Polite conversation about literature and current events. Sex on the prescribed days. The occasional dinner out, where he takes half an hour to order a bottle of wine. I’m so bored I could scream!”

“Well, here’s what I think, roomie,” I said, my own voice growing hard. “He’s a decent, hardworking, intelligent man and he adores you. I think you’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

“Grace,” she said tightly, “since you’ve never been married, your opinion really doesn’t count a whole heck of a lot right now. So mind your own business, okay?”

“Oh, absolutely, Margs. Hey, by the way, how much longer do you think you’ll be staying?” Sure, it was bitchy, but it felt good.

“Why?” Margaret said. “Am I cutting in on your time with Wyatt?” With that, she stomped back into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, feeling that I really should have control of my own house and shouldn’t have to hide in my bedroom, I went downstairs. Margaret was standing at the stove, stirring her pasta, tears dripping off her chin.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

“Sure,” I sighed, my anger evaporating. Margaret never cried. Never.

“I do love him, Grace. I think I do, anyway, but sometimes I just felt like I was suffocating, Grace. Like if I started screaming, he wouldn’t even notice. I don’t want a divorce, but I can’t be married to a piece of cardboard, either.

It’s like we work in theory, but when we’re actually together, I’m dying. I don’t know what to do. If just once he could move outside the stupid box, you know? And the idea of a baby…” She started to sob. “It feels like Stuart wanting a baby means I’m not enough anymore. And he was the one who was supposed to adore me.”

“Which he does, Margs!”

She didn’t listen. “Besides, I’m such a bitch, Grace, who would want me for a mother?”

“You’re not a bitch. Not all the time,” I assured her. “Angus loves you. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Do you want me to move out? Stay at a hotel or something?”

“No, of course not. You know damn well you can stay with me as long as you want,” I said. “Come on. Give us a hug.”

She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed fiercely. “Sorry about the Wyatt crack,” she muttered.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, squeezing her back. Angus, jealous that there was love and it wasn’t directed at him, began leaping and whining.

Margaret stepped back, breaking our hug, grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Want some dinner?” she offered. “I made enough for us both.”

I looked at what she called dinner. “I try to avoid eating rope,” I said, getting a little grin in response. “I’m actually not hungry. Think I’ll just sit outside for a bit.” I poured myself a glass of wine, patted her shoulder to assure her I wasn’t mad, and went out with my dog into the sweet-scented night.

Sitting in an Adirondack chair, I looked around my yard. Angus was sniffing the back fence, patrolling the perimeter like the good guard dog he was. All the flowers I planted last year were coming up beautifully. The peonies along the back fence were heavy with blooms, the sugary smell of their blossoms heady in the night.

Bee balm waved over near pine trees that shielded me from 32 Maple, and on Callahan’s side, the irises rose in graceful lines, white and indigo, vanilla and grape scented. The lilacs along the eastern side of the house had faded, but their scent was indescribably lovely, calming and invigorating at the same time. The only sound was of the Farmington River, full and fast at this time of year, gushing over the rocks. A train whistle sounded somewhere, its melancholy note underscoring the loneliness that shrouded my heart.

Why couldn’t people be happy alone? Love took your heart hostage. I’d sell my soul for Margaret and Natalie, my parents, Julian, even sweet little Angus, my faithful friend. As proven by my recent actions, I’d do anything to find someone who’d love me with the same wholeheartedness I wanted to love him. Those distant days with Andrew seemed like they’d happened to someone else. And even if I did find someone, what guarantee was there that it would last? Look at my parents, so pissed off with each other all the time. Margaret and Stuart…seven years crumbling away. Kiki, Julian and me, all floundering.

I seemed to be crying a little bit. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and took a healthy slug of wine. Stupid love.

Margaret was right. Love sucked.

“Grace?”

My head jerked up. Callahan O’ Shea was out on his roof, looking down at me like a blue-collar deus ex machina.

“Hi,” I said.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh…sure,” I said. Feeble, even for me.

“Want to come up?”

My answer surprised me. “Okay.”

I left Angus examining a clump of ferns, went through the little gate that separated my backyard from the front, and headed for Callahan’s back deck. The fresh boards, sharp and clean-smelling, glowed dimly in the night, and the metal rungs of the ladder were cool under my hand. Up I went, peeking over the roof to where my neighbor stood.

“Hi,” he said, taking my hand to help me.

“Hi,” I said back. His hand was warm and sure, and I was glad, never being a huge fan of ladders. That hand made me feel safe. Just one hand, that was all it took. It was with great reluctance that I let it go.

A dark-colored blanket was spread on the rough shingles. “Welcome to the roof,” Callahan said. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Self-consciously, I sat down. Cal sat next to me. “So what do you do out here?” I asked, my voice sounding a bit loud in the quiet, cool air.

“I just like to look at the sky,” he answered. But he wasn’t looking at the sky. He was looking at me. “I didn’t get to do that a lot in prison.”

“The sky’s pretty,” I said. Clever, Grace. Very witty. I could feel the warmth of his shoulder next to mine. “So.”

“So.” He was smiling a little, and my stomach did a slow, giddy roll. Then he stretched out so that he was lying on the blanket, clasping his hands behind his head. After a second’s hesitation, I did the same thing.

It was pretty. The stars were winking, the sky velvety and rich. The river’s lush song was pierced by a night bird of some kind, trilling softly every few minutes. And there was Callahan O’ Shea, the solid warmth of him just inches from me.

“Were you crying before?” His voice was gentle.

“A little,” I admitted.

“Everything all right?”

I paused. “Well, Margaret and Stuart are having a tough time of it these days. And my other sister, Nat —remember her?” He nodded. “She’s getting married in a few weeks. I guess I was just feeling sentimental.”

“You and that family of yours,” he commented mildly. “They sure have a choke hold on you.”

“They sure do,” I agreed glumly.

The far-off bird trilled again. Angus barked once in reply. “Were you ever married?” Callahan asked.

“Nope,” I said, staring at the hypnotic stars. “I was engaged a couple of years ago, though.” God. A couple of years ago. It sounded like such a long time.

“Why’d you call it off?”

I shifted to look at him. Nice, that he assumed it had been my decision. Nice, but untrue. “I didn’t, actually. He did.

He fell for someone else.” Funny…saying it like that didn’t sound all that bad. He fell for someone else. It happened.

Callahan O’ Shea turned his head. “Sounds like he was an idiot,” he said softly.

Oh. Oh. There it was again, that warm, rolling squeeze of my insides. I swallowed. “He wasn’t that bad,” I said, looking back at the sky. “What about you, Callahan? Ever get close to the altar?”

“I was seeing someone before prison. I guess it was serious.” His voice was level, unperturbed.

“Why’d you guys break up?” I asked.

“Well, we were struggling a bit as it was,” he answered. “But me being arrested was the final nail in my coffin.”

“Do you miss her?” I couldn’t help asking.

“A little,” he said. “Sometimes. It’s like our happy times were in another life, though. I can barely remember them.”

His statement so echoed my own earlier thoughts about Andrew that my mouth opened in amazement. He must’ve noticed my shocked expression, because he smiled. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just…I know how that feels.” We were quiet for another minute, then I asked him another question, one I’d wondered about more than once. “Hey, Cal, I read that you pled guilty. Didn’t you want to go to trial?”

He kept his eyes on the sky and didn’t answer for a second. “There was a lot of evidence against me,” he finally said.

As I had once before, I got the impression that Callahan wasn’t telling me all there was to tell. But it was his crime, his past, and the night and being here were just too comfortable to press on. I was out on the roof with Callahan O’ Shea, and it was enough. It was, in fact, lovely.

“Grace?” God, I loved the way he said my name, his voice deep and soft and with just a hint of roughness in it, like distant thunder on a hot summer night.

I turned my head to look at him, but he was just staring at the stars. “Yes?”

He still didn’t turn my way. “Are you finished with the cat wrangler?”

My heart jolted, my breath froze. For a flash of a second, I imagined telling Callahan the truth about Wyatt Dunn.

Imagined him turning to look at me, his expression incredulous, then disgusted, rolling his eyes and muttering something less than flattering about my emotional state. I sure as hell didn’t want that. Callahan O’ Shea was asking if I was done with Wyatt because he…yes, there was no denying it…he was interested. In me.