Too Good to Be True

I flinched. “No, Cal. That’s not how it was.”

“Maybe,” he said. He didn’t say anything more for a minute, and when he did, his voice was gentle. “Look, if you are over Andrew, I’m glad for you, Grace. But I’m sorry.”

Well, dang it. I was going to cry. Tears burned my eyes, and my throat hurt like I was being strangled. He noticed.

“To be really blunt here,” he said very quietly, “I don’t want to be with someone who lies to make herself look better. Someone who can’t tell the truth.”

“I did tell the truth! I told you everything,” I squeaked.

“What about your family, Grace? You planning on coming clean with your folks? With Andrew and your sister?”

I cringed at the thought. Like Scarlett O’ Hara, I’d been planning on thinking about that tomorrow. Or the next day.

Possibly never. It’s fair to say that I was hoping the Wyatt Dunn fantasy would just fade into the past.

Callahan glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”

“Cal,” I said, my voice breaking, “I really would like you to forgive me and give me another chance.”

He looked at me a long moment. “Take care of yourself, Grace. I hope you work things out.”

“Okay,” I whispered, looking down so he wouldn’t see my face crumple. “You take care, too.”

Then he got in his truck and drove away.

BACK IN THE HOUSE, I sat at my kitchen table, tears dripping off my chin, where Angus cheerfully licked them off.

Great. Just great. I blew it. How I ever thought my Wyatt-Dunn idea was a good one was completely beyond me. I should never have…If only I’d…Next time I’d just… Next time. Right. It occurred to me in a dizzyingly painful flash that guys like Callahan O’ Shea didn’t grow on trees. That God had thrown a man down right next door, and I’d spent weeks in judgment. That just like my best friend Scarlett O’ Hara, I hadn’t seen what was right in front of my face. That any guy who’d drive an hour and a half so I could see Gone With the Wind was worth ten—a hundred—of the type of guy who’d string me along until twenty days before our wedding. It’s about time, Callahan had said the first time I’d kissed him. He’d been waiting for me.

The thought caused a hard sob to ratchet out of me. Angus whined, nuzzling his little face against my neck. “I’m okay,” I told him unconvincingly. “I’ll be fine.”

I blew my nose, wiped my eyes and stared at my kitchen. It was so pretty here. Actually, now that I looked at it, it was rather…well, perfect. Everything had been chosen with an eye toward getting over Andrew—colors that would soothe my heartache, furniture that Andrew would never like. The whole house was a shrine to Getting Over Andrew.

And yet it wasn’t Andrew I kept seeing here. Nope. I saw Callahan sitting in my kitchen, teasing me about my pajamas…Callahan holding my mother’s sculptures in his big hands…Cal shaking Angus off his foot, or sinking onto his knees because I hit him with the field hockey stick or cooking me an omelet and telling me everything about his past.

Before long, someone was going to buy the house next door. A family, maybe, or an older couple, or a single woman. Or even a single man.

I knew one thing. I didn’t want to see it. Almost without realizing it, I fished out the business card in my pocket and grabbed the phone. When Becky Mango answered, I simply said, “Hi, this is Grace Emerson and we just met. I’d like to sell my house.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

MANNING’S GRADUATION was the same day as Natalie’s rehearsal dinner. Classes had ended a week after Gettysburg, and I gave everyone except Kerry Blake an A+ for their participation. Kerry got a C, bringing her final mark to a dreaded B-and resulting in seven phone calls to the school from her enraged parents. As his final act as chairman of the history department, Dr. Eckhart upheld my grade. I would really miss that man.

The hall echoed as I made my way down to my classroom, which I’d spent yesterday cleaning. For the summer program in August, I’d be teaching a class on the American Revolution, but for the next two months, I wouldn’t be here. The familiar end of term lump came to my throat Looking around the room, I smiled at the sight of the picture, which Mallory had not only given me, but matted and framed, bless her heart. My seniors, my First Cavalry. I would never see most of those kids again. Maybe a few e-mails from some of my favorites for the next six months or so, but most of them would leave Manning and not return for years, if ever. But I planned on making a battle reenactment a permanent requirement for my class.

My gaze wandered to the huge copy of the Gettysburg Address, another of the Declaration of Independence, which I read aloud on the first day of school, in every class, every year. And in my continual effort to get the kids to feel a connection to our country’s history, I’d shamelessly covered the walls with movie posters. Glory. Saving Private Ryan. Mississippi Burning. The Patriot, Full Metal Jacket, Flags of Our Fathers. And on the back of the door, Gone With the Wind, tawdry enough that I felt it should be hidden from direct view. Scarlett’s bosom was scandalously exposed, and Rhett’s eyes bored into hers. Now that I’d seen the movie, I loved that poster more than ever.

The lump in my throat grew. Luckily, I was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. “Come in,” I called. It was Dr.

Eckhart.

“Good morning, Grace,” he said, leaning on his cane.

“Hello, Dr. Eckhart.” I smiled. “How are you?”

“A bit sentimental today, Grace, a bit sentimental. My last Manning graduation.”

“It won’t be the same without you, sir,” I said.

“No,” he agreed.

“I hope we can still meet for dinner,” I said sincerely.

“Of course, my dear,” he said. “And I’m sorry you didn’t make chairman.”

“Well. Sounds like they picked a winner.”

The new department chair was someone named Louise Steiner. She came to Manning from a prep school in Los Angeles, had significantly more administrative experience under her belt than either Ava or I and held a doctorate in European history and a master’s in American. In short, she’d kicked our butts.

Ava had been furious enough to break up with Theo Eisenbraun, Kiki told me. Ava was actively interviewing at other prep schools, but I didn’t really think she’d leave. Too much work, and Ava never was much of a worker.

“Will you be going to Pennsylvania this year?” Dr. Eckhart asked. “Or any other battle sites?”

“No,” I answered. “I’m moving this summer, so no travel for me.” I hugged the old man gently. “Thank you for everything, Dr. Eckhart. I’ll really miss you.”

“Well,” he harrumphed, patting my shoulder. “No need to get emotional.”

“Hello? Oh, damn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Both Dr. Eckhart and I looked up. An attractive woman in her fifties with short gray hair and a classy linen suit stood in my doorway. “Hi, I’m Louise. Hello, Dr. Eckhart, nice to see you again. Grace, isn’t it?”

“Hi,” I said, going over to shake the hand of my new boss. “Welcome to Manning. We were just talking about you.

”

“I wanted to meet you, Grace, and talk about a few things. Dr. Eckhart showed me a copy of your presentation, and I loved the curriculum changes you came up with.”

“Thank you,” I said, shooting a look at Dr. E., who was examining his yellowed fingernails.

“Maybe we can have lunch next week, talk about things,” Louise suggested.

I smiled at Dr. Eckhart, then looked back at Louise. “I’d love to,” I said sincerely.

WHEN THE CAPS had been thrown and the children celebrated the accomplishment of not having flunked out, when the graduation brunch was over, I made my way back to the parking lot. I had about two hours to shower, change and head on over to Soleil, the site of my faked date with Wyatt Dunn and where Natalie’s rehearsal dinner would take place.

“Another school year gone,” said a familiar voice.

I turned. “Hi, Stuart.” He looked…older. Grayer. Sadder.

“I hope you have a nice summer,” he said politely, looking at a particularly beautiful pink dogwood.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“How’s…how’s Margaret?” His gaze flickered to mine.

I sighed. “She’s tense, jealous and difficult. Miss her?”

“Yes.”

I looked at his sorrowful face for a beat or two. “Stuart,” I asked quietly, “did you have an affair with Ava?”

“With that piranha?” he asked, looking shocked. “Goodness, no. We had dinner. Once. All I talked about was Margaret.”

What the heck. I decided to throw him a bone. “We’ll be at Soleil in Glastonbury, Stu. Tonight. Reservations are for seven-thirty. Be spontaneous.”

“Soleil.”

“Yup.” I looked at him steadily.

He inclined his head in a courtly nod. “Have a lovely day, Grace.” With that, Stuart walked away, the sun shining on his graying hair. Good luck, pal, I thought.

“Ms. Em! Wait up!” I turned to see Tommy Michener and a man, presumably his father, judging by the resemblance between them, coming toward me. “Ms. Emerson, this is my dad. Dad, this is Ms. Em, the one who took us to that battle!”

The father smiled. “Hello. Jack Michener. Tom here talks about you all the time. Says your class was his favorite.”

Tommy’s dad was tall and thin, with glasses and salt-and-pepper black hair. Like his son, he had a nice face, cheerful and expressive, sort of an Irish setter enthusiasm about the both of them. His grip was warm and dry when he shook my hand.

“Grace Emerson. Nice to meet you, too. You have a great kid here,” I said. “And I don’t say that just because he adores history, either.”

“He’s the best,” Mr. Michener said, slinging his arm around Tommy’s shoulders. “Your mom would be so proud,”

he added to his son, a little spasm of pain crossing his face. Ah, yes. Tommy’s mom had died the year before he came to Manning.

“Thanks, Dad. Oh, hey, there’s Emma. I’ll be right back,” Tommy said, then bolted off.

“Emma, huh?” Mr. Michener said, smiling.

“She’s a great girl,” I informed him. “Been nursing a crush on your son all year.”

“Young love,” Jack Michener said, grinning. “Thank God I’m not a teenager anymore.” I smiled. “Did Tom tell you he’s majoring in history at NYU?”

“Yes, he did. I was so pleased,” I answered. “As I said, he’s a fantastic kid. Really bright and interested. I wish I had more students like him.”

Tommy’s dad nodded in enthusiastic agreement. I glanced at my car. Jack Michener made no move to leave, and being that he was the father of my favorite senior, I decided I could chat a little longer. “So what do you do for a living, Mr. Michener?”

“Oh, hey, call me Jack.” He smiled again, Tommy’s open, wide grin. “I’m a doctor.”

“Really?” I said politely. “What kind?”

“I work in pediatrics,” he said.

I paused. “Pediatrics. Let me guess. Surgery?”

“That’s right. Did Tom tell you that?”

“You’re a pediatric surgeon?” I asked.

“Yes. Why? Did you think it was something else?”

I snorted. “No, well…no. I’m sorry. Just thinking of something else.” I took a deep breath. “Um…so. How rewarding your work must be.” The irony sloshed around my ankles in thick waves.