Too Good to Be True

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.

“Hi, Mr. Lawrence, it’s Grace,” I whispered, sitting down next to him. “The one who reads to you, remember? My Lord’s Wanton Desire? The duke and the prostitute?”

Of course, he didn’t answer. To the best of my recollection, I’d never heard the voice of Cal’s grandfather. I wondered what he’d sounded like when he was a younger man, teaching Cal and his brother to fly-fish, helping them with their homework, telling them to finish their vegetables and drink their milk.

“Listen, Mr. Lawrence,” I said, putting my hand on his thin and vulnerable arm. “I just wanted to tell you something.

I was dating your grandson for a little while. Callahan. And basically, I screwed things up and he broke up with me.” I rolled my eyes at myself, not having planned on a deathbed confession. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you what a good man he is.”

A lump came to my throat, and my voice dropped back to a whisper. “He’s smart and funny and thoughtful, and he’s always working, you know? You should see the house he just fixed up. He did such a beautiful job.” I paused.

“And he loves you so much. He comes here all the time. And he’s…well, he’s a good-looking guy, right? Chip off the old block, I’m guessing.”

The sound of Mr. Lawrence’s breathing was barely audible. I picked up his gnarled, cool hand and held it for a second. “I just wanted to say that you did a great job raising him. I think you’d be really proud. That’s all.”

Then I leaned over and kissed Mr. Lawrence’s forehead. “Oh, one more thing. The duke marries Clarissia. He finds her in the tower and rescues her, and they live…you know. Happily ever after.”

“What are you doing, Grace?”

I jumped like someone had just pressed a brand against my flesh. “Mémé! God, you scared me!” I whispered.

“I’ve been looking for you. Dolores Barinski said you were supposed to come to the social, and it started an hour ago.”

“Right,” I said with a last glance back at Mr. Lawrence. “Well, let’s go, then.”

So I wheeled my grandmother down the hall, away from the last link I had to Callahan O’ Shea, knowing that I would probably not see Mr. Lawrence again. A few tears slipped down my cheeks. I sniffed.

“Oh, cheer up,” Mémé snapped omnisciently from her throne. “At least you have me. That man isn’t even related to you. I don’t know why you even care.”

I stopped the wheelchair and went around to face my grandmother, ready to tell her what a sour old pain in the butt she was, how vain and rude, how selfish and insensitive. But looking down on her thinning hair and wrinkled face, her spotted hands adorned with too-big rings, I said something else.

“I love you, Mémé.”

She looked up, startled. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you.”

She took a breath, frowning, her face creasing into folds. “Well. Are we going or not?”

I smiled, resumed pushing and headed to the social. It was in full swing, and I danced with all my regulars and a few people I didn’t recognize. I even took Mémé out for a spin in the wheelchair, but she hissed at me that I was making a fool of myself and wondered loudly if I’d had too much to drink at the club, so I took her back.

Eventually. After two songs, that is.

My dress was admired, my hands were patted and held, even my hair was deemed pretty. I was, in other words, happy. Nat was heartbroken, and my own heart wasn’t doing too well, either. I’d ruined something lovely and rare with Callahan O’ Shea and made an idiot of myself in front of my family by faking a boyfriend. But that was okay.

Well, the idiot part was okay. Callahan, though…I’d miss him for a long time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

WHEN I GOT HOME from Golden Meadows, it was nearly ten. Angus presented me with two rolls of shredded toilet paper, then trotted into the kitchen to show me where he’d vomited up a few wads. “At least you did it on the tile,”

I said, bending down to pet his sweet head. “Thank you for barfing in the kitchen.” He barked once, then stretched out in Super Dog pose to watch me clean.

“I hope you’ll like our new place,” I said, donning the all-too-familiar rubber gloves I used when cleaning Angus’s, er, accidents. “I’ll pick us out a winner, don’t you worry.” Angus wagged his tail.

Becky Mango had called yesterday. “I know this might be weird,” she said, “but I was wondering if you might be interested in the house next door to you. The one Callahan fixed up? It’s just charming.”

I’d hesitated. I loved that house, heaven knew. But I’d already lived in a house that was all about one failed relationship. Buying Cal’s, though it cost roughly the same as mine, would’ve been too Miss Havisham for me.

No. My next house would be about my future, not about my past. “Right, Angus?” I said now. He barked helpfully, then burped and flipped onto his back, craftily suggesting that I take a break from cleaning up his vomit to scratch his tummy. “Later, McFangus,” I murmured.

I blotted up his little mess, taking care not to let my hem get soiled. It was a pretty dress, but I was planning on taking it to the Salvation Army. I never wanted to see it again. That, and my wedding dress. Maybe Nat would want me to bring hers, too.

Tomorrow, I’d start packing. Even though I hadn’t found a house yet, I’d be moving soon. I could go through all my old tag sale finds, maybe have a sale of my own. Fresh start and all that.

As I Windexed the last traces of barf off of the floor and stuffed the paper towels into the trash, Angus leaped to his feet and flew out of the room in an explosion of barking. Yarp! Yarpyarpyarp!

“What’s wrong, honey?” I asked, coming into the living room Yarpyarpyarp!

I peeked around the curtains through the window and my heart surged into my throat so hard I nearly choked.

Callahan O’ Shea was standing on the front porch.

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow and waited.

My legs barely held me as I opened the front door. With a snarl, Angus launched himself on Cal’s work boot. Cal ignored him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I whispered.

His gaze went to my hands, which were still protected by the rubber gloves. “What are you doing?”

“Um…cleaning up dog puke.”

“Pretty.”

I just stood there. Callahan O’ Shea. Here. On my porch, where we’d first met.

“Mind calling off your dog?” he asked as Angus, his mouth clamped onto a good part of Cal’s pant leg, swung his little head back and forth, growling his kittenish growl.

“Um…sure. Of course,” I said. “Angus! Down cellar, boy! Come on!” My knees were shaking, but I managed to pick up Angus and shove him through the cellar door, down with the girl part sculptures. He whined, then accepted his fate and grew quiet.

I turned back to Callahan. “So. What brings you to the neighborhood?” My throat was so tight my voice squeaked.

“Your sisters paid me a visit,” he said quietly.

“They did?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Today?”

“About an hour ago. They told me about Andrew.”

“Right.” I closed my mouth. “Big mess.”

“You beat him up, I hear.”

“Yes, I did,” I murmured. “One of my finer moments.” A thought occurred to me. “How did they know where to find you?” Callahan had certainly not left a forwarding address with me.

“Margaret called her pals at the parole office.”

I bit down on a smile. Good old Margs.

“Natalie told me I was an idiot,” Callahan murmured, his voice low enough to cause a vibration in my stomach.

“Oh,” I squeaked, leaning back against the wall for support. “Sorry. You’re not an idiot.”

“She told me how you came clean with everyone.” Cal took a step closer to me, and my heart thudded so hard I felt like I might imitate Angus and throw up myself. “Said I was an idiot if I was going to just walk away from a woman like you.”

Callahan took my limp hand and removed the rubber glove, smiling a little as he did. He repeated the action on the other hand, I found myself staring at our hands, because it was hard to look in Cal’s eyes.

“The thing is, Grace,” he said gently, holding my sweaty hands in his own much more appealingly dry ones, “I didn’t really need to hear it. I’d already figured that out.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“But I have to admit, I thought it was nice that your sisters were finally doing something for you, instead of the other way around.” He tipped up my chin, forcing me to look into his pretty eyes. “Grace,” he whispered, “I was an idiot. I should know better than anyone that people get stupid around the folks they love. And that everyone deserves a second chance.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my eyes filling with tears.

“Here’s the thing, Grace,” Cal said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Ever since that first day when you smacked me in the head with your field hockey stick—”

“You just can’t let that go, can you?” I muttered.

He grinned fully now. “—and even when you hit me with the rake and dented my truck, and when you were spying on me from your attic and your dog was mauling me, Grace, I always knew you were the one for me.”

“Oh,” I whispered, my mouth wobbling like crazy. Not my best look, to be sure, but I couldn’t help it.

“Give us another chance, Grace. What do you say?” His smile told me he was fairly sure of the answer.

Instead of answering, I just wrapped my arms around him and kissed him for all I was worth. Because when you meet The One, you just know.

EPILOGUE

Two years later

“WE ARE NOT NAMING OUR SON Abraham Lincoln O’ Shea. Think of something else.” My husband pretended to scowl at me, but his look was somewhat marred by Angus licking his chin. We were lying in bed on a Sunday morning, the sun streaming in through the windows, the smell of coffee mingling with the sweet scent drifting from the small vase of roses on the night table.

“You already rejected Stonewall,” I reminded him, rubbing my enormous stomach. “Stonewall O’ Shea. There certainly wouldn’t be any other little boys in kindergarten with that name.”

“Grace. Your due date was four days ago. Come on. Be serious. This is our child. And if he has to have a Civil War name, it’s got to be Yankee. Okay? We’re both from New England, after all. Angus, get your tongue out of my ear. Yuck.”