“Are you done interrogating him?” I snapped. “He has work to do, Margaret.”
“Party pooper,” Margaret said. “But you’re right. And I have to go into the office. I’m a lawyer, Callahan, did Grace tell you? Criminal defense. Would you like my card?”
“I’m completely reformed,” he said with a grin that promised all sorts of illicit behavior.
“I know people in the parole office. Very well, in fact. I’ll be watching.”
“You do that,” he answered.
“I’ll help you get settled,” I offered, hauling Margaret out of her chair and grabbing her suitcase. “You can’t have an affair with him,” I hissed once we were upstairs. “You will not cheat on Stuart. He’s wonderful, Margaret. And he’s heartbroken. I saw him at school the other day, and he looked like a kicked puppy.”
“Good. At least he’s noticing me now.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re so spoiled.”
“I have to go to the office,” she said, ignoring my last comment. “I’ll see you for dinner, okay? Feel like cooking?”
“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “I won’t be here.”
“Why? Date with Wyatt?” she asked, raising a silken eyebrow.
I reached up to smooth my difficult hair. “Um, no. Well, yes. We’re going to Nat’s for dinner. Double date.”
“Holy Mary the Eternal Virgin, Grace,” my sister muttered.
“I know, I know. Wyatt will end up in emergency surgery, bless his talented heart.”
“You’re an idiot. Hey, thanks for letting me crash here,” Margs said at the door to the guest room, vaguely remembering that she should be grateful.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Leave Callahan alone.”
For the next few minutes, I found things to do upstairs, away from my neighbor. Took a shower. As the warm water streamed over me, I wondered what would happen if Callahan O’ Shea walked in. Tugged his shirt over his head, unbuckled his belt, slid out of those faded jeans and stepped in here with me, enfolding me in his brawny arms, his mouth hot and demanding, his—I blinked hard, turned the water to cold and finished up.
Margaret headed into her office, calling out a cheerful goodbye to Callahan and me, seeming rather depressingly chipper about leaving her husband. I wrote up a quiz on the Reconstruction for my seniors, using my laptop and not the larger computer downstairs. Corrected essays from my sophomores on the FDR administration. Downstairs, the whine of the saw and thump of the hammer and the offhanded, tuneless whistle of Callahan O’ Shea blended into a pleasant cacophony.
Angus, though he still growled occasionally, gave up trying to tunnel under my bedroom door and lay on his back in a puddle of sunlight, his crooked bottom teeth showing most adorably. I concentrated on my students’ work, writing notes in the margins, comments at the end, praising them lavishly for moments of clarity, pointing out areas that could’ve used some work.
I went downstairs a while later. Four of the eight downstairs windows were already in. Cal glanced in my direction. “I don’t think I’ll have to replace those sills. If the windows upstairs are as easy as the ones downstairs, I’ll be done Monday or Tuesday.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said. “They look great.”
“Glad you like them.”
He looked at me, unsmiling, unmoving. I looked back. And looked. And looked some more. His was a rugged face, and yes, handsome, but it was his eyes that got me. Callahan O’ Shea had a story in those eyes.
The air seemed to thicken between us, and I could feel my face—and other parts—growing warm.
“I’d better get back to work,” he said, and, turning his back on me, he did just that.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE SECOND I OPENED THE DOOR, I knew that Natalie and Andrew were living together. Natalie’s apartment had his smell, that baby shampoo sweetness, and it hit me in a slap of undeniable recognition. “Hello!” I said, hugging my sister, stroking her sleek hair.
“Hi! Oh, it’s so good to see you!” Nat hugged me tight, then pulled back. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“Hey, Grace!” Andrew called from the kitchen.
My stomach clenched. Andrew at Natalie’s. So cozy.
“Hi, Andrew,” I called back. “Wyatt got stuck at the hospital, so he’ll be a little late.” My voice was smooth and controlled. Bully for me.
“But he is coming?” Nat said, her brows puckering in concern.
“Oh, sure. He’ll just be a while yet.”
“I made this fabulous cream tart for dessert,” Nat grinned. “Definitely wanted to make a good impression, you know?”
Natalie’s apartment was in the Ninth Square section of New Haven, a rescued part of the city not far from the downtown firm where she worked. I’d been here, of course, helped her move in, gave her that iron horse statue for a housewarming gift. But things were different now. How long had Nat and Andrew been together? A month?
Six weeks? Yet already his things were scattered here and there…a jacket on the coatrack, his running shoes by the door, the New York Law Journal by the fireplace. If he wasn’t living here, he was staying over. A lot.
“Hey, there,” Andrew said, coming out of the kitchen. He gave me a quick hug, and I could feel his familiar sharp angles. Angles that felt repugnant today.
“Hi,” I said, stretching the old mouth in a grin. “How are you?”
“Great! How about a drink? A vodka gimlet? Appletini? White Russian?” Andrew’s merry green eyes smiled behind his glasses. He’d always been proud of having bartended his way through law school.
“I’d love some wine,” I said, just to deny him the exhibitionistic pleasure of making me a cocktail.
“White or red? We have a nice cabernet sauvignon open.”
“White, please,” I answered. My smile felt tight. “Wyatt likes cabernet, though.”
At this moment, I was incredibly grateful to young Wyatt Dunn, M.D. This night would’ve been awful without him, even if he didn’t exist in the corporeal world. I drifted over to the couch, Natalie chattering away about how she couldn’t find tilapia anywhere today and had to go to Fair Haven to a little fish market down by the Quinnipiac River. I had to stifle a sigh at the picture of Natalie, a study of elegant beauty, riding her bike down to the Italian market, where, no doubt, the owner fussed over her and threw in a few biscotti, since she was so pretty. Natalie with the perfect hair and fabulous job. Natalie with the lovely apartment and Natalie with the beautiful furniture.
Natalie with my ex-fiancé, telling me how she was dying to meet my imaginary beau.
I didn’t relish the fact that I was lying to Natalie—and my parents, and grandmother and even Callahan O’ Shea —but it was a far sight better than being Poor Grace, tossed over for her sister. Morally wrong to lie, but hey! If lying was ever justified, I’d have to say it was now.
For a brief second, another scenario flashed across the old brain cells. Callahan O’ Shea sitting by my side, rolling his eyes at how Andrew was even now showing off in the kitchen, chopping parsley like a manic spider monkey. That Cal would sling his big, muscular arm around my shoulder and mutter, “I can’t believe you were engaged to that scrawny jerk.”
Right. That would happen, and then I’d win the Lotto and discover I was the love child of Margaret Mitchell and Clark Gable.
To distract myself, I looked around Nat’s living room. My gaze stopped abruptly on the mantel. “I remember this,” I said, my voice a tad tight. “Andrew, this is the clock I gave you, isn’t it? Wow!”
And it was. A lovely, whiskey-colored mantel clock with a buttery face and elaborately detailed numbers, a brass key for winding it. I found it in an antiques shop in Litchfield and gave it to Andrew for his thirtieth birthday, two years ago. I planned the whole dang party, good little fiancée that I was. A picnic in the field along the Farmington. His work friends—our friends, back then—as well as Ava, Paul, Kiki and Dr. Eckhart, Margaret and Stuart, Julian, Mom and Dad, and Andrew’s snooty parents, who looked vaguely startled at the idea of eating on a public picnic table. What a great day that had been. Of course, that was back when he still loved me. Before he met my sister.
“Oh. Yeah. I love that clock,” he said awkwardly, handing me my wine.
“Good, since it cost the earth,” I announced with a stab of crass pleasure. “One of a kind.”
“And it’s…it’s gorgeous,” Andrew mumbled.
I know it is, dopey. “So. You two are very cozy. Are you living here now, Andrew?” I asked, and my voice was just a trifle loud.
“Well, uh…not…I still have a few months on my lease. So, no, not really.” He exchanged a quick, nervous glance with Natalie.
“Mmm-hmm. But obviously, since your things are migrating here…” I took a healthy sip of my chardonnay.
Neither of them said anything. I continued, making sure my tone was pleasant. “That’s nice. Saves on rent, too.
Very logical.” And fast. But of course, they were in love. Who wouldn’t be in love with Natalie, the fair flower of our family? Nat was younger. Blond, blue-eyed. Taller. Prettier. Smarter. Man, I wished Wyatt Dunn was real! Wished that Callahan O’ Shea was here! Anything other than this echoing sense of rejection that just wouldn’t fade away.
I unclenched my jaw and took a seat next to my sister and studied her. “God, we just do not look alike, do we?” I said.
“Oh, I think we do!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Except for the hair color. Grace, do you remember when I was in high school and got that perm? And then colored my hair brown?” She laughed and reached out to touch my knee. “I was crushed when it didn’t come out like yours.”
And there it was. I couldn’t be mad at Natalie. It was almost like I wasn’t allowed to be mad at Natalie, ever. It wasn’t fair, and it was completely true. I remembered the day she was referring to. She’d permed it, all right, permed that lovely, cool hair, then dyed it a flat, ugly brown. She was fourteen at the time, and had cried in her room as the chemical curls failed to produce the desired results. A week later, her hair was straight again, and she became the only brunette in high school with blond roots.
She’d wanted to be like me. She thought we looked alike—me, three inches shorter, fifteen pounds heavier, the accursed hair, the unremarkable gray eyes.
“There’s definitely a resemblance,” Andrew said. Piss off, buddy, I thought. Here I am taking a class on how to meet a husband, dredging up men on the Internet, lusting after a convict, and you have this pearl, you undeserving jerk. Well. I guess the anger wasn’t quite so gone after all. Not the anger caused by Andrew, that was.
He seemed to catch that thought. “I better check the risotto. I don’t think it’s going to thicken without some serious prayer.” With that, he scurried off into the kitchen like a frightened crab.
“Grace, is everything okay?” Natalie asked softly.
I took a breath. “Oh, sure.” I paused. “Well, Wyatt and I had a little fight.”
“Oh, no!”
I closed my eyes. I really was becoming a masterful liar. “Yeah. Well, he’s so devoted to the kids, you know?”
Yes, Grace, such a prick, your pediatric surgeon. “I mean, he’s wonderful. I’m crazy about him. But I hardly see him.”
“I guess it’s an occupational hazard,” Natalie murmured, her eyes soft with sympathy.
“Yeah.”
“But he makes up for it, I hope?” Nat asked, and I answered that yes, indeed he did. Breakfast in bed …strawberries, and the waffles were a little burnt, it was so cute, he was like a kid…the flowers he sent me (I had actually sent myself some flowers). The way he listened…loved learning about the classes I was teaching. The beautiful scarf he bought me last weekend (in fact, I did have a beautiful new scarf, except that I’d bought it for myself that day Julian and I went shopping).
“Oh, hey, did I tell you I’m up for chairmanship of the history department?” I said, seizing on a change of subject.
“Oh, Grace, that’s wonderful!” my sister cried. “You would do so much for that place! It would totally come alive if you were in charge.”
Then, on cue, my cell phone rang. I stood up, reached into my pocket, withdrew my phone and flipped it open.
“It’s Wyatt,” I said, smiling at Nat.
“Okay! I’ll give you a little privacy.” She started to get up.
“No, stay!” I commanded, then turned to the phone. After all, she needed to hear this conversation…my end, anyway. “Hi, honey,” I said.
“Hi, baby,” said Julian. “I’m thinking of changing my name.”
“Oh, no! Is he okay?” I asked, remembering to frown in concern, as I’d practiced in the rearview mirror on the way here.
“Something more manly, you know? Like Will or Jack. Spike. What do you think?”
“I think he’s lucky you were his doctor,” I answered firmly, smiling at my sister.
“Maybe that’s too butch, though. Maybe Mike. Or Mack. Well, I probably won’t. My mother would kill me.”
“No, no, that’s fine, honey! I understand. Of course she will! No, they both know what you do for a living! It’s not like you’re a…” I paused. “A carpenter or something. A mechanic. You’re saving lives!”
“Down, girl,” Julian coached.