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Too Good to Be True
Kristan Higgins


When Grace Emerson's ex-fiancé starts dating her younger sister, extreme measures are called for.To keep everyone from obsessing about her love life, Grace announces that she's seeing someone. Someone wonderful. Someone handsome. Someone completely made up.Who is this Mr. Right? Someone…exactly unlike her renegade neighbor Callahan O'Shea. Well, someone with his looks, maybe. His hot body. His knife-sharp sense of humor. His smarts and big heart. Whoa. No. Callahan O'Shea is not her perfect man! Not with his unsavory past. So why does Mr. Wrong feel so…right?










Praise for the novels of Kristan Higgins

Just One of the Guys “Higgins provides an amiable romp that ends with a satisfying lump in the throat.” —Publishers Weekly

“Kristan Higgins has a writing voice that is very genuine,

robust and amusing… Just One of the Guys abounds with charm and the true joys and pratfalls of falling in love.” —RomanceJunkies.com

“This story made me laugh out loud several times and

tear up at the end and, best of all, it made me rush

out to buy the backlist.”

—DearAuthor.com

“A true masterpiece.”

—dee’s book dish

Catch of the Day Winner—2008 Romance Writers of America RITA


Award “Smart, fresh and fun! A Kristan Higgins book is not to be missed!” —New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

“Higgins has crafted a touching story brimming with

smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging

narrative and the amusing, often self-deprecating

observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth

and a great deal of heart.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars, Top Pick

“Goes down sweetly. An utterly charming story!”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“When your heart needs a smile, when you want to believe

in falling in love again or when you just want to read a

great book, grab one by Higgins. You can’t go wrong.”

—dee’s book dish Best Book of the Year, 2007

Fools Rush In “Where has Kristan Higgins been all my life? Fools Rush In is a spectacular debut.” —USA TODAY bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly

“Higgins reached deep into every woman’s soul and

showed some heavy truths in a fantastically funny and

touching tale. This book is on my keeper shelf and will

remain there for eternity. It will be re-read and

loved for years to come.”

—dee’s book dish

“A fresh intelligent voice—Kristan Higgins

is too much fun!”

Cindy Gerard, USA TODAY bestselling author of To the Limit

“Higgins is a talented writer [who] will make you want to

search high and low for anything that she has written.”

—Chicklit Romance Writers

“Outstanding! This is a story well worth reading

”—Coffee Time Romance


Too Good to Be True

Kristan

Higgins


















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the memory of my

grandmother, Helen Kristan, quite the loveliest

woman I’ve ever known.




ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


At the Maria Carvainis Agency…thanks as always to the brilliant and generous Maria Carvainis for her wisdom and guidance, and to Donna Bagdasarian and June Renschler for their enthusiasm for this book.

At my publisher, thanks to Keyren Gerlach for her gracious and intelligent input and to Tracy Farrell for her support and encouragement.

Thanks to Julie Revell Benjamin and Rose Morris, my writing buddies, and to Beth Robinson of PointSource Media, who makes my website and trailers look so great.

On the personal side, thanks to my friends and family members who listen endlessly to my ideas—Mom, Mike, Hilly, Jackie, Nana, Maryellen, Christine, Maureen and Lisa. How lucky I am to have such a family and such friends!

Thanks to my great kids, who make life so enjoyable, and especially to my honey, Terence Keenan. Words, in this case, are just not enough.

And, finally, thanks to my grandfather, Jules Kristan, a man of steadfast devotion, keen intelligence and innate and boundless goodness. The world is a better place because of your example, dearest Poppy.




PROLOGUE


MAKING UP A BOYFRIEND is nothing new for me. I’ll come right out and admit that. Some people go window shopping for things they could never afford. Some look at online photos of resorts they’ll never visit. And some people imagine that they meet a really nice guy when, in fact, they don’t.

The first time it happened was in sixth grade. Recess. Heather B., Heather F. and Jessica A. were standing in their little circle of popularity. They wore lip gloss and eye shadow, had cute little pocketbooks and boyfriends. Back then, going out with a boy only meant that he might acknowledge you while passing in the hall, but still, it was a status symbol, and one that I lacked, right along with the eye shadow. Heather F. was watching her man, Joey Ames, as he put a frog down his pants for reasons clear only to sixth grade boys, and talking about how she was maybe going to break up with Joey and go out with Jason.

And suddenly, without a lot of forethought, I found myself saying that I, too, was dating someone… a boy from another town. The three popular girls turned to me with sharp and sudden interest, and I found myself talking about Tyler, who was really cute and smart and polite. An older man at fourteen. Also, his family owned a horse ranch and they wanted me to name the newest foal, and I was going to train it so that it came for my whistle and mine alone.

Surely we’ve all come up with a boy like that. Right? What was the harm in believing—almost—that somewhere out there, counterbalancing the frog-in-the-pants types was a boy like Tyler of the horses? It was almost like believing in God—you had to, because what was the alternative? The other girls bought it, peppered me with questions, looked at me with new respect. Heather B. even invited me to her upcoming birthday party, and I happily accepted. Of course, by then I was forced to share the sad news that Tyler’s ranch had burned down and the family moved to Oregon, taking my foal, Midnight Sun, with them. Maybe the Heathers and the rest of the kids in my class guessed the truth, but I found I didn’t really mind. Imagining Tyler had really felt… great, actually.

Later, when I was fifteen and we’d moved from our humble town of Mount Vernon, New York, to the much posher burg of Avon, Connecticut, where all the girls had smooth hair and very white teeth, I made up another boy. Jack, my Boyfriend Back Home. Oh, he was so handsome (as proved by the photo in my wallet, which had been carefully cut from a J.Crew catalogue). Jack’s father owned a really gorgeous restaurant named Le Cirque (hey, I was fifteen). Jack and I were taking things slow…yes, we’d kissed; actually, we’d gotten to second base, but he was so respectful that that was as far as it went. We wanted to wait till we were older. Maybe we’d get preengaged, and because his family loved me so much, they wanted Jack to buy me a ring from Tiffany’s, not a diamond but maybe a sapphire, kind of like Princess Diana’s, but a little smaller.

Sorry to tell you, I broke up with Jack about four months into my sophomore year in order to be available to local boys. My strategy backfired…the local boys were not terribly interested. In my older sister, definitely… Margaret would pick me up once in a while when she was home from college, and boys would fall silent at the mere sight of her sharp, glamorous beauty. Even my younger sister, who was only in seventh grade at the time, already showed signs of becoming a great beauty. But I stayed unattached, wishing I’d never broken up with my fictional boyfriend, missing the warm curl of pleasure it gave me to imagine such a boy liking me.

Then came Jean-Philippe. Jean-Philippe was invented to counter an irritating, incredibly persistent boy in college. A chemistry major who, looking back, probably suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, making him immune to every social nuance I threw his way. Rather than just flat out tell the boy that I didn’t like him (it seemed so cruel) I’d instruct my roommate to scrawl messages and tack them to the door so all could see: “Grace—J-P called again, wants you to spend break in Paris. Call him toute suite.”

I loved Jean-Philippe, loved imagining that some well-dressed Frenchman had a thing for me! That he was prowling the bridges of Paris, staring sullenly into the Seine, yearning for me and sighing morosely as he ate chocolate croissants and drank good wine. Oh, I had a crush on Jean-Philippe for ages, rivaling only my love for Rhett Butler, whom I’d discovered at age thirteen and never let go.

All through my twenties, even now at age thirty, faking a boyfriend was a survival skill. Florence, one of the little old ladies at Golden Meadows Senior Village, recently offered me her nephew during the ballroom dancing class, which I help teach. “Honey, you would just love Bertie!” she chirped as I tried to get her to turn right on her alamaena. “Can I give him your number? He’s a doctor. A podiatrist. So he has one tiny problem. Girls today are too picky. In my day, if you were thirty and unmarried, you were as good as dead. Just because Bertie has bosoms, so what? His mother was buxom, too, oh, she was stacked…”

Out came the imaginary boyfriend. “Oh, he sounds so nice, Flo… but I just started dating someone. Drat.”

It’s not just around other people, I have to admit. I use the emergency boyfriend as…well, let’s say as a coping mechanism, too.

For example, a few weeks ago, I was driving home on a dark and lonely section of Connecticut’s Route 9, thinking about my ex-fiancé and his new lady love, when my tire blew out. As is typical with brushes with death, a thousand thoughts were clear in my mind, even as I wrestled with the steering wheel, trying to keep the car from flipping, even as I distantly realized that voice shrieking “OhGodohGod!” was mine. First, I had nothing to wear to my funeral (easy, easy, don’t want to flip the car). Second, if open casket was an option, I hoped my hair wouldn’t be frizzing in death as it did in life (pull harder, pull harder, you’re losing it). My sisters would be devastated, my parents struck dumb with sorrow, their endless sniping silenced, at least for the day (hit the gas, just a little, it will straighten out the car). And God’s nightgown, wouldn’t Andrew be riddled with guilt! For the rest of his life, he’d always regret dumping me (slow down gradually now, on with the flashers, good, good, we’re still alive).

When the car was safe on the shoulder, I sat, shaking uncontrollably, my heart clattering against my ribs like a loose shutter in a hurricane. “JesusJesusthankyouJesus,” I chanted, fumbling for my cell phone.

Alas, I was out of range for cell service (of course). I waited a few moments, then, resigned, did what I had to do. Got out of the car into the cold March downpour, examined my shredded tire. Opened the trunk, pulled out the jack and the spare tire. Though I’d never done this particular task before, I figured it out as other cars flew past me occasionally, further drenching me with icy spray. I pinched my hand badly enough for a blood blister, broke a nail, ruined my shoes, became filthy from the mud and axle grease.

No one stopped to help. Not one dang person. No one even tapped their brakes, for that matter. Cursing, quite irritable with the cruelty of the world and vaguely proud that I’d changed a tire, I climbed back into the car, teeth chattering, lips blue with cold, drenched and dirty. On the drive back, all I could think of was a bath, a hot toddy, Project Runway and flannel pajamas. Instead, I found disaster waiting for me.

Judging from the evidence, Angus, my West Highland terrier, had chewed through the child safety latch on the newly painted cabinet door, dragged out the garbage can, tipped it over and ate the iffy chicken I’d thrown out that morning. There was no if about it, apparently. The chicken was bad. My poor dog had then regurgitated with such force that the walls of my kitchen were splattered with doggy vomit so high that a streak of yellow-green bile smeared the face of my Fritz the Cat clock. A trail of wet excrement led to the living room, where I found Angus stretched out on the pastel-shaded Oriental rug I’d just had cleaned. My dog belched foully, barked once and wagged his tail with guilty love amid the steaming puddles of barf.

No bath. No Tim Gunn and Project Runway. No hot toddy.

So what does this have to do with another imaginary boyfriend? Well, as I scrubbed the carpet with bleach and water and tried to emotionally prepare Angus for the suppository the vet instructed me to give, I found myself imagining the following instead.

I was driving home when my tire blew out. I stopped, reached for my cell phone, yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah. But what was this? A car slowed and pulled in behind me. It was, let’s see, an environmentally gentle hybrid, and ah, it had M.D. plates. A Good Samaritan in the form of a tall, rangy male in his mid-to late-thirties approached my car. He bent down. Hello! There it was…that moment when you look at someone and just…kablammy. You Just Know He’s The One.

In my fantasy, I accepted the kind Samaritan’s offer of help. Ten minutes later, he had secured the spare on the axle, heaved the blown tire in the trunk and handed me his business card. Wyatt Something, M.D., Department of Pediatric Surgery. Ah.

“Call me when you get home, just so I know you made it, okay?” he asked, smiling. Kablammy! He scrawled his home number on the card as I drank in the sight of his appealing dimples and long lashes.

It made cleaning up the puke a lot nicer.

Obviously, I was quite aware that my tire was not changed by the kindly and handsome doctor. I didn’t tell anyone he had. Just a little healthy escapism, right? No, there was no Wyatt (I always liked the name, so authoritative and noble). Unfortunately, a guy like that was just too good to be true. I didn’t go around talking about the pediatric surgeon who changed my tire, of course not. No. This was kept firmly private, just a little coping mechanism, as I said. I hadn’t publicly faked a boyfriend in years.

Until recently, that is.




CHAPTER ONE


“AND SO WITH THIS ONE ACT, Lincoln changed the course of American history. He was one of the most despised figures in politics in his day, yet he preserved the Union and is considered the greatest president our country ever had. And possibly ever will have.”

My face flushed… we’d just begun our unit on the Civil War, and it was my favorite class to teach. Alas, my seniors were in the throes of a Friday afternoon coma. Tommy Michener, my best student on most days, stared longingly at Kerry Blake, who was stretching so as to simultaneously torment Tommy with what he couldn’t have and invite Hunter Graystone IV to take it. At the same time, Emma Kirk, a pretty, kindhearted girl who had the curse of being a day student and was thus excluded from the cool kids, who all boarded, looked at her desk. She had a crush on Tommy and was all too aware of his obsession with Kerry, poor kid. “So who can sum up the opposing viewpoints? Anyone?”

From outside came the sound of laughter. We all looked. Kiki Gomez, an English teacher, was holding class outside, as the day was mild and lovely. Her kids didn’t look dazed and battered. Dang. I should’ve brought my kids outside, too.

“I’ll give you a hint,” I continued, looking at their blank faces. “States’ rights vs. Federal control. Union vs. secession.

Freedom to govern independently vs. freedom for all people. Slaves or no slaves. Ring a bell?”

At that moment, the chimes that marked the end of the period sounded, and my lethargic students sprang into life as they bolted for the door. I tried not to take it personally. My seniors were usually more engaged, but it was Friday. The kids had been hammered with exams earlier in the week, and there was a dance tonight. I understood.

Manning Academy was the type of prep school that litters New England. Stately brick buildings with the requisite ivy, magnolia and dogwood trees, emerald soccer and lacrosse fields, and a promise that for the cost of a small house, we’d get your kids into the colleges of their choice—Princeton, Harvard, Stanford, Georgetown. The school, which was founded in the 1880s, was a little world unto itself. Many of the teachers lived on campus, but those of us who didn’t, myself included, were usually as bad as the kids, eager for the last class to end each Friday afternoon so we could head for home.

Except this Friday. I’d have been more than happy to stay at school this Friday, chaperoning dances or coaching lacrosse. Or heck, cleaning the toilets for that matter. Anything other than my actual plans.

“Hi, Grace!” Kiki said, popping into my classroom.

“Hi, Kiki. Sounded like fun out there.”

“We’re reading Lord of the Flies,” she informed me.

“Of course! No wonder you were laughing. Nothing like a little pig killing to brighten the day.”

She grinned proudly. “So, Grace, did you find a date?”

I grimaced. “No. I didn’t. It won’t be pretty.”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world,” I murmured bravely.

“You sure about that?” Like me, Kiki was single. And no one knew better than a single woman in her thirties that hell is going to a wedding stag. In a few hours, my cousin Kitty, who once cut my bangs down to the roots when I was sleeping over at her house, was getting married. For the third time. In a Princess Diana–style dress.

“Look, it’s Eric!” Kiki blurted, pointing to my eastern window. “Oh, thank you, God!”

Eric was the guy who washed Manning Academy’s windows each spring and fall. Though it was only early April, the afternoon was warm and balmy, and Eric was shirtless. He grinned at us, well aware of his beauty, sprayed and squeegeed.

“Ask him!” Kiki suggested as we stared with great appreciation.

“He’s married,” I said, not taking my eyes off him. Ogling Eric was about as intimate as I’d been with a man in some time.

“Happily married?” Kiki asked, not above wrecking a home or two to get a man.

“Yup. Adores his wife.”

“I hate that,” she muttered.

“I know. So unfair.”

The male perfection that was Eric winked at us, blew a kiss and dragged the squeegee back and forth over the window, shoulder muscles bunching beautifully, washboard abs rippling, sunlight glinting on his hair.

“I should really get going,” I said, not moving a muscle. “I have to change and stuff.” The thought made my stomach cramp. “Kiki, you sure you don’t know anyone I can take? Anyone? I really, really don’t want to go alone.”

“I don’t, Grace,” she sighed. “Maybe you should’ve hired someone, like in that Debra Messing movie.”

“It’s a small town. A gigolo would probably stand out. Also, probably not that good for my reputation. ‘Manning Teacher Hires Prostitute. Parents Concerned.’ That kind of thing.”

“What about Julian?” she asked, naming my oldest friend, who often came out with Kiki and me on our girls’ nights.

“Well, my family knows him. He wouldn’t pass.”

“As a boyfriend, or as a straight guy?”

“Both, I guess,” I said.

“Too bad. He’s a great dancer, at least.”

“That he is.” I glanced at the clock, and the trickle of dread that had been spurting intermittently all week turned into a river. It wasn’t just going stag to mean old Kitty’s wedding. I’d be seeing Andrew for only the third time since we broke up, and having a date would’ve definitely helped.

Well. As much as I wished I could just stay home and read Gone With the Wind or watch a movie, I had to go. Besides, I’d been staying in a lot lately. My father, my gay best friend and my dog, though great company, probably shouldn’t be the only men in my life. And there was always the microscopic chance that I’d meet someone at this very wedding.

“Maybe Eric will go,” Kiki said, hustling over to the window and yanking it open. “No one has to know he’s married.”

“Kiki, no,” I protested.

She didn’t listen. “Eric, Grace has to go to a wedding tonight, and her ex-fiancé is going to be there, and she doesn’t have a date. Can you go with her? Pretend to adore her and stuff?”

“Thanks anyway, but, no,” I called, my face prickling with heat.

“Your ex, huh?” Eric said, wiping a pane clear.

“Yeah. May as well slit my wrists now.” I smiled to show I didn’t mean it.

“You sure you can’t go with her?” Kiki asked.

“My wife would probably have a problem with that,” Eric answered. “Sorry, Grace. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“Isn’t she brave?” Kiki asked. Eric agreed that I was and moved on to the next window, Kiki nearly falling out the window to watch him leave. She hauled herself back in and sighed. “So you’re going stag,” she said in the same tone as a doctor might use when saying, I’m sorry, it’s terminal.

“Well, I did try, Kiki,” I reminded her. “Johnny who delivers my pizza is dating Garlic-and-Anchovies, if you can believe it. Brandon at the nursing home said he’d hang himself before being a wedding date. And I just found out that the cute guy at the pharmacy is only seventeen years old, and though he said he’d be happy to go, Betty the pharmacist is his mom and mentioned something about the Mann Act and predators, so I’ll be going to the CVS in Farmington from now on.”

“Oopsy,” Kiki said.

“No big deal. I came up empty. So I’ll just go alone, be noble and brave, scan the room for legs to hump and leave with a waiter. If I’m lucky.” I grinned. Bravely.

Kiki laughed. “Being single sucks,” she announced. “And God, being single at a wedding…” She shuddered.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I answered.

FOUR HOURS LATER, I was in hell.

The all too familiar and slightly nauseating combination of hope and despair churned in my stomach. Honestly, I thought I was doing pretty well these days. Yes, my fiancé had dumped me fifteen months ago, but I wasn’t lying on the floor in fetal position, sucking my thumb. I went to work and taught my classes… very well, in my opinion. I went out socially. Granted, most of my excursions were either dancing with senior citizens or reenacting Civil War battles, but I did get out. And, yes, I would (theoretically) love to find a man—sort of an Atticus-Finch-meets-Tim-Gunn-and-looks-like-George-Clooney type.

So here I was at another wedding—the fourth family wedding since The Dumping, the fourth family wedding where I’d been dateless—gamely trying to radiate happiness so my relatives would stop pitying me and trying to fix me up with odd-looking distant cousins. At the same time, I was trying to perfect The Look—wry amusement, inner contentment and absolute comfort. Sort of a Hello! I am perfectly fine being single at yet another wedding and am not at all desperate for a man, but if you happen to be straight, under forty-five, attractive, financially secure and morally upright, come on down! Once I mastered The Look, I planned on splitting an atom, since they required just about the same level of skill.

But who knew? Maybe today, my eyes would lock on someone, someone who was also single and hopeful without being pathetic—let’s say a pediatric surgeon, just for the sake of argument—and kablammy! We’d just know.

Unfortunately, my hair was making me look, at best, gypsy beautiful and reckless, but more probably like I was channeling Gilda Radner. Must remember to call an exorcist to see if I could have the evil demons cast out of my hair, which had been known to snap combs in half and eat hairbrushes.

Hmm. There was a cute guy. Geeky, skinny, glasses, definitely my type. Then he saw me looking and immediately groped behind him for a hand, which was attached to an arm, which was attached to a woman. He beamed at her, planted a kiss on her lips and shot a nervous look my way. Okay, okay, no need to panic, mister, I thought. Message received.

Indeed, all the men under forty seemed to be spoken for. There were several octogenarians present, one of whom was grinning at me. Hmm. Was eighty too old? Maybe I should go for an older man. Maybe I was wasting my time on men who still had functioning prostates and their original knees. Maybe there was something to be said for a sugar daddy. The old guy raised his bushy white eyebrows, but his pursuit of me being his sweet young thing ended abruptly as his wife elbowed him sharply and shot me a disapproving glare.

“Don’t worry, Grace. It will be your turn soon,” an aunt boomed in her foghorn of a voice.

“You never know, Aunt Mavis,” I answered with a sweet smile. It was the eighth time tonight I’d heard such a sentiment, and I was considering having it tattooed on my forehead. I’m not worried. It will be my turn soon.

“Is it hard, seeing them together?” Mavis barked.

“No. Not at all,” I lied, still smiling. “I’m very glad they’re dating.” Granted, glad may have been a stretch, but still. What else could I say? It was complicated.

“You’re brave,” Mavis pronounced. “You are one brave woman, Grace Emerson.” Then she tromped off in search of someone else to torment.

“Okay, so spill,” my sister Margaret demanded, plopping herself down at my table. “Are you looking for a good sharp instrument so you can hack away at your wrists? Thinking about sucking a little carbon monoxide?”

“Aw, listen to you, you big softy. Your sisterly concern brings tears to my eyes.”

She grinned. “Well? Tell your big sis.”

I took a long pull from my gin and tonic. “I’m getting a little tired of people saying how brave I am, like I’m some marine who jumped on a grenade. Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“I wish I was single all the time,” Margs answered as her husband approached.

“Hey, Stuart!” I said fondly. “I didn’t see you at school today.” Stuart was the school psychologist at Manning and had in fact alerted me to the history department opening six years ago. He sort of lived the stereotype…oxford shirts covered by argyle vests, tasseled loafers, the required beard. A gentle, quiet man, Stuart had met Margaret in graduate school and been her devoted servant ever since.

“How are you holding up, Grace?” he asked, handing me a fresh version of my signature drink, a gin and tonic with lemon.

“I’m great, Stuart,” I answered.

“Hello, Margaret, hello, Stuart!” called my aunt Reggie from the dance floor. Then she saw me and froze. “Oh, hello, Grace, don’t you look pretty. And chin up, dear. You’ll be dancing at your own wedding one day soon.”

“Gosh, thanks, Aunt Reggie,” I answered, giving my sister a significant look. Reggie gave me a sad smile and drifted away to gossip.

“I still think it’s freakish,” Margs said. “How Andrew and Natalie could ever… Gentle Jesus and His crown of thorns! I just cannot wrap my brain around that one. Where are they, anyway?”

“Grace, how are you? Are you just putting up a good front, honey, or are you really okay?” This from Mom who now approached our table. Dad, pushing his ancient mother in her wheelchair, trailed behind.

“She’s fine, Nancy!” he barked. “Look at her! Doesn’t she seem fine to you? Leave her alone! Don’t talk about it.”

“Shut it, Jim. I know my children, and this one’s hurting. A good parent can tell.” She gave him a meaningful and frosty look.

“Good parent? I’m a great parent,” Dad snipped right back.

“I’m fine, Mom. Dad is right. I’m peachy. Hey, doesn’t Kitty look great?”

“Almost as pretty as at her first wedding,” Margaret said.

“Have you seen Andrew?” Mom asked. “Is it hard, honey?”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Really. I’m great.”

Mémé, my ninety-three-year-old grandmother, rattled the ice in her highball glass. “If Grace can’t keep a man, all’s fair in love and war.”

“It’s alive!” Margaret said.

Mémé ignored her, gazing at me with disparaging, rheumy eyes. “I never had trouble finding a man. Men loved me. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.”

“And you still are,” I said. “Look at you! How do you do it, Mémé? You don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

“Please, Grace,” my father muttered wearily. “It’s gas on a fire.”

“Laugh if you want, Grace. At least my fiancé never threw me over.” Mémé knocked back the rest of her Manhattan and held out her glass to Dad, who took it obediently.

“You don’t need a man,” Mom said firmly. “No woman does.” She leveled a significant look at my father.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dad snapped.

“It means what it means,” Mom said, her voice loaded.

Dad rolled his eyes. “Stuart, let’s get another round, son. Grace, I stopped by your house today and you really need new windows. Margaret, nice job on the Bleeker case, honey.” It was Dad’s way to jam in as much into a conversation as possible, sort of get things over with so he could ignore my mother (and his). “And, Grace, don’t forget about Bull Run next weekend. We’re Confederates.”

Dad and I belonged to Brother Against Brother, the largest group of Civil War reenactors in three states. You’ve seen us…we’re the weirdos who dress up for parades and stage battles in fields and at parks, shooting each other with blanks and falling in delicious agony to the ground. Despite the fact that Connecticut didn’t see a whole lot of Civil War action (alas), we fanatics in Brother Against Brother ignored that inconvenient fact. Our schedule started in the early spring, when we’d stage a few local battles, then move on to the actual sites throughout the South, joining up with other reenactment groups to indulge in our passion. You’d be amazed at how many of us there were.

“Your father and those idiot battles,” Mom muttered, adjusting Mémé’s collar. Mémé had apparently fallen deeply asleep or died… but no, her bony chest was rising and falling. “Well, I’m not going, of course. I need to focus on my art. You’re coming to the show this week, aren’t you?”

Margaret and I exchanged wary looks and made noncommittal sounds. Mom’s art was a subject best left untouched.

“Grace!” Mémé barked, suddenly springing back to life. “Get out there! Kitty’s going to throw the bouquet! Go! Go!” She turned her wheelchair and began ramming it into my shins, as ruthless as Ramses bearing down on the fleeing Hebrew slaves.

“Mémé! Please! You’re hurting me!” I yanked my legs out of the way, which didn’t stop her.

“Go! You need all the help you can get!”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Leave her alone, Eleanor. Can’t you see she’s suffering enough? Grace, honey, you don’t have to go if it makes you sad. Everyone will understand.”

“I’m fine,” I said loudly, running a hand over my uncontrollable hair, which had burst the bonds of bobby pins. “I’ll go.” Because damn it, if I didn’t, it would be worse. Poor Grace, look at her, she’s just sitting there like a dead possum in the road, can’t even get out of her chair. Besides, Mémé’s chair was starting to leave marks on my dress.

Out onto the dance floor I went, as excited as Anne Boleyn on her way to the gallows. I tried to blend in with the other sheep, standing in the back where I wouldn’t really have a chance of catching the bouquet. “Cat Scratch Fever” came booming over the stereo—so classy—and I couldn’t suppress a snicker.

Then I saw Andrew. Looking right at me, guilty as sin. His date was nowhere in sight. My heart lurched.

I knew he was here, of course. Him coming was my idea. But seeing him, knowing he was with another woman today in their first appearance as a couple, made my hands sweat, my stomach turn to ice. Andrew Carson was, after all, the man I thought I’d marry. The man I came within three weeks of marrying. The man who left me because he fell in love with someone else.

A couple of years ago, at Cousin Kitty’s second wedding, Andrew had come as my date. We’d been together for a while, and when it was bouquet toss time then, I’d gone up more or less happily, pretending to be embarrassed but with the smug contentment of a steady boyfriend. I didn’t catch the bouquet, and when I left the dance floor, Andrew had slung his arm around my shoulder. “I thought you could’ve worked a little harder out there,” he’d said, and I remembered the thrilling rush those words had caused.

Now he was here with his new girlfriend. Natalie of the long, straight, blond hair. Natalie of the legs that went on forever. Natalie the architect.

Natalie, my much adored younger sister, who was understandably lying low at this wedding.

Kitty tossed the bouquet. Her sister, my cousin Anne, caught it as planned and rehearsed, no doubt. Torture time over. But, no. Kitty spied me, picked up her skirts and hustled over. “It will be your turn soon, Grace,” she announced loudly. “You holding up okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s déjà vu all over again, Kitty! Another spring, another one of your weddings.”

“You poor thing.” She gave my arm a firm squeeze, smug sympathy dripping out of her, glanced at my bangs (yes, they’d grown out in the fifteen years that had passed since she’d cut them) and went back to her groom and the three kids from her first two marriages.

THIRTY-THREE MINUTES LATER, I decided I’d been brave long enough. Kitty’s reception was in full swing, and while the music was lively and my feet were itching to get out there and show the crowd what a rumba was supposed to look like, I decided to head for home. If there was a single, good-looking, financially secure, emotionally stable man here, he was hiding under a table. One quick pit stop and I’d be on my way.

I pushed open the door, took a quick and horrifying look in the mirror—even I didn’t even know it was possible for my hair to frizz that much, holy guacamole, it was nearly horizontal—and started to push open a stall door when I heard a small noise. A sad noise. I peeked under the door. Nice shoes. Strappy, high heels, blue patent leather.

“Um…is everything okay?” I asked, frowning. Those shoes looked familiar.

“Grace?” came a small voice. No wonder the shoes looked familiar. My younger sister and I had bought them together, last winter.

“Nat? Honey, are you okay?”

There was a rustle of material; then my sister pushed open the door. She tried to smile, but her clear blue eyes were wet with silvery tears. I noted her mascara didn’t deign to run. She looked tragic and gorgeous, Ilsa saying goodbye to Rick at the Casablanca airport. “What’s wrong, Nat?” I asked. “Oh, it’s nothing….” Her mouth wobbled. “It’s fine.” I paused. “Is it something to do with Andrew?” Natalie’s good front faltered. “Um… well… I don’t think it’s going to work between us,” she said, her voice cracking a little, giving her away. She bit her lip and looked down.

“Why?” I asked. Relief and concern battled in my heart. Granted, it sure wouldn’t kill me if Nat and Andrew didn’t work out, but it wasn’t like Natalie to be melodramatic. In fact, the last time I’d seen her cry was when I’d left for college twelve years ago.

“Um… it’s just a bad idea,” she whispered. “But it’s fine.” “What happened?” I asked. The urge to strangle Andrew flared in my gut. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” she assured me hastily. “It’s just… um…” “What?” I asked again, more forcefully this time. She wouldn’t look at me. Ah, dang it all. “Is it because of me, Nat?”

She didn’t answer.

I sighed. “Nattie. Please answer me.”

Her eyes darted at me, then dropped to the floor again.

“You’re not over him, are you?” she whispered. “Even though you said you were… I saw your face out there, at the bouquet toss, and oh, Grace, I’m so sorry. I should never have tried—”

“Natalie,” I interrupted, “I’m over him. I am. I promise.”

She gave me a look loaded with such guilt and misery and genuine anguish that the next words came out of my mouth without my being fully aware of them. “The truth is, Nat, I’m seeing someone.”

Oops. Hadn’t really planned on saying that, but it worked like a charm. Natalie blinked up at me, two more tears slipping down her petal-pink cheeks, hope dawning on her face, her eyes widening. “You are?” she said.

“Yes,” I lied, snatching a tissue to dab her face. “For a few weeks now.”

Nat’s tragic expression was fading. “Why didn’t you bring him tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. Weddings. Everyone gets all excited if you come with someone.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would be worth mentioning.” I smiled again, warming to the idea—just like old times—and this time, Nat smiled back.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

I paused for the briefest second. “Wyatt,” I answered, remembering my tire-changing fantasy. “He’s a doctor.”




CHAPTER TWO


LET ME JUST SAY THAT THE REST of the night went a lot better for everyone. Natalie towed me back to the table where the rest of our family sat, insisting that we hang out together a little, as she had been too nervous to actually speak to me yet this day.

“Grace has been seeing someone!” she announced softly, eyes shining. Margaret, who had been painfully listening to Mémé describe her nasal polyps, snapped to attention. Mom and Dad stopped mid-bicker to pelt me with questions, but I stuck with my “it’s still a little early to talk about it” story. Margaret raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I scanned for Andrew—he and Natalie had been keeping a bit of a distance from each other out of concern for my tender feelings. He wasn’t in range.

“And just what does this person do for a living?” Mémé demanded. “He’s not one of those impoverished teachers, is he? Your sisters managed to find jobs that pay a decent wage, Grace. I don’t know why you can’t.”

“He’s a doctor,” I said, taking a sip of the gin and tonic the waiter brought over.

“What kind, Pudding?” Dad asked.

“A pediatric surgeon,” I answered smoothly. Sip, sip. Hopefully, the flush on my face could be attributed to my cocktail and not lying.

“Ooh,” Nat sighed, her face breaking into an angelic smile. “Oh, Grace.”

“Wonderful,” Dad said. “Hold on to this one, Grace.” “She doesn’t need to hold on to anything, Jim,” Mom snapped. “Honestly, you’re her father! Do you really need to undermine her this way?” Then they were off and running in another argument. How nice that Poor Grace was finally off the list of things to worry about!

I TOOK A CAB HOME, claiming a misplaced cell phone and a pressing need to call my wonderful doctor boyfriend. I also managed to avoid speaking directly with Andrew. Pushing Natalie and Andrew out of my head à la Scarlett O’Hara—I’ll think about that tomorrow—I focused instead on my new imaginary boyfriend. Good thing my tire had blown out a few weeks ago, or I wouldn’t have been nearly so quick on my feet.

How nice it would’ve been if Wyatt, pediatric surgeon, were a real guy. If he’d been a good dancer, too, even if it was just a little turning box step. If he could’ve charmed Mémé and asked Mom about her sculptures and not cringed when she described them. If he was a golfer like Stuart and the two guys made plans for a morning on the links. If he just happened to know a little bit about the Civil War. If he occasionally broke off midsentence when he was talking because he looked at me and simply forgot what he was saying. If he was here to lead me upstairs, unzip this uncomfortable dress and shag me silly.

The cab turned onto my street and cruised to a stop. I paid the driver, got out and just stood for a minute, looking at my house. It was a teensy little three-story Victorian, tall and narrow. A few brave daffodils stood bobbing along the walk, and soon the tulip beds would erupt in pink and yellow. In May, the lilacs along the eastern side of my house would fill the entire house with their incomparable smell. I’d spend most of the summer on my porch, reading, writing papers for various journals, watering my Boston ferns and begonias. My home. When I bought the house—correction, when Andrew and I bought it—it had been tattered and neglected. Now, it was a showplace. My showplace, as Andrew had left me before the new insulation was installed, before the walls were knocked down and repainted.

At the sound of my high heels on the flagstone path, Angus’s head popped up in the window, making me grin… and then wobble. Apparently, I was a little buzzed, a fact underscored as I fumbled ineffectively for my keys. There. Key in door, turn. “Hello there, Angus McFangus! Mommy’s home!”

My little dog raced up to me, then, too overcome by the miracle of my very being, raced around the downstairs in victory-lap style—living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway, repeat. “Did you miss Mommy?” I asked every time he whizzed past me. “Did you… miss… Mommy?” Finally, his energy expended somewhat, he brought me his victim of the night, a shredded box of tissues, which he deposited proudly at my feet.

“Thank you, Angus,” I said, understanding that this was a gift. He collapsed in front of me, panting, black button eyes adoring, his back legs straight out behind him, as if he were flying, in what I thought of as his Super Dog pose. I sat down, slipped off my shoes and scratched Angus’s cunning little head. “Guess what? We have a boyfriend now,” I said. He licked my hand in delight, burped, then ran into the kitchen. Good idea. I’d hit the Ben & Jerry’s for a little snack. Hoisting myself out of my chair, I glanced out the window and froze.

A man was creeping along the side of the house next door.

Obviously, it was dark outside, but the streetlight illuminated the man clearly as he walked slowly along the side of the house next to mine. He looked in both directions, paused, then continued on to the back of the house, climbed the back steps, slowly, tentatively, then tried the doorknob. Locked, apparently. He looked under the doormat. Nothing. Tried the doorknob again, harder.

I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen a house being broken into before. No one lived in that house, 36 Maple. I’d never even seen someone look at it in the two years I’d lived in Peterston. It was sort of a bungalow style, pretty worn down, in need of a good bit of work. I’d often wondered why no one bought it and fixed it up. Surely there was nothing inside worth stealing….

Swallowing with an audible click, I realized that, should the burglar look in my direction, he’d see me quite clearly, as my light was on and the curtains open. Reaching out slowly without taking my eyes off him, I turned off the lamp.

The suspect, as I was already calling him, then gave the door a shove with his shoulder. He repeated the action, harder this time, and I flinched as his shoulder hit the door. No go. He tried again, stepped back, then walked to a window, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in.

This all looked very suspicious to me. Sure enough, the man tried to open the window. Again, no luck. Perhaps, yes, I’d watched too many episodes of Law & Order, friend to single women everywhere, but this seemed pretty cut-and-dried. A crime was in progress at the vacant house next door. Surely this wasn’t good. What if the burglar came over here? In his two years on earth, Angus had yet to be put to the test of home protection. Ripping up shoes and rolls of toilet paper, that he had mastered. Protect me from an average-size male? Not too sure. And was the burglar average? He looked pretty brawny to me. Pretty solid.

I let the usual stream of horrific images slide through my head and acknowledged the slim odds of their actually happening. The man, who was currently trying another window, was probably not a murderer looking for a place to stash a body. He probably didn’t have a million dollars’ worth of heroin in his car. And I hoped quite fervently that he had no plans to chain an average-size woman in the pit in his cellar and wait for her to lose enough weight so he could use her skin to whip up a new dress, like that guy in Silence of the Lambs.

The burglar tried the door a second time. Okay, pal, I thought. Enough is enough. Time to call the authorities. Even if he wasn’t a murderer, he clearly was looking for a house to burgle. Was that a verb? Burgle? It sounded funny. Granted, yes, I’d had two gin and tonics tonight (or was it three?), and drinking wasn’t really a strong suit of mine, but still. No matter how I broke it down, the activity next door looked pretty damn criminal. The man disappeared around the back of the house again, still, I assumed, searching for a point of entry. What the heck. Time to put my tax dollars to use and call the cops.

“911, please state your emergency.”

“Hi, how are you?” I asked.

“Do you have an emergency, ma’am?”

“Oh, well, you know, I’m not sure,” I answered, squinting one eye shut to see the burglar better. No such luck; he’d disappeared around the far corner of the house. “I think the house next door to me is being robbed. I’m at 34 Maple Street, Peterston. Grace Emerson.”

“One moment, please.” I heard the squawk of a radio in the background. “We have a cruiser in your area, ma’am,” she said after a moment. “We’ll dispatch a unit right now. What exactly can you see?”

“Um, right now, nothing. But he was… casing the joint, you know?” I said, wincing. Casing the joint? Who was I, Tony Soprano? “What I mean is, he’s walking around, trying the doors and windows. No one lives there, you know.”

“Thank you, ma’am. The police should be there any moment. Would you like us to stay on the line?” she asked.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, not wanting to seem too much of a wuss. “Thank you.” I hung up, feeling vaguely heroic. A regular neighborhood watch, I was.

I couldn’t see the man anymore from the kitchen, so I slipped into the dining room (oops, a little dizzy…maybe that was three G&Ts). Peeking out the window, I saw nothing irregular at the moment. And I didn’t hear sirens, either. Where were those cops? Maybe I should’ve stayed on the line. What if the burglar realized there’s nothing to steal over there, but then took a look over here? I had plenty of nice things. That sofa set me back almost two grand. My computer was state-of-the-art. And last birthday, Mom and Dad had given me that fabulous plasma screen TV.

I looked around. Sure, it was dumb, but I’d feel safer if I was… well, not armed, but something. I didn’t own a handgun, God knew… not the type. I glanced at my knife block. Nah. That seemed a little over the top, even for me. Granted, I had two Springfield rifles in the attic, not to mention a bayonet, along with all my other Civil War gear, but we didn’t use bullets, and I couldn’t quite imagine bayoneting someone, no matter how much fun I had pretending to do just that at our battle reenactments.

Creeping into the living room, I opened the closet and surveyed my options. Hanger, ineffective. Umbrella, too light-weight. But wait. There, in the back, was my old field hockey stick from high school. I’d kept it all these years for sentimental reasons, harking back to the brief period of time when I was an athlete, and now I was glad. Not quite a weapon, but some protection nevertheless. Perfect.

Angus was now asleep on his bed, a red velvet cushion in a wicker basket, in the kitchen. He lay on his back, furry white paws in the air, his little bottom teeth locked over his uppers. He didn’t look like he was going to be much help in the case of a home invasion. “Cowboy up, Angus,” I whispered. “Being cute isn’t everything, you know.”

He sneezed, and I ducked. Did the burglar hear that? For that matter, did he hear me on the phone? I chanced a peek out the dining-room window. Still no cops. No movement from next door, either. Maybe he was gone.

Or coming over. Coming for me. Well, my stuff, anyway. Or me. You never knew.

Holding the field hockey stick reassured me. Maybe I’d just slip upstairs and lock myself in the attic, I thought. Sit next to those rifles, even if I didn’t own bullets. Surely the police could handle the thief next door. And speaking of cops, a black-and-white cruiser glided down the street, parking right in front of the Darrens’ house. Great. I was safe. I’d just tiptoe into the dining room and see if Mr. Burglar Man was in sight.

Nope. Nothing. Just the ticking of the lilac branches against the windows. Speaking of the windows, Dad was right. They did need to be replaced. I could feel a draft, and it wasn’t even that windy. My heating bill had been murder this year.

Just then, a quiet knock came on the door. Ah, the cops. Who said they were never around when you needed them? Angus leaped up as if electrocuted and raced to the door, dancing happily, leaping so that all four paws left the ground, barking shrilly. Yarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarp! “Sh!” I told him. “Sit. Stay. Calm down, honey.”

Stick still in hand, I opened the front door.

It wasn’t the cops. The burglar was standing right in front of me. “Hi,” he said.

I heard the stick hit him before I realized I’d moved, and then my frozen brain acknowledged all sorts of things at once—the muffled thunking of wood against human. The trembling reverberation up my arm. The stunned expression on the burglar’s face as he reached up to cover his eye. My shaking legs. The slow sinking of said burglar to his knees. Angus’s hysterical yapping.

“Ouch,” the burglar said faintly.

“Back off,” I squeaked, the hockey stick wavering. My entire body shook violently.

“Jesus, lady,” he muttered, his voice more surprised than anything. Angus, snarling like an enraged lion cub, took hold of the burglar’s sleeve and whipped his little head back and forth, trying to do some damage, tail wagging joyfully, body trembling at the thrill of defending his mistress.

Should I put the stick down? Wouldn’t that be the prime moment for him to grab me? Wasn’t that the mistake most women make just before they’re tossed into the pit in the cellar and starved till their skin gets loose?

“Police! Hands in the air!”

Right! The police! Thank God! Two officers were running across my lawn.

“Hands in the air! Now!”

I obeyed, the field hockey stick slipping out of my hands, bouncing off the burglar’s head and landing on the porch floor. “For Christ’s sake,” the burglar muttered, wincing. Angus released the sleeve and pounced instead upon the stick, snarling and yapping with glee.

The burglar squinted up at me. The skin around his eye had already turned livid red. And oh, dear, was that blood?

“Hands on your head, pal,” one of the cops said, whipping out his handcuffs.

“I don’t believe this,” the burglar said, obeying with (I imagined) the wearied resignation of someone who’s been through this before. “What did I do?”

The first cop didn’t answer, just snapped on the cuffs. “Please step inside, ma’am,” the other officer said.

I finally unfroze from my hands-in-the-air position and staggered inside. Angus dragged the field hockey stick in behind me before abandoning it to zip in joyous circles around my ankles. I collapsed on the sofa, gathering my dog in my arms. He licked my chin vigorously, barked twice, then bit my hair.

“Are you Ms. Emerson?” the cop asked, tripping slightly over the field hockey stick.

I nodded, still shaking violently, my heart galloping in my chest like Seabiscuit down the final stretch.

“So what happened here?”

“I saw that man breaking into the house next door,” I answered, disentangling my hair from Angus’s teeth. My voice was fast and high. “Where no one lives, by the way. And so I called you guys, and then he came right up on my porch. So I hit him with a field hockey stick. I played in high school.”

I sat back, swallowed and glanced out the window, taking a few deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. The cop gave me a moment, and I stroked Angus’s rough fur, making my doggy croon with joy. Now that I thought of it, perhaps whacking the burglar wasn’t quite…necessary. It occurred to me that he said “Hi.” I thought he did, anyway. He said hi. Do burglars usually greet their victims? Hi. I’d like to rob your house. Does that work for you?

“You okay?” the cop asked. I nodded. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?” I shook my head. “Why did you open the door, miss? That wasn’t a smart thing to do.” He frowned disapprovingly.

“Uh, well, I thought it was you guys. I saw your car. And, no, he didn’t hurt me. He just…” said hi. “He looked, um… suspicious? Sort of? You know, he was creeping around that house, that’s all. Creeping and looking, sort of peeking? And no one lives there. No one’s lived over there since I’ve lived over here. And I didn’t actually mean to hit him.”

Well, didn’t I sound smart!

The cop gave me a dubious look and wrote a few things in his little black notebook. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?” he asked.

“A little bit,” I answered guiltily. “I didn’t drive, of course. I was at a wedding. My cousin. She’s not very nice. Anyway, I had a cocktail. A gin and tonic. Well, really more like two and a half. Possibly three?”

The cop flipped his notebook closed and sighed.

“Butch?” The second officer stuck his head in the door. “We have a problem.”

“Did he run?” I blurted. “Did he escape?”

The second cop gave me a pitying look. “No, ma’am, he’s sitting on your steps. We’ve got him cuffed, nothing for you to worry about. Butch, could you come out here a second?”

Butch left, his gun catching the light. Clutching Angus to me, I tiptoed to the living room window and pushed back the curtain (blue raw silk, very pretty). There was the burglar, still sitting on my front steps, his back to me, as Officer Butch and his partner conferred.

Now that I wasn’t in mortal fear, I took a good look at him. Bed-heady brown hair, kind of appealing, really. Broad shoulders… it was a good thing I didn’t get into a scuffle with him. Well, into more of a scuffle, I supposed. Burly arms, from the look of the way the fabric strained against his biceps. Then again, it could just be the pose forced on him by having his hands cuffed behind his back.

As if sensing my presence, the burglar turned toward me. I leaped back from the window, wincing. His eye was already swollen shut. Dang it. I hadn’t planned on hurting him. I hadn’t planned anything, really… just acted in the moment, I guess.

Officer Butch came back inside.

“Does he need some ice?” I whispered.

“He’ll be fine, ma’am. He says he’s staying next door, but we’re gonna take him to the station and verify his story. Can you give me your contact information?”

“Sure,” I answered, reciting my phone number. Then the cop’s words sank in. Staying next door.

Which meant I just clubbed my new neighbor.




CHAPTER THREE


THE FIRST THING I DID UPON awakening was roll out of bed and squint through my hangover at the house next door. All was quiet. No sign of life. Guilt throbbed in time with my pounding head as I recalled the stunned look on the burglar’s—or the not-burglar’s—face. I’d have to call the police station and see what had happened. Maybe I should alert my dad, who was a lawyer. Granted, Dad handled tax law, but still. Margaret was a criminal defense lawyer. She might be a better bet.

Dang it. I wished I hadn’t hit the guy. Well. Accidents happen. He was skulking around a house at midnight, right? What did he expect? That I’d invite him in for a coffee? Besides, maybe he was lying. Maybe “staying next door” was just his cover story. Maybe I’d just done a community service. Still, clubbing people was new to me. I hoped the guy wasn’t too hurt. Or mad.

The sight of my dress, which I hadn’t hung up in my furor last night, reminded me of Kitty’s wedding. Of Andrew and Natalie, together. Of Wyatt, my new imaginary boyfriend. I smiled. Another fake boyfriend. I’d done it again.

You may have gotten the impression that Natalie was… well, not spoiled, but protected. You’d be right. She was universally adored by our parents, by Margs, who didn’t give her love easily and, yes, even by Mémé. But especially by me. In fact, my very first clear memory in life was of Natalie. It was my fourth birthday, and Mémé was smoking a ciggie in our kitchen, ostensibly watching us while my cake baked in the oven, the warm smell of vanilla mingling not unpleasantly with her Kool Lights.

The kitchen of my childhood seemed to be an enormous place full of wonderful, unexpected treasures, but my favorite spot was the pantry, a long, dark closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves. Often would I go in and close the door behind me, eating chocolate chips from the bag in delicious silence. It was like a little house unto itself, complete with bottles of seltzer water and dog food. Marny, our cocker spaniel, would come in with me, wagging her little stump of a tail as I fed her kibbles, eating one myself once in a while. Sometimes Mom would open the door and yelp, startled to find me there, curled up next to the mixer with the dog. It always felt so safe in there.

At any rate, on my fourth birthday, Mémé was smoking, I was lurking in the pantry with Marny, sharing a box of Cheerios, when I heard the back door open. In came Mom and Dad. There was a flurry of activity… Mommy had been away for a few days, and then I heard her call my name.

“Gracie, where are you! Happy birthday, honey! We have someone who wants to meet you!”

“Where’s the birthday girl?” boomed Dad. “Doesn’t she want her presents?”

Suddenly aware of how much I missed my mother, I bolted from the cabinet, past Mémé’s skinny, vein-bumpy legs, and charged toward my mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her coat. She was holding a baby wrapped in a soft pink blanket.

“My birthday present!” I cried in delight.

Eventually, the grown-ups explained to me that the baby wasn’t just for me, but for Margaret and everyone else, too. My present was, in fact, a stuffed animal, a dog. (Later that day, according to family lore, I put the stuffed dog in the baby’s crib, delighting my parents with my generosity.) But I never got over the feeling that Natalie Rose was mine, certainly much more than she was Margaret’s, a feeling that Margaret, who was seven at the time and horribly sophisticated, nurtured in order to get out of her sisterly responsibilities. “Grace, your baby needs you,” she’d call when Mom asked for help spooning yogurt into Nat’s mouth or changing a poopy diaper. I didn’t mind. I loved being the special sister, the big sister after four long years of being bossed around or ignored by Margaret. My birthday became more about Natalie and me, our beginning, than the day I was born. No, now my birthday was much more important. The day I got Natalie.

Natalie did not fail to delight. A stunning baby, she became more beautiful as she grew, her hair silky and blond, her eyes a startling sky-blue, cheeks as soft as tulip petals, eyelashes so long they touched her silken eyebrows. Her first word was Gissy, which we all knew was her attempt to say my name.

As she grew, she looked up to me. Margaret, for all her gruffness and disdain, was a good sister, but more of the type to take you aside and explain how to get out of trouble or why you should leave her stuff alone. For playing, for cuddling, for company, Nat turned to me, and I was more than willing. At age four, she spent hours putting barrettes in my kinky curls, wishing aloud that her own blond waterfall of smoothness was, in her words “a beautiful brown cloud.” In kindergarten, she brought me in for show-and-tell, and on Special Person’s Day, you know who was at her side. When she needed help in spelling, I took over for Mom or Dad, making up silly sentences to keep things fun. During her ballet recitals, her eyes sought me out in the audience, where I’d be beaming back at her. I called her Nattie Bumppo after the hero of The Deerslayer, pointing to her name in the book to show her how famous she was.

Thus went our childhood—Natalie perfect, me adoring, Margs gruff and a little above it all. Then, when Natalie was seventeen and I was in my junior year at William & Mary, I got a call from home. Natalie had been feeling crummy for a day or so. She was not one to complain, so when she finally admitted that her stomach hurt pretty badly, Mom called the doctor. Before they could get to the office, Nat’s appendix ruptured. The resulting appendectomy was messy, since infected fluid had spread throughout her abdomen, and she came down with peritonitis. She spiked a fever. It didn’t come down.

I was in my dorm room when Mom called me, nine hours away by car. “Get home as fast as you can, Grace,” she ordered tightly. Nat had been moved to the ICU, and things weren’t looking good.

My memories of that trip back home alternated between horribly vivid and completely blank. A professor drove me to Richmond International Airport. I don’t remember which professor, but I can see the dusty dashboard of his car as clearly as if I were sitting in that hot vinyl front seat right now, the crack in the windshield that flowed lazily down from its source like the Mississippi bisecting the United States. I remember weeping in the plastic seat in front of my gate, my fists clenched as the airplane crept with agonizing slowness toward the terminal. I remember my friend Julian’s face at the airport, his eyes wide with fear and compassion. My mother, swaying on her feet outside Natalie’s cubicle in the hospital, my father, gray-faced and silent, Margaret tight and hunched in the corner near the curtain that separated Natalie from the next patient.

And I remember Natalie, lying in a bed, obscured by tubes and blankets, looking so small and alone that my heart cracked in half. I took her hand and kissed it, my tears falling on the hospital sheets. “I’m here, Nattie Bumppo,” I whispered. “I’m here.” She was too weak to answer, too sick even to open her eyes.

Outside, the doctor spoke in a somber murmur to my parents. “…Abscess…bacteria…kidney function…white count… not good.”

“Jesus God in heaven,” Margaret whispered in the corner. “Oh, shit, Grace.” Our eyes met in bleak horror at the possibility we couldn’t imagine. Our golden Natalie, the sweetest, kindest, loveliest girl in the world, dying.

The hours ticked past. Coffee cups came and went, Natalie’s IVs were changed, her wound checked. A day crawled by. She didn’t wake up. A night. Another day. She got worse. We were only allowed in for a few minutes at a time, sent off to a grim waiting room full of old magazines and bland, nubby furniture, the fluorescent lights sparing no detail of the fear on our faces.

On day four, a nurse burst into the room. “Natalie Emerson’s family, come now!” she ordered.

“Oh, Jesus,” my mother said, her face white as chalk. She staggered, my father caught her and half dragged her down the hall. Terrified that our sister was slipping away, Margaret and I ran ahead of our parents. It seemed to take a year to get down that hall—every step, every slap of my sneakers, every breath was punctuated with my desperate prayer. Please. Please. Not Natalie. Please.

I got there first. My baby sister, my birthday present, was awake, looking at us for the first time in days, smiling weakly. Margaret careened in behind me.

“Natalie!” she exploded in typical fashion. “Jesus Christ hanging on the cross, we thought you were dead!” She wheeled around and charged out to smite the nurse who’d taken a decade off of each our lives.

“Nattie,” I whispered. She held out her hand to me, and you can bet that I promised then and there to make sure God knew how grateful I was to have her back.

“YOU DID WHAT?”JULIAN ASKED. We were strolling through the four-block downtown of Peterston, eating apricot danish from Lala’s Bakery and sipping cappuccinos. I’d already dazzled my friend with my story of clubbing the neighbor, completely outranking his tale of having successfully cooked chicken tikka masala from scratch.

“I told her I was seeing someone. Wyatt, a pediatric surgeon.” I took another bite of the still-warm pastry and groaned in pleasure.

Julian paused, his eyes wide with admiration. “Wow.”

“Kind of brilliant, don’t you think?”

“I do,” he said. “Not only have you taken a stand against crime in your neighborhood, you’ve invented another boyfriend. Busy night!”

“I just wish I’d thought of it earlier,” I said smugly.

Julian grinned, bent down to give Angus a piece of his pastry, then resumed walking, only to pause again in front of his place of business. Jitterbug’s Dance Hall, tucked between a dry cleaner and Mario’s Pizza. He peered in the windows, checking that everything was perfect within. A woman walking behind us glanced at Julian, looked away, then did a double take. I smiled fondly. My oldest friend, though he’d been a pudgy outcast when we’d first met, now resembled a clean-shaven Johnny Depp, and the woman’s reaction was fairly typical. Alas, he was gay or I would have married him and borne his children long ago. Like me, Julian had been burned romantically, though even I, his oldest friend, didn’t know the details of his long-ago breakup.

“So now you’re Wyatt’s girl,” he said, resuming our stroll. “What is his last name?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t invented that yet.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Julian thought a minute. “Dunn. Wyatt Dunn.”

“Wyatt Dunn, M.D. I love it,” I said.

Julian turned to flash a smile at the woman behind us. She turned purple in response and pretended to drop something. Happened all the time. “So what does Dr. Wyatt Dunn look like?” he asked.

“Well, he’s not terribly tall… that’s sort of overrated, don’t you think?” Julian smiled; he was five foot ten. “Kind of lanky. Dimples. Not too good-looking but he has a really friendly face, you know? Green eyes, blond hair. Glasses, don’t you think?”

Julian’s smile faded. “Grace. You just described Andrew.”

I choked on my cappuccino. “Did I? Crap. Okay, scratch that. Tall, dark and handsome. No glasses. Um, brown eyes.” Angus barked once, affirming my taste in men.

“I’m thinking of that Croatian guy from E.R. Dr. Good-looking,” Julian said.

“Oh, yes, I know who you mean. Perfect. Yes, that’s Wyatt to a T.” We laughed.

“Hey, is Kiki joining us this morning?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “She met someone last night and really thinks he’s The One.” Julian chorused the last few words along with me. It was Kiki’s habit, this falling madly in love. She excelled at finding The One, which she did often, and usually with disastrous results, becoming obsessed by the end of the first date, scaring the man away with talk of forevermore. If history repeated itself (and it usually did, as this history teacher knew quite well), she’d be crushed by this time next week, possibly with a restraining order filed against her.

So no Kiki. That was okay. Julian and I shared a love of antiques and vintage clothes. I was, after all, a history teacher, so it made sense. He was a gay man and dance instructor, so that made sense, too. Strolling along the crooked and quiet streets of Peterston, stopping in at the funky shops, the promise of leaves and flowers just around the corner, I felt happy. After a long, sloppy winter, it was good to be outside.

Peterston, Connecticut, is a small city on the Farmington River, accessible only by locals and clever tourists who excel in map-reading. Once famed for making more plow blades than any other place on God’s green earth, the town had gone from desolate neglect to a scruffy charm in the past decade or so. Main Street led right down to the river, where there was a trail for walking. In fact, I could get home by walking along the Farmington, and often did. Mom and Dad lived five miles downriver in Avon, and sometimes I walked there, too.

Yes, I was content this morning. I loved Julian, I loved Angus, who trotted adorably at the end of his red-and-purple braided leash. And I loved having my family think I was in a relationship, not to mention completely over Andrew.

“Maybe I should get a new outfit or two,” I mused outside of The Chic Boutique. “Now that I’m seeing a doctor and all. Something never worn by another.”

“Absolutely. You’ll need something nice for those hospital functions,” Julian seconded immediately. We entered the store, Angus in my arms, and emerged an hour or so later, laden with bags.

“I love dating Wyatt Dunn,” I said, grinning. “In fact, I may get an entire makeover. Haircut, mani, pedi…God, I haven’t done that in ages. What do you think? Want to come?”

“Grace,” Julian said, pausing. He took a deep breath, nodded to a passerby, then continued. “Grace, maybe we should…”

“Get lunch instead?” I suggested, petting Angus, who was licking the bag that contained my new shoes.

Julian smiled. “No, I was thinking more like maybe we should really try to meet someone. Two someones. You know. Maybe we should stop depending on each other so much and really get out there again.”

I didn’t answer. Julian sighed. “See, I think I might be ready. And you having a fake boyfriend, well, that’s cute and all, but… maybe it’s time for the real thing. Not that your fake boyfriends aren’t fun, too.” Julian had known me a long time.

“Right,” I said, nodding slowly. The thought of dating made a light sweat break out on my back. It wasn’t that I didn’t want love, marriage, the whole shmere… I just hated the thought of what one had to do to get to that point.

“I will if you will,” he prodded. “And just think. Maybe there is a real Wyatt Dunn out there for you. You could fall in love and then Andrew wouldn’t…” His voice trailed off, and his dark eyes were apologetic. “Well. Who knows?”

“Sure. Yeah. Well.” I closed my eyes briefly. Pictured Tim Gunn/Atticus Finch/Rhett Butler/George Clooney. “All right. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Okay. So. I’m going home to register on a dating Web site, and you do the same.”

“Yes, General Jackson. Whatever you say.” I saluted, he returned the gesture, kissed me on the cheek and headed for his place.

Watching my old friend walk away, I imagined with an unpleasant jolt what it would be like to have Julian as half of a happy couple. Imagined him not coming over once or twice a week, not asking me to help at his Dancin’ with the Oldies class at Golden Meadows, not going shopping with me on Saturday mornings. Instead of me, some gorgeous man would be sitting in my place.

Now that would really suck. “Not that we’re selfish or anything,” I muttered. Angus chewed on the hem of my jeans in response. We headed for home, down the narrow path that followed the river, Angus straining on the leash and getting tangled in my bags. My dog wanted to investigate the Farmington, but it was so fat and full and loud that it would sweep him away. Red buds swelled on the swamp maples, but only a few bushes had any actual green on them. The earth was damp, the birds twittered and hopped in their annual search for a mate.

The last man I’d been in love with was Andrew, and try though I might, I couldn’t remember how it had felt when we first fell in love. All my memories of him were tainted, obviously, but still…to belong to someone again, someone right this time. Really meant for me.

Julian had a point. It was time to start over. Sure, I’d tried to scare up a date for Kitty’s wedding. But a relationship was different. I wanted to meet someone. I needed to meet someone, a man I could really love. Surely, somewhere out there, there was a man who would see me as the most beautiful creature on earth, the one who made his very heart beat, made the breath in his lungs sweet and all that sappy garbage. Someone who would help me put the final nail in the Andrew coffin.

It was time.

MY ANSWERING MACHINE LIGHT was blinking when I got home. “You have five messages,” the mechanical voice announced. Wow. That was unusual for me. One each from Nat and Margaret—Nat was dying to get together and hear about Wyatt; Margaret sounded a bit more sardonic. Number three was from Mom, reminding me about her upcoming art show and suggesting I bring my lovely doctor. Number four was from Dad, giving me my assignment for next week’s battle and also suggesting I bring Wyatt, as Brother Against Brother was low on Yankees.

Looked like my family had swallowed my tale of Wyatt pretty well.

The final message was from Officer Butch Martinelli of the Peterston Police Department asking me to return his call. Oh, crap. I’d almost forgotten about that. The clubbing. Beads of sweat jumped out on my forehead. I dialed the number immediately and asked for the good sergeant.

“Yes, Ms. Emerson. I have some information on the man you assaulted last night.”

Assaulted. I assaulted someone. The guy was a burglar last night; now he was the vic. “Right,” I said, my voice squeaking. “I didn’t exactly assault him—more of a… misplaced act of self-defense.” Because he said hi, and we can’t have that, can we?

“He’s legit,” the officer continued, ignoring me. “Apparently, he just bought the house, long-distance, and the key was supposed to be left for him, but it wasn’t. He was looking for it—that’s why he was wandering around.” The officer paused. “We kept him overnight, because we couldn’t verify the story until this morning. We just released him about an hour ago.”

I closed my eyes. “Um… is he okay?”

“Well, nothing’s broken, though he does have quite a shiner.”

“Oh, good God!” What a way to make friends! Another thought occurred to me. “Um, Officer Butch?”

“Yes?”

“If he was legit, why did you arrest him? And keep him overnight? That’s kind of above and beyond the call, isn’t it?”

Officer Butch didn’t answer.

“Well, I guess you can do a whole bunch of things without just cause now, right?” I babbled. “Patriot Act, the death of civil liberties. Well, I mean…”

“We take 911 calls very seriously, ma’am. It appeared that you were engaged in a physical dispute with the man. We felt it was worth checking out.” Disapproval dripped from his tone. “Ma’am.”

“Right. Of course, Officer. Sorry. Thanks for calling.”

I peered out my dining-room window toward the house next door. No signs of life. That was good, because though I clearly needed to apologize, the idea of seeing my new neighbor made me nervous. I hit him. He spent the night in jail because of me. Not exactly my best foot forward.

So, okay, I’d have to apologize. I’d make the poor man some brownies. Not just any brownies, but my Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies, a sure way to soothe any wounded soul.

I opted against calling any of my family members back. They could think that I was with Wyatt, as I’d been with Julian. Except instead of parting ways, Wyatt and I had gone to the movies. Yes. We’d seen a flick, come home and were now, in fact, shagging. Then perhaps we were planning to go out for an early dinner. Which would be, I admitted, a very nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

“Come on, Angus, me boy-o,” I said. He followed me into the kitchen and flopped on the floor, rolling on his back to watch me upside down as I got to work on those brownies. Ghirardelli’s chocolate, nothing but the best for the man I sent to jail, a pound of butter, six eggs. I melted, stirred, blended, then set the timer. Spent thirty minutes checking my e-mail and responding to three parents who were protesting their kids’ grades and wanting to know what their little prodigy would have to do to get an A in my class. “Work harder?” I suggested to the computer. “Think more?” I typed in a more politically correct response and hit Send.

When the brownies were done, I took them out of the oven. Looking over at the house next door, I decided that, yes, I could wait a little longer. I had papers to correct, after all. The bathroom could use a scrubbing. The brownies needed to cool, anyway. No need to race over and face the music.

Somewhere around 8:00 p.m., I woke up from where I’d dozed off over Suresh Onabi’s paper on the Declaration of Independence, Angus asleep on my chest, half of a page damp and chewed in his mouth. “Down we go, boy,” I said, setting him to the floor and retrieving what he’d eaten. Drat. My policy was that if my dog ate the homework, I’d have to assume the kid did perfectly.

Standing up, I peered out the dining-room window. There were no lights on next door. My heart seemed to be beating rather fast, my palms a little sweaty. I reminded myself that last night was simply an unfortunate misunderstanding. Surely we could all just get along. I arranged the brownies on a nice plate and took a bottle of wine from the kitchen rack, stashed Angus in the cellar so he wouldn’t get out and bite the guy and headed over with my peace offerings. Brownies and wine. Breakfast of champions. What man could resist?

Walking up to 36 Maple Street was quite intimidating, really… the crumbling walkway, the broken-down house, the long grass which, who knew, could be full of snakes or something, the utter silence that hovered over the house like a malevolent, hungry animal. Relax, Grace. Nothing to fear. Just being a good neighbor and apologizing for the head-whacking.

The front porch of the house sagged wearily, the steps soft and rotting. Still, they supported my weight as I carefully and quietly negotiated them. I gave the front door a little knock with my elbow, as my hands were full, and waited. My heart clattered in my chest. I remembered that little… tug… I felt when I took a look at the not-burglar as he sat handcuffed on my porch… his boyish cowlick, the broad shoulders. And in that second before I hit him… he had a nice face. Hi, he’d said. Hi.

There was no answer to my feeble knock. I imagined what I most wanted to happen. That he’d open the door, and some soft music—let’s make it South American guitar, shall we?—would drift out. My neighbor’s face, which will sport only the slightest bruise under one eye, barely noticeable, will light in recognition. “Oh, hey, my neighbor!” he’ll exclaim with a grin. I’ll apologize, he’ll laugh it off. The scent of roasting chicken and garlic will waft out. “Would you like to come in?” I’ll agree, apologizing once more for my unfortunate mistake, which he’ll simply wave off. “It could happen to anyone,” he’ll say. We’ll chat, immediately comfortable with each other. He’ll mention that he loves dogs, even hyperactive terriers with behavior issues. A glass of wine will be poured for the lovely girl next door.

See? In my mind, this guy and I were well on the way to becoming great friends, quite possibly more. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be home right now, so he remained unaware of this pleasant fact.

I knocked again, albeit quietly, because I actually felt a little relieved that I didn’t have to see him, pleasant fantasies aside. Setting my offerings in front of the door, I eased back down the rotting steps.

Now that I knew he wasn’t home, I took a better look around. The streetlight gave an eerie, peachy glow to the yard. I’d never been over here before, but obviously, I’d wondered about the house. It had been neglected for a while… roof tiles were missing, and plastic covered an upstairs window. The latticework under the porch gapped like a mouthful of missing teeth.

It was a beautiful, soft night. The damp smell of distant rain filled the air, mixing with the coppery smell of the river, and far away, the song of springtime peepers graced the night. This house could be really charming, I thought, if someone restored it. Maybe my neighbor was here to do that very thing. Maybe it would become a gem.

The crumbling cement path that led from the street continued around the side of the house. No sign of the guy. However, a rake lay right across the walkway. Someone could trip over that, I thought. Trip, fall, hit head on the concrete birdbath just a few feet away, lie bleeding in the grass… Hadn’t he suffered enough?

I went over and picked it up. See? Already being a great neighbor.

“Are these from you?”

The voice so startled me that I whirled around. Unfortunately, I was still holding the rake in my hand. Even more unfortunately, the wooden handle caught him right along the side of his face. He staggered back, stunned, the bottle of wine I’d just left at his door slipping from his grasp and shattering on the path with a crash. The scent of merlot drifted up around us, canceling out the smells of spring.

“Oops,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” my new neighbor cursed, rubbing his cheek. “What is your problem?”

I winced as I looked him in the face. His eye was still swollen, and even in the dim light, I could see the bruise. Pretty damn impressive.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he bit out.

“Uh, well… Welcome to the neighborhood,” I squeaked. “Um… Are you… are you okay?”

“No, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you need some ice?” I asked, taking a step toward him.

“No.” He took a defensive step back.

“Look,” I said, “I’m so, so sorry. I just came over to… well, to say I’m sorry.” The irony of further wounding him while on a mission of mercy hit me, and I gave a nervous laugh, sounding remarkably like Angus when he vomited up grass.

The man said nothing, merely glared, and I found myself thinking that the beat-up look was kind of… hot. He was wearing jeans and a light-colored T-shirt, and, yes, he had very nice arms. Big, powerful, thick muscles, not the overly defined, ripped kind that smacked of too many hours at a heavily mirrored gym. No. These were blue-collar arms. Iron-worker arms. Man-who-can-fix-car arms. An image of Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential flashed to mind. Remember when he’s sitting in the backseat at the very end of the movie, and his jaw is wired shut and he can’t talk? I found that very horny.

I swallowed again. “Hi. I’m Grace,” I said, trying to start over. “I wanted to apologize about… last night. I’m so sorry. And of course, I’m sorry again, for all this. Very sorry.” I glanced down at his feet, which were bare. “I think you’re bleeding. You might’ve stepped in glass.”

He looked down, then turned an impassive gaze to me. Call me paranoid, but he looked quite disgusted.

That was all it took. Bruised, bleeding, smelling like a wino, and the pièce de résistance, disgust. I was undeniably attracted to this guy. Heat rose to my cheeks, making me glad for the dim light.

“Well,” I said slowly. “Listen. I’m really sorry. It looked like you were breaking in… that’s all.”

“Maybe you should be sober the next time you call the police,” he returned.

My mouth fell open. “I was! I was sober.” I paused. “Mostly.”

“Your hair was all wild, you smelled like gin, and you hit me in the face with a walking stick. Does that sound mostly sober to you?”

Sweat broke out on my back. “It was a field hockey stick, actually, and my hair is always like that. As you can see.”

He rolled his eyes. Well, the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Apparently that movement hurt, because he winced.

“It’s just…you looked suspicious, that’s all. I wasn’t drunk. Buzzed, maybe, okay. A tiny bit, yes.” I swallowed. “But it was past midnight, and you definitely didn’t have a key, did you? So… you know. It looked suspicious. That’s all. I’m sorry you spent the night in jail. Very, very sorry.”

“Fine,” he grunted.

Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly as nice as my wine-drinking, South American guitar fantasy, but it was something. “So,” I said, determined that we would part on good terms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he said, crossing his arms and staring.

Sweet. “Okay. Nice meeting you, whatever your name is. Have a good night.” He still said nothing. Very carefully, I put the rake down, forced a smile, walked past the shards of broken glass, past him, painfully aware of my every move. The walk home, though it was only a matter of yards, felt very long. I should’ve cut through the yard, but there was the question of the long, snake-concealing grass.

He didn’t say another word, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that he hadn’t moved, either. Fine. He wasn’t friendly. I wouldn’t invite him to the neighborhood picnic in June. So there.

For a second, I imagined telling Andrew about this. Andrew, whose sharp sense of humor had always made me laugh, would’ve howled over this apology gone wrong. But no. Andrew didn’t get to hear my stories anymore. To quash the Andrew image, I instead summoned to mind Wyatt Dunn. Gentle, dark-haired Wyatt, who’d have to possess a lovely sense of humor and kind, kind heart, being a children’s doctor and all.

Just as had been true in the old days of my painful adolescence, the imaginary boyfriend took away some of the sting imparted by the surly neighbor whose head I’d just bruised for the second time.

And while I knew all too well that Wyatt Dunn was a fake, I also knew that someday I was going to find someone wonderful. Hopefully. Probably. Someone better than Andrew, possibly better looking than my grouchy neighbor, and just as great as Wyatt, and just thinking about this made me feel a little more chipper.




CHAPTER FOUR


ANDREW AND I HAD MET at Gettysburg—well, the reenactment of the battle here in fair Connecticut. He was assigned to be a nameless Confederate soldier, instructed to shout, “May God condemn this War of Northern Aggression!” then fall dead in the first cannon barrage. I was Colonel Buford, quiet hero of Gettysburg’s first day, and my dad was General Meade. It was the biggest reenactment in three states, and there were hundreds of us (don’t be so surprised, these things are very popular). That year, I was the secretary of Brother Against Brother, and before the battle, I’d been running around with a clipboard, making sure everyone was ready. Apparently, I was adorable… at least, that’s what I was told later by one Andrew Chase Carson.

Eight hours after we started and when a sufficient number of bodies littered the field, Dad allowed the dead to rise, and a Confederate soldier approached me. When I pointed out that most Civil War soldiers didn’t wear Nikes, the man laughed, introduced himself and asked me out for coffee. Two weeks later, I was in love.

In every way, it was the relationship I had always imagined. Andrew was wry and quiet, appealing rather than good-looking, with an infectious laugh and cheerful outlook. He was on the scrawny side, had a sweetly vulnerable neck, and I loved hugging him, the feel of his ribs creating in me the overwhelming urge to feed and protect him. Like me, he was a history buff—he was an estate attorney at a big firm in New Haven, but he’d majored in history at NYU. We liked the same food, the same movies, read the same books.

How was the sex, you ask? It was fine. Regular, hearty enough, quite enjoyable. Andrew and I found each other attractive, had mutual interests and excellent conversations. We laughed. We listened to the other’s tales about work and family. We were really, really happy. I thought so, anyway.

If there was a hesitation on Andrew’s part, I only noticed it in hindsight. If certain things were said with the smallest edge of uncertainty, I didn’t see it. Not until later.

Natalie was at Stanford during the time of Andrew, having finished up at Georgetown the year before. Since her near-death experience, she’d become only more precious to me, and my little sister continued to delight our family with her academic achievements. My own intellect was on the vague side, not counting American history… I was good at Trivial Pursuit and able to hold my own at cocktail parties, that sort of thing. Margaret, on the other hand, was razor sharp, scary intelligent. She’d graduated second from Harvard Law and headed up the criminal defense department at the firm where my dad was a partner, making him prouder than he could say.

Nat was a blend. Softly brilliant, quietly gifted, she chose architecture, a perfect mix of art, beauty and science. I talked to her at least a couple of times a week, e-mailed her daily and visited her when she opted to stay in California for the summer. How she loved hearing about Andrew! How delighted she was that her big sister had met The One!

“What does it feel like?” she asked one night during one of our phone calls.

“How does what feel?” I said.

“Being with the love of your life, silly.” I could hear the smile in her voice and grinned back.

“Oh, it’s great. It’s so… perfect. And easy, too, you know? We never fight, not like Mom and Dad.” Being different from my parents was a clear sign that Andrew and I were on the right track.

Nat laughed. “Easy, huh? But passionate, too, right? Does your heart beat faster when he comes into the room? Do you blush when you hear his voice on the phone? Does your skin tingle when he touches you?”

I paused. “Sure.” Did I feel those things? Sure, I did. Of course I did. Or I had, those dizzying new feelings having matured to something more… well, comfortable.

Seven months into the relationship, I moved into Andrew’s apartment in West Hartford. Three weeks later, we were watching Oz on HBO—okay, not the most romantic show, but still, we were cuddled together on the couch, and that was nice. Andrew turned to me and said, “I think we should probably get married, don’t you?”

He bought me a lovely ring. We told our families and chose Valentine’s Day, six months away, as our wedding day. My parents were pleased—Andrew seemed so solid and reliable, so trustworthy. He was a corporate lawyer, very steady work, very well paid, which put to ease my father’s worries that my teacher’s salary would render me eventually homeless. Andrew, an only child, was doted on by his parents, and while they weren’t quite as ecstatic as my parents, they were friendly enough. Margaret and he talked law, Stuart seemed to enjoy his company. Even Mémé liked him as much as she liked any human.

Only Natalie hadn’t met him, stranded out there at Stanford as she was. She spoke to Andrew on the phone when I called to tell her we were engaged, but that was it.

Finally, she came home. It was Thanksgiving, and when Andrew and I arrived at the family domicile, Mom greeted us at the door in her usual flurry of complaints about how early she’d had to get up to put the “damn bird” in the oven, how she’d dry-heaved stuffing it, how useless my father was. Dad was watching a football game and ignoring Mom, Stuart was playing the piano in the living room while Margaret read.

And then Natalie came flying down the stairs, arms outstretched, and grabbed me in a huge hug. “Gissy!” she cried.

“Hey, Nattie Bumppo!” I exclaimed, squeezing her hard.

“Don’t kiss me, I have a cold,” she said, pulling back. Her nose was red, her skin a little dry, she was clad in sweatpants and an old cardigan belonging to our father, and yet she still managed to look more beautiful than Cinderella at the ball, her silken blond hair tied up in a high ponytail, her clear blue eyes unaccented by makeup.

Andrew took one look at her and literally dropped the pie he was holding.

Of course, the pie plate was slippery. Pyrex, you know? And Nat’s face flushed that way because…well, because she had a cold, and isn’t flushing and blushing part of a cold? Of course it was. Later, of course, I admitted it wasn’t any slippery Pyrex. I knew the kablammy when I saw it.

Natalie and Andrew sat at opposite ends of the Thanksgiving table. When Stuart broke out the Scrabble board and asked them if they wanted to play after dinner, Andrew accepted and Natalie instantly declined. The next day, we all went bowling, and they didn’t speak. Later, we went to the movies, and they sat as far away from each other as possible. They avoided going into a room if the other was there.

“So what do you think?” I asked Natalie, pretending that all was normal.

“He’s great,” she said, her face going nuclear once more. “Very nice.”

That was good enough for me. I didn’t need to hear more. Why talk about Andrew, after all? I asked her about school, congratulated her on winning an internship with Cesar Pelli and once again marveled at her perfection, her brains, her kind heart. After all, I’d always been my sister’s biggest fan.

Andrew and Natalie saw each other again at Christmas, where they leaped away from the mistletoe like it was a glowing rod of uranium, and I pretended not to be disturbed. There couldn’t be anything between them, because he was my fiancé and she was my baby sister. When Dad told Nat to take Andrew down the back hill on our old toboggan and neither of them could find a way to get out of it, I laughed when they crashed and rolled, becoming entangled in each other. No, no, nothing there.

Nothing, my ass.

I wasn’t about to say anything. Each time the irritating little voice in my soul brought it up, usually at 3:00 a.m., I told her she was wrong. Andrew was right here with me. He loved me. I’d reach out and touch his knobby elbow, that sweet neck of his. We had something real. If Nat had a crush on him… well. Who could blame her?

My wedding was in ten weeks, then eight, then five. Invitations went out. Menu finalized. Dress altered.

And then, twenty days before our wedding, Andrew came home from work. I had a pile of tests beside me on the kitchen table, and he’d very thoughtfully brought home some Indian food. He even dished it out, spooning the fragrant sauce over the rice, just as I liked it. And then came the awful words.

“Grace…there’s something we need to talk about,” he said, staring at the onion kulcha. His voice was shaking. “You know I care about you very much.”

I froze, not looking up from the exams, the words as ominous as Sherman’s in Georgia. The moment I’d successfully avoided thinking about was upon me. Knowing I would never look at Andrew the same way, I couldn’t take a normal breath. My heart thundered sickly.

He cared about me. I don’t know about you, girls, but when a guy says I care about you very much, it seems to me that the shit is about to rain down. “Grace,” he whispered, and I managed to look at him. As our untouched garlic naan cooled, he told me that he didn’t quite know how to say this, but he couldn’t marry me.

“I see,” I said distantly. “I see.”

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” he whispered, and to his credit, his eyes filled with tears.

“Is it Natalie?” I asked, my voice quiet and unrecognizable.

His gaze dropped to the floor, his face burned red, and his hand shook as he ran it through his soft hair. “Of course not,” he lied.

And that was that.

We’d just bought the house on Maple Street, though we weren’t living there yet. As part of our divorce settlement or whatever you want to call it—blood money, guilt, emotional damages—he let me keep his portion of the down payment. Dad reworked my finances to tap into a few mutual funds that my grandfather had left me, reduced the size of my mortgage so I could swing it alone, and I moved in. Alone.

Natalie was wrecked when she found out. Obviously, I didn’t tell her the reason for our breakup. She listened to me lie as I detailed the reasons for our breakup… just wasn’t right…not really ready…figured we should be sure.

She asked only one quiet little question when I was done. “Did he say anything else?”

Because she must have known it wasn’t me doing the breaking up. She knew me better than anyone. “No,” I answered briskly. “It just… wasn’t meant to be. Whatever.”

Natalie had no part of this, I assured myself. It was just that I hadn’t really found The One, no matter how deceptively perfect Andrew had looked, felt, seemed. Nope, I thought as I sat in my newly painted living room in my newly purchased house, power-eating brownies and watching Ken Burns’s documentary on the Civil War till I just about had it memorized. Andrew just wasn’t The One. Fine. I’d find The One, wherever he was, and, hey. Then the world would know what love was, goddamn it.

Natalie finished her degree and moved back East. She got a nice little apartment in New Haven and started work. We saw each other often, and I was glad. It wasn’t like she was the other woman… she was my sister. The person I loved best in the world. My birthday present.




CHAPTER FIVE


On Sunday, I had the misfortune of attending my mother’s opening at Chimera’s, a painfully progressive art gallery in West Hartford.

“What do you think, Grace? Where have you been? The show started a half hour ago. Did you bring your young man?” my mother asked, bustling up as I tried not to look directly at the artwork. Dad lurked in the back of the gallery, nursing a glass of wine, looking noticeably pained.

“Very…very, uh, detailed,” I answered. “Just…lovely, Mom.”

“Thank you, honey!” she cried. “Oh, someone is looking at a price tag on Essence Number Two. Be back in a flash.”

When Natalie went off to college, my mother decided it was time to indulge her artistic side. For some reason unbeknownst to us, she decided on glassblowing. Glassblowing and the female anatomy.

The family domicile, once the artistic home only for two Audubon bird prints, a few oil paintings of the sea and a collection of porcelain cats, was now littered with girl-parts. Vulvae, uteruses, ovaries, breasts and more perched on mantels and bookshelves, end tables and the back of the toilet. Varied in color, heavy and very anatomically correct, my mother’s sculptures were fuel for gossip in the Garden Club and the source of a new ulcer for Dad.

However, no one could argue with success, and to the astonishment of the rest of us, Mom’s sculptures brought in a small fortune. When Andrew dumped me, Mom took me on a four-day spa cruise, courtesy of The Unfolding and Milk #4. The Seeds of Fertility series had paid for a little greenhouse on the side of the barn last spring, as well as a new Prius in October.

“Hey,” said Margaret, joining us. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, just great,” I answered. “How are you?” I glanced around the gallery. “Where’s Stuart?”

Margaret closed one eye and gritted her teeth, looking somewhat like Anne Bonny, she-pirate. “Stuart… Stuart’s not here.”

“Got that,” I said. “Everything okay with you guys? I noticed you barely spoke at Kitty’s wedding.”

“Who knows?” Margaret answered. “I mean, really. Who the hell knows? You think you know someone… whatever.”

I blinked. “What’s going on, Margs?”

Margaret looked around at the voyeurs who flocked to Mom’s shows and sighed. “I don’t know. Marriage isn’t always easy, Grace. How’s that for a fortune cookie? Is there any wine here? Mom’s shows are always better with a little buzz, if you know what I mean.”

“Over there,” I said, nodding to the refreshments table in the back of the gallery.

“Okay. Be right back.”

Ahahaha. Ahahaha. Ooooh. Ahahaha. My mother’s society laugh, heard only at art shows or when she was trying to impress someone, rang through the gallery. She caught my eye and winked, then shook the hand of an older man, who was cradling a glass…oh, let’s see now…ew. A sculpture, let’s put it that way. Another sale. Good for Mom.

“Are we still on for Bull Run?” Dad asked, coming up behind me and putting his arm around my shoulder.

“Oh, definitely, Dad.” The Battle of Bull Run was one of my favorites. “Did you get your assignment?” I asked.

“I did. I’m Stonewall Jackson.” Dad beamed.

“Dad! That’s great! Congratulations! Where is it?”

“Litchfield,” he answered. “Who are you?”

“I’m a nobody,” I said mournfully. “Just some poor Confederate hack. But I do get to fire the cannon.”

“That’s my girl,” Dad said proudly. “Hey, will you be bringing your new guy? What’s his name again? By the way, your mother and I are thrilled that you’re finally back on the old horse.”

I paused. “Uh, thanks, Dad. I’m not sure if Wyatt can make it. I—I’ll ask, though.”

“Hey, Dad,” Margaret said, coming up to smooch our father on the cheek. “How are the labias selling?”

“Don’t get me started on your mother’s artwork. Porn is what I call it.” He glanced over in our mother’s direction. Ahahaha. Ahahaha. Oooh. Ahahaha. “Damn it, she sold another one. I’ll have to box that one up.” Dad rolled his eyes at us and stomped off to the back of the gallery.

“So, Grace,” Margaret said, “about this new guy.” She glanced around to make sure that we weren’t being overheard. “Are you really seeing someone, or is this another fake?”

She wasn’t a criminal defense attorney for nothing. “Busted,” I murmured.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?” she asked, taking a slug of her wine.

I made a face. “Yes. But I found Nat in the bathroom at Kitty’s wedding, writhing with guilt.” Margs rolled her eyes. “So I figured I’d make it easy for her.”

“Yes. Life must be easy for the princess,” Margaret muttered.

“And another thing,” I continued in a low voice. “I’m sick of the pity. Nat and Andrew should just get on with it, you know, and stop treating me like some crippled, balding cat who has seizures and can’t keep down her food.”

Margaret laughed. “Gotcha.”

“The truth is,” I admitted, “I think I’m ready to meet someone. I’ll just pretend to be seeing someone and then, you know… find someone real.”

“Cool,” Margaret said with a considerable lack of enthusiasm.

“So what’s going on with you and Stuart?” I asked, moving out of the way as an older woman sidled up to LifeSource, a sculpture of an ovary that looked to my nonmedical eye like a lumpy gray balloon.

Margaret sighed, then finished off her wine. “I don’t know, Grace. I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”

“Sure,” I murmured, frowning. “I do see Stuart at school, of course.”

“Right. Well. You can tell him to fuck off for me.”

“I…I won’t be doing that. Jeez, Margs, what’s wrong?” While theirs was a case of opposites attract, Margaret and Stuart had always seemed happy enough. They were childless by choice, rather well-off thanks to Margaret’s endless success in court, lived in a great house in Avon, took swanky vacations to Tahiti and Liechtenstein and places like that. They’d been married for seven years, and while Margaret was not the type to coo and gloat, she’d always seemed pretty content.

“Well, crap, speaking of disastrous couples, here come Andrew and Natalie. Shit. I need a little more wine for this.” She fled back to the table for another glass of cheap pinot grigio.

And there they were indeed, Andrew’s fair hair a few shades lighter than Natalie’s honey-gold. Considerably more relaxed than at the wedding, when they dared not get within ten feet of each other lest I burst into sobs, they now radiated happiness. Their hands brushed as they approached, fingers giving a little caress though they stopped just short of actual hand-holding. The chemistry crackled between them. No, not just chemistry. Adoration. That’s what it was. My sister’s eyes were glowing, her cheeks flushed with pink, while a smile played at the corner of Andrew’s mouth. Gack.

“Hey, guys!” I said merrily.

“Hi, Grace!” Natalie said, flushing brighter as she hugged me. “Is he here? Did you bring him?”

“Bring whom?” I asked.

“Wyatt, of course!” she chuckled.

“Right! Um, no, no. I think we should be dating longer than a few weeks before I bring him to one of Mom’s shows! Also, he’s… at the hospital.” I forced a chortle. “Hi, Andrew.”

“How are you, Grace?” he said, grinning, his green eyes bright.

“I’m great.” I looked down at my untouched wine.

“Your hair looks gorgeous!” Nat exclaimed, reaching out to touch a lock that was for once curly and not electrocuted.

“Oh, I got a haircut this morning,” I murmured. “Bought some new tamer.” Had to practically sell an ovary of my own to afford it, but, yes, along with the clothes, I figured some better hair control was in order. Couldn’t hurt to look my best when seeking The One, right?

“Where’s Margaret?” Natalie asked, craning her swanlike neck to look around. “Margs! Over here!”

My older sister sent me a dark look as she obeyed. She and Natalie had always scraped a bit… well, it would be more fair to say that Margaret scrapped, since Natalie was too sweet to really fight with anyone. As a result, I got along better with each than they did with each other—my reward for generally being taken for granted as the poor neglected middle child.

“I just sold a uterus for three thousand dollars!” Mom exclaimed, joining our little group.

“There is no limit to the bad taste of the American people,” Dad said, trailing sullenly behind her.

“Oh, shut it, Jim. Better yet, find your own damn bliss and leave mine alone.”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Congratulations, Mom, that’s wonderful!” Natalie said.

“Thank you, dear. It’s nice that some people in this family can be supportive of my art.”

“Art,” Dad snorted.

“So, Grace,” Natalie said, “when can we meet Wyatt? What’s his last name again?”

“Dunn,” I answered easily. Margaret smiled and shook her head. “I will definitely get him up here soon.”

“What does he look like?” Nat asked, reaching for my hand in girlish conspiracy.

“Well, he’s pretty damn cute,” I chirruped. Good thing Julian and I had gone over this. “Tall, black hair…” I tried to recall Dr. Handsome from E.R., but I hadn’t watched since the episode where the wild dogs got loose in the hospital, mauling patients and staffers alike. “Um, dimples, you know? Great smile.” My face felt hot.

“She’s blushing,” Andrew commented fondly, and I felt an unexpectedly hot sliver of hatred pierce my heart. How dare he be thrilled that I’d met someone!

“He sounds wonderful,” my mother declared. “Not that a man is going to make you happy, of course. Look at your father and me. Sometimes a spouse tries to suffocate your dreams, Grace. Make sure he doesn’t do that. Like your father does to me.”

“Who do you think pays for all your glassblowing crap, huh?” Dad retorted. “Didn’t I convert the garage for your little hobby? Suffocate your dreams. I’d like to suffocate something, all right.”

“God, they’re adorable,” Margaret said. “Who wants to mingle?”

WHEN I FINALLY GOT HOME from my mother’s gynecological showcase, my surly neighbor was ripping shingles off his porch roof. He didn’t look up as I pulled into the driveway, even though I paused after getting out of my car. Not a nice man. Not friendly, anyway. Definitely nice to look at though, I thought, as I tore my eyes off his heavily muscled arms, unwillingly grateful that it was warm out, warm enough that Surly Neighbor Man had taken off his shirt. The sun gleamed on his sweaty back as he worked. Those upper arms of his were as thick as my thighs.

For a second, I pictured those big, burly, capable arms wrapped around me. Imagined Surly Neighbor Man pressing me against his house, his muscles hard and hot as he lifted me against him, his big manly hands—

Wow, you need to get laid, came the thought, unbidden. Clearly, the pulsating showerhead wasn’t doing the trick. Surly Neighbor Man, fortunately, had not noticed my lustful reverie. Hadn’t noticed me at all, in fact.

I went into the house, let Angus into my fenced-in backyard to pee and dig and roll. The scream of a power saw ripped through the air. With a tight sigh, I clicked on the computer to finally follow Julian’s advice. Match.com, eCommitment, eHarmony, yes, yes, yes. Time to find a man. A good man. A decent, hardworking, morally upright, good- looking guy who freakin’ adored me. Here I come, mister. Just you wait.

After describing my wares online, I took a look at a few profiles. Guy #1—no. Too pretty. Guy #2—no. His hobbies were NASCAR and ultimate fight clubs. Guy #3—no. Too weird-looking, let’s be honest. Acknowledging that perhaps my mood wasn’t right for this, I corrected World War II quizzes until it was dark, stopping only to eat some of the Chinese food Julian had brought over on Thursday, then going right back to correcting, circling grammatical errors and asking for more detail in the answers. It was a common Manning complaint that Ms. Emerson was a tough grader, but hey. Kids who got an A in my classes earned it.

When I was done, I sat back and stretched. On the kitchen wall, my Fritz the Cat clock ticked loudly, tail swishing to keep the time. It was only eight o’clock, and the night stretched out in front of me. I could call Julian… no. Apparently, my best friend thought we were codependent, and while that happened to be completely true, it stung a little nonetheless. Nothing wrong with codependence, was there? Well. He e-mailed me, at least, a nice chatty note about the four men who’d been interested in his profile online, and the resultant stomach cramps he’d suffered. Poor little coward. I typed in an answer, assured him that I, too, was now available for viewing online and told him I’d see him at Golden Meadows for Dancin’ with the Oldies.

With a sigh, I got up. Tomorrow was a school day. Maybe I’d wear one of my new outfits. Angus trotting at my heels, I clumped upstairs to reacquaint myself with my new clothes. In fact, I thought as I surveyed my closet, it was time to purge. Yes. One had to ask oneself when vintage became simply old. I grabbed a trash bag and started yanking. Goodbye to the sweaters with the holes in the armpits, the chiffon skirt with the burn in the back, the jeans that fit in 2002. Angus gnawed companionably on an old vinyl boot (what was I thinking?), and I let him have it.

Last week, I saw a show on this woman who was born without legs. She was a mechanic… actually, not having legs made her job easier, she said, because she could just slide under cars on the little skateboard thing she used to get around. She’d been married once, but was now dating two other guys, just enjoying herself for the time being. Her ex-husband was interviewed next, a good-looking guy, two legs, the whole nine yards. “I’d do anything to get her back, but I’m just not enough for her,” he said mournfully. “I hope she finds what she’s looking for.”

I found myself getting a little… well, not jealous, exactly, but it did seem this woman had an unfair advantage in the dating world. Everyone would look at her and say, Wow, what a plucky spirit. Isn’t she great! What about me? What about the two-legged among us, huh? How were we supposed to compete with that?

“Okay, Grace,” I told myself aloud, “we’re crossing the line. Let’s find you a boyfriend and be done with it, shall we? Angus, move it, sweetie. Mommy has to go up to the attic with this crap, or you’ll chew through it in a heartbeat, won’t you? Because you’re a very naughty boy, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s my toothbrush you have in your mouth. I am not blind, young man.”

I dragged the trash bag full of stuff down the hall to the attic stairs. Drat. The light was out, and I didn’t feel like tromping downstairs to get another. Well, I was only stashing the stuff till I could make a trip to the dump.

Up the narrow flight of stairs I went, the close, sharp smell of cedar tickling my nose. Like many Victorian homes, mine had a full-size attic, ten-foot ceilings and windows all around. Someday, I imagined, I’d put up some insulation and drywall and make this a playroom for my lovely children. I’d have a bookshelf that ran all the way around the room. An art area near the front window where the sun streamed in. A train table over there, a dress-up corner here. But for now, it held just some old pieces of furniture, a couple of boxes of Christmas ornaments and my Civil War uniforms and guns. Oh, and my wedding dress.

What does one do with a never-been-worn, tailored-just-for-you wedding dress? I couldn’t just throw it out, could I? It had cost quite a bit. Granted, if I did find some flesh-and-blood version of Wyatt Dunn, maybe I’d get married, but would I want to use the dress I bought for Andrew? No, of course not. Yet there it still sat in its vacuum-packed bag, out of the sun so it wouldn’t fade. I wondered if it still fit. I’d packed on a few pounds since The Dumping. Hmm. Maybe I should try it on.

Great. I was becoming Miss Havisham. Next I’d be eating rotten food and setting the clocks to twenty till nine.

Something gnawed my ankle bone. Angus. I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. “Hi, little guy,” I said, gathering him up and removing a sesame noodle from his little head. Apparently, he’d gotten into the Chinese food. He whined affectionately and wagged. “What’s that? You love my hair? Oh, thank you, Angus McFangus. Excuse me? It’s Ben & Jerry’s time? Why, you little genius! You’re absolutely right. What do you think? Crème Brûlée or Coffee Heath Bar?” His little tail wagged even as he bit my earlobe and tugged painfully. “Coffee Heath Bar it is, boy. Of course you can share.”

I disentangled him, then turned to go, but something outside caught my eye.

A man.

Two stories below me, my grumpy, bruised neighbor was lying on his roof, in the back where it was nearly flat. He’d put on more clothes (alas), and his white T-shirt practically glowed in the dark. Jeans. Bare feet. I could see that he was just… just lying there, hands behind his head, one knee bent, looking up at the sky.

Something contracted down low in my stomach, my skin tightened with heat. Suddenly, I could feel the blood pulsing in parts too long neglected.

Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I eased the window up a crack. The sound of springtime frogs rushed in, the smell of the river and distant rain. The damp breeze cooled my hot cheeks.

The moon was rising in the west, and my neighbor, too irritable to tell me his name, was simply lying on the roof, staring at the deep, deep blue of the night sky.

What kind of man did that?

Angus sneezed in disgust, and I jumped back from the window lest Surly Neighbor Man hear.

Suddenly, everything shifted into focus. I wanted a man. There, right next door, was a man. A manly man. My girl parts gave a warm squeeze.

Granted, I didn’t want a fling. I wanted a husband, and not just any husband. A smart, funny, kind and moral husband. He’d love kids and animals, especially dogs. He’d work hard at some honorable, intellectual job. He’d like to cook. He’d be unceasingly cheerful. He’d adore me.

I didn’t know a thing about that guy down there. Not even his name. All I knew was that I felt something—lust, let’s be honest—for him. But that was a start. I hadn’t felt anything for any man in a long, long time.

Tomorrow, I told myself as I closed the window, I was going to find out my neighbor’s name. And I’d invite him to dinner, too.




CHAPTER SIX


“SO ALTHOUGH SEWELL POINT wasn’t a major battle, it had the potential to greatly affect the outcome of the war. Obviously, Chesapeake Bay was a critical area for both sides. So. Ten pages on the blockade and its effects, due on Monday.”

My class groaned. “Ms. Em!” Hunter Graystone protested. “That’s, like, ten times what any other teacher gives.”

“Oh, you poor little kittens! Want me to prop you up while you type?” I winked. “Ten pages. Twelve if you fight me.”

Kerry Blake giggled. She was texting someone. “Hand it over, Kerry,” I said, reaching out for her phone. It was a new model, encrusted with bling.

Kerry raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow at me. “Ms. Emerson, do you, like, know how much that cost? Like, if my father knew you took it, he’d be, like… totally unhappy.”

“You can’t use your phone in class, honey,” I said for what had to be the hundredth time this month. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. Then, catching Hunter’s eye, she flipped her hair back and stretched. Hunter grinned appreciatively. Tommy Michener, painfully and inexplicably in love with Kerry, froze at the display, which caused Emma Kirk to droop. Ah, young love.

Across the hall, I heard a burst of sultry laughter from Ava Machiatelli’s Classical History class. Most Manning students loved Ms. Machiatelli. Easy grades, false sympathy for their busy schedules resulting in very little homework, and the most shallow delving into history since…well, since Brad Pitt starred in Troy. But like Brad Pitt, Ava Machiatelli was beautiful and charming. Add to this her low-cut sweaters and tight skirts, and you had Marilyn Monroe teaching history. The boys lusted after her, the girls took fashion notes from her, the parents loved her since their kids all got A’s. Me…not such a fan.

The chimes sounded, marking the end of the period. Manning Academy didn’t have bells—too harsh for the young ears of America’s wealthiest. The gentle Zen chimes had the same effect as electric shock therapy, though—my seniors lunged out of their seats toward the door. On Mondays, Civil War was the last class before lunch.

“Hang on, kids,” I called. They stopped, sheeplike. They may have been, for the most part, overindulged and too sophisticated for their tender ages, but they were obedient, I had to give them that. “This weekend, Brother Against Brother is reenacting the Battle of Bull Run, also known as First Manassas, which I’m sure you know all about, since it was in your reading homework from Tuesday. Extra credit to anyone who comes, okay? E-mail me if you’re interested, and I’d be happy to pick you up here.”

“As if,” Kerry said. “I don’t need extra credit that bad.”

“Thanks, Ms. Em,” Hunter called. “Sounds fun.”

Hunter wouldn’t come, though he was one of my more polite students. His weekends were spent doing things like having dinner with Derek Jeter before a Yankees game or flying to one of his many family homes. Tommy Michener might, since he seemed to like history—his papers were always sharp and insightful—but more than likely, peer pressure would keep him home, miserably lusting after Kerry, Emma Kirk’s wholesome appeal lost on him.

“Hey, Tommy?” I called.

He turned back to me. “Yeah, Ms. Em?”

I waited a beat till everyone else was gone. “Everything okay with you these days?”

He smiled a bit sadly. “Oh, yeah. Just the usual crap.”

“You can do better than Kerry,” I said gently.

He snorted. “That’s what my dad says.”

“See? Two of your favorite grown-ups agree.”

“Yeah. Well, you can’t pick who you fall for, can you, Ms. Em?”

I paused. “Nope. You sure can’t.”

Tommy left, and I gathered up my papers. History was a tough subject to teach. After all, most teenagers barely remembered what had happened last month, let alone a century and a half ago, but still. Just once, I wanted them to feel how history had impacted the world we lived in. Especially the Civil War, my favorite part of American history. I wanted them to understand what had been risked, to imagine the burden, the pain, the uncertainty President Lincoln must have experienced, the loss and betrayal felt by the Southerners who had seceded—

“Hello, there, Grace.” Ava stood in my doorway, doing her trademark sleepy smile, followed by three slow, seductive blinks. There was one…and the second…and there was three.

“Ava! How are you?” I said, forcing a smile.

“I’m quite well, thank you.” She tipped her head so that her silky hair fell to one side. “Have you heard the news?”

I hesitated. Ava, unlike myself, had her ear to the ground when it came to Manning’s politics. I was one of those teachers who dreaded schmoozing with the trustees and wealthy alumni, preferring to spend my time planning classes and tutoring the kids who needed extra help. Ava, on the other hand, worked the system. Add that to the fact that I didn’t live on campus (Ava had a small house at the edge of campus, and speculation was that she’d slept with the Dean of Housing to get it), and she definitely heard things.

“No, Ava. What news is that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone pleasant. Her blouse was so low-cut that I could see a Chinese symbol tattooed on her right boob. Which meant that every child who came through her classroom could see it, too.

“Dr. Eckhart’s stepping down as chairman of the history department.” She smiled, catlike. “I heard it from Theo. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other.” Super. Theo Eisenbraun was the chairman of the Manning Academy board of trustees.

“Well. That’s interesting,” I said.

“He’ll announce it later this week. Theo’s already asked me to apply.” Smile. Blink. Blink. And… wait for it… blink again.

“Great. Well, I have to run home for lunch. See you later.”

“Too bad you don’t live on campus, Grace. You’d seem so much more committed to Manning if you did.”

“Thanks for caring,” I said, shoving my papers into my battered leather bag. Ava’s news had hit a nerve. Yes, Dr. Eckhart was old, but he’d been old for a long time. He was the one who’d hired me six years ago, the one who stood by me when a parent pressured me to raise little Peyton or Katharine’s grade, the one who heartily approved of my efforts to engage my kids. I’d think he’d have told me if he was leaving. Then again, it was hard to say. Private schools were odd places, and Ava’s information was usually on the money, I had to give her that.

Kiki met me outside Lehring Hall. “Hey, Grace, want to grab some lunch?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have to run home before Colonial History.”

“It’s that dog of yours, isn’t it?” she said suspiciously. Kiki was the proud owner of the mysteriously named Mr. Lucky, a diabetic Siamese cat who was blind in one eye, missing several teeth and prone to hairballs and irritable bowel syndrome.

“Well, yes, Angus was a little bound up, if you must know, and I don’t want to come home tonight and find that his colon just couldn’t hold on anymore.”

“Dogs are so gross.”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer, except to say that there are double coupons for Fresh Step at Stop & Shop.”

“Oh, thanks!” Kiki said. “I’m actually running low. Hey, Grace, did I tell you I met someone?”

As we walked to our cars, Kiki extolled the virtues of some guy named Bruce, who was kind, generous, soulful, funny, sexy, intelligent, hardworking and completely honest.

“And when did you meet this guy?” I asked, shifting my papers to open my car door.

“We had coffee on Saturday. Oh, Grace, I think this guy is it. I mean, I know I’ve said that before, but he’s perfect.”

I bit my tongue. “Good luck,” I said, making a mental note to pencil in some conciliatory time for Kiki about ten days from now, when Bruce would more than likely have changed his phone number and my friend would be crying on my couch. “Hey, Kiki, have you heard anything about Dr. Eckhart?”

She shook her head. “Why? Did he die?”

“No,” I answered. “Ava told me he’s retiring.”

“And Ava knows this because she slept with him?” Kiki, like Ava, lived on campus, and they hung out together sometimes.

“Now, now.”

“Well, if he is, that’s great for you, Grace! Only Paul has more seniority, right? You’d apply for the job, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a little early to be talking about that,” I said, sidestepping the question. “I just wondered if you’d heard. See you later.”

I pulled carefully out of the parking lot—Manning students tended to drive cars worth more than my annual salary, and nicking one would not be advisable—and headed through Farmington back to the twisted streets of Peterston, thinking about Dr. Eckhart. If it was true, then yes, I’d apply to be the new chairman of our department. To be honest, I thought Manning’s history curriculum was too stodgy. Kids needed to feel the importance of the past, and, yes, sometimes they needed it jammed down their throats. Gently and lovingly, of course.

I pulled into my driveway and saw the true reason for my trip home, Angus’s bowels not withstanding. My neighbor stood in his front yard by a power saw or some such tool. Shirtless. Shoulder muscles rippling under his skin, biceps thick and bulging… hard… golden… Okay, Grace! That’s enough!

“Howdy, neighbor,” I said, wincing as the words left my mouth.

He turned off his saw and took off the safety glasses. I winced. His eye was a mess. It was open a centimeter or two—progress from being swollen completely shut yesterday—and from what I could see, the white of his eye was quite bloodshot. A purple-and-blue bruise covered him from brow to cheekbone. Hello, bad boy! Yes, granted, I’d given him the bruise—actually, make that plural, because I saw a faint stripe of purplish-red along his jaw, right where I’d hit him with the rake—but still. He had all the rough and sultry appeal of Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. Clive Owen in Sin City. Russell Crowe in everything he did.

“Hi,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. The motion made his arms curve most beautifully.

“How’s your eye?” I asked, trying not to stare at his broad, muscular chest.

“How does it look?” he grumbled.

Okay, so he wasn’t over that. “So, listen, we got off to a bad start,” I said with what I hoped was a rueful smile. From inside my house, Angus heard my voice and began barking with joy. Yarp! Yarp! Yarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarp! “Can we start over? I’m Grace Emerson. I live next door.” I swallowed and stuck out my hand.

My neighbor looked at me for a moment, then came toward me and took my hand. Oh, God. Electricity shot up my arm like I’d grabbed a downed wire. His hand was most definitely a working-man’s hand. Callused, hard, warm…

“Callahan O’Shea,” he said.

Ohh. Oh, wow. What a name. Regions of my anatomy, long neglected, made themselves known to me with a warm, rolling squeeze.

Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarp! I realized I was staring at Callahan O’Shea (sigh!) and still holding on to his hand. And he was smiling, just a little bit, softening the bad-boy look quite nicely.

“So,” I said, my voice weak, letting go of his hand reluctantly. “Where’d you move from?”

“Virginia.” He was staring at me. It was hard to think.

“Virginia. Huh. Where in Virginia?” I said. Yarpyarpyarp yarpyarp! Angus was nearly hysterical now. Quiet, baby, I thought. Mommy’s lusting.

“Petersburg,” he said. Not the most vociferous guy, but that was okay. Muscles like that… those eyes… well, the unbruised, unbloodshot eye… if the other one was like that, I was in for a treat.

“Petersburg,” I repeated faintly, still staring. “I’ve been there. Quite a few Civil War battles down there. Assault on Petersburg, Old Men and Young Boys. Yup.”

He didn’t respond. Yarp! Yarp! Yarp! “So what were you doing in Petersburg?” I asked.

He folded his arms. “Three to five.”

Yarpyarpyarpyarp! “Excuse me?” I asked.

“I was serving a three-to five-year sentence at Petersburg Federal Prison,” he said.

It took a few beats of my heart for that to register. Ka-bump…ka-bump…ka… God’s nightgown!

“Prison?” I squeaked. “And um… wow! Prison! Imagine that!”

He said nothing.

“So… when… when did you get out?”

“Friday.”

Friday. Friday. He just got out of the clink! He was a criminal! And just what crime did he commit, huh? Maybe I hadn’t been so far off with the pit-digging after all! And I had clubbed him! Holy Mother of God! I clubbed an ex-con and sent him to jail! Sent him to… oh, God… sent him to jail the night after he got out. Surely this would not endear me to Callahan O’Shea, Ex-Con. What if he wanted revenge?

My breath was coming in shallow gasps. Yes, I was definitely hyperventilating a bit. Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarpyarp! Finally, the flight part of the fight or flight instinct kicked in.

“Wow! Listen to my dog! I better go. Bye! Have a good day! I have to… I should call my boyfriend. He’s waiting for me to call. We always call at noon to check in. I should go. Bye.”

I managed not to run into my house. I did, however, lock the door behind me. And dead bolt it. And check the back door. And lock that. As well as the windows. Angus raced around the house in his traditional victory laps, but I was too stunned to pay him the attention he was accustomed to.

Three to five years! In prison! I was living next to an ex-con! I almost invited him over for dinner!

I grabbed the phone and stabbed in Margaret’s cell phone number. She was a lawyer. She’d tell me what to do.

“Margs, I’m living next to an ex-con! What should I do?”

“I’m on my way into court, Grace. An ex-con? What was he in for?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I need you.”

“Well, what do you know?” she asked.

“He was in Petersburg. Virginia. Three years? Five? Three to five? What would that be for? Nothing bad, right? Nothing scary?”

“Could be anything.” Margaret’s voice was blithe. “People serve less time for rape and assault.”

“Oh, good God!”

“Settle down, settle down. Petersburg, huh? That’s a minimum security place, I’m pretty sure. Listen, Grace, I can’t help you now. Call me later. Google him. Gotta go.”

“Right. Google. Good idea,” I said, but she’d already hung up. I jabbed on my computer, sweating. A glance out the dining-room windows revealed that Callahan O’Shea had gone back to work. The rotting steps of his front porch had been removed, the shingles mostly gone. I pictured him stabbing trash along a state highway, wearing an orange jumpsuit. Oh, shit.

“Come on,” I muttered, waiting for my computer to come to life. When the Google screen came on, finally, I typed in Callahan O’Shea and waited. Bingo.

Callahan O’Shea, lead fiddler for the Irish folk group We Miss You, Bobby Sands, sustained minor injuries when the band was pelted with trash Saturday at Sullivan’s Pub in Limerick.

Okay. Not my guy, probably. I scrolled down. Unfortunately, that band had quite a bit of press, recently…they were enraging crowds by playing “Rule Britannia” and the clientele wasn’t taking it well.

It was then that my Internet connection, never the most reliable of creatures, decided to quit. Crap.

With another wary glance next door, I let Angus into the fenced-in backyard, then went back into my kitchen to scare up some lunch. Now that my initial shock was wearing off, I felt a little less panicky. Calling on my vast legal knowledge, obtained from many happy hours with Law & Order, two blood relatives who were lawyers and one ex-fiancé of the same profession, I seemed to believe that three to five in a minimum security prison wouldn’t be for scary, violent, muscular men. And if he had done something scary… well. I’d move.

I swallowed some lunch, called Angus back in, reminded him that he was the very finest dog in the universe and not to so much as look at the big ex-con next door, and grabbed my car keys.

Callahan O’Shea was hammering something on the front porch as I approached my car. He didn’t look scary. He looked gorgeous. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, but still. Minimum security, that was reassuring. And hey. This was my house, my neighborhood. I would not be cowed. Straightening my shoulders, I decided to take a stand. “So what were you in for, Mr. O’Shea?” I called.

He straightened up, glanced at me, then jumped off the porch, scaring me a little with the quick grace of his move. Very…predatory. Walking up to the split rail fence that divided our properties, he folded his arms again. Ooh. Stop it, Grace.

“What do you think I was in for?” he asked.

“Murder?” I suggested. May as well start with my worst fear.

“Please. Don’t you watch Law & Order?”

“Assault and battery?”

“No.”

“Identity theft?”

“Getting warmer.”

“I have to get back to work,” I snapped. He raised an eyebrow and remained silent. “You dug a pit in your basement and chained a woman there.”

“Bingo. You got it, lady. Three to five for woman-chaining.”

“Well, here’s the thing, Callahan O’Shea. My sister’s an attorney. I can ask her to dig around and uncover your sordid past—” already did, in fact “—or you can just come out and tell me if I need to buy a Rottweiler.”

“Seemed to me like your little rat-dog did a pretty good job on his own,” he said, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, making it stand on end.

“Angus is not a rat-dog!” I protested. “He’s a purebred West Highland terrier. A gentle, loving breed.”

“Yes. Gentle and loving is just what I thought when he sank his little fangs into my arm the other night.”

“Oh, please. He only had your sleeve.”

Mr. O’Shea extended his arm, revealing two puncture marks on his wrist.

“Damn,” I muttered. “Well, fine. File a lawsuit, if a felon is allowed to do that. I’ll call my sister. And the second I get back to school, I’m going to Google you.”

“All the women say that,” he replied. He turned back to his saw, dismissing me. I found myself checking out his ass. Very nice. Then I mentally slapped myself and got into my car.

RECALCITRANT CALLAHAN O’Shea might not be too forthcoming about his sordid past, but I felt it certainly behooved me to know just what kind of criminal lived next door. As soon as my Twentieth Century sophomores were finished, I went to my tiny office and surfed the Net. This time, I was rewarded.

The Times-Picayune in New Orleans had the following information from two years ago.

Callahan O’Shea pleaded guilty to charges of embezzlement and was sentenced to three to five years at a minimum security facility. Tyrone Blackwell pleaded guilty to charges of larceny…

The only other hits referred to the ill-fated Irish band.

Embezzlement. Well. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Not that it was good, of course… but nothing violent or scary. I wondered just how much Mr. O’Shea had taken. I wondered, too, if he was single.

No. The last thing I needed was some sort of fascination with a churlish ex-con. I was looking for someone who could go the distance. A father for my children. A man of morals and integrity who was also extremely good-looking and an excellent kisser who could hold his own at Manning functions. Sort of a modern-day General Maximus, if you will. I didn’t want to waste time on Callahan O’Shea, no matter how beautiful a name he had or how good he looked without a shirt.




CHAPTER SEVEN


“VERY GOOD, MRS. SLOVANANSKI, one two three snap, five six seven pause. You got it, girl! Okay, now watch Grace and me.” Julian and I did the basic salsa step twice more, me smiling gamely and swishing so my skirt twirled. Then he twirled me left, spun me back against him and dipped. “Ta-da!”

The crowd went wild, gingerly clapping their arthritic hands. It was Dancin’ with the Oldies, the favorite weekly event at Golden Meadows Retirement Community, and Julian was in his element. Most weeks, I was his partner and co-teacher. Also, Mémé lived here, and though she was about as loving as the sharks who ate their young, a Puritanical familial duty had been long drilled into my skull. We were, after all, Mayflower descendants. Ignoring nasty relatives was for other, luckier groups. Plus, dancing opportunities were few and far between, and I loved to dance. Especially with Julian, who was good enough to compete.

“Does everyone have it?” Julian asked, checking our couples. “One two three snap… other way, Mr. B.—five six seven, don’t forget the pause, people. Okay, let’s see what we can do when the music’s on! Grace, grab Mr. Creed and show him how it’s done.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bruno had already taken the dance floor. Their osteoporosis and artificial joints couldn’t quite pull off the sensuality the salsa usually required, but they made up for it in the look on their faces… love, pure and simple, and happiness, and joy, and gratitude. It was so touching, so lovely, that I miscounted, resulting in a stumble for Mr. Creed.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing him a little more firmly. “My fault.” From her chariot of doom, my grandmother made a disgusted noise. Like a lot of GM residents, she came each week to watch the dancers. Then Mrs. Slovananski cut in—she’d had her eye on Mr. Creed for some time, rumor had it—and I went over to one of the spectators as Julian carefully dipped Helen Pzorkan so as not to aggravate her weak bladder.

“Hey, Mr. Donnelly, feeling up to a turn on the dance floor?” I said to one of the many folks who came to watch, enjoying the music from eras gone by, but a little shy or stiff to venture out.

“I’d love to, Grace, but my knee isn’t what it used to be,” he said. “Besides, I’m not much of a dancer. I only looked good when my wife was with me, telling me what to do.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I reassured him, patting his arm.

“Well,” he said, looking at his feet.

“How did you and your wife meet?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, smiling, his eyes going distant. “She was the girl next door. I don’t remember a day that I didn’t love her. I was twelve when her family moved into the neighborhood. Twelve years old, but I made sure the other boys knew she’d be walking to school with me.”

His voice was so wistful that it brought a lump to my throat. “How lucky, to meet when you were so young,” I murmured.

“Yes. We were lucky,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Lucky indeed.”

You know, it sounded so noble and selfless, teaching a dance class to the old folks, but the truth was, this was usually the best night of my week. Most nights I spent home, correcting papers and making up tests. But on Mondays, I put on a flowing, bright-colored skirt (often with sequins, mind you) and set off to be the belle of the ball. Usually I went in early to read to some of the nonverbal patients, which always made me feel rather holy and wonderful.

“Gracie,” Julian called, motioning for me. I glanced at my watch. Sure enough, it was nine o’clock, bedtime for many of the residents. Julian and I ended our sessions by putting on a little show, a dance where we’d really ham it up.

“What are we doing tonight?” I asked.

“I thought a fox-trot,” he said. He changed the CD, walked to the center of the floor and held out his arms with a flourish. I stepped over to him, swishing, and extended my hand, which he took with aplomb. Our heads snapped to the audience, and we waited for the music. Ah. The Drifters, “There Goes My Baby.” As we slow-slow-quick-quicked around the dance floor, Julian looked into my eyes. “I signed us up for a class.”

I tipped my head as we angled our steps to avoid Mr. Carlson’s walker. “What kind of class?”




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