Too Good to Be True(28)
With a glare, he reached down and grabbed Angus by the scruff of his neck, lifted him—there was a small snap as the laces were tugged out of Angus’s mouth—and handed him to me.
“You’re not supposed to lift him like that,” I said, petting Angus’s poor neck as my dog nibbled my chin.
“He’s not supposed to bite me, either,” Callahan said, not smiling.
“Right.” I glanced down at my dog, kissed his head. “Sorry about your, um…chin.”
“Of all the injuries you’ve given me so far, this one hurt the least.”
“Oh. That’s good, then.” My face actually hurt from blushing. “So. Are you going to live here, or is this an investment or what?”
He paused, obviously wondering whether I was worth the effort of an answer. “I’m flipping it.”
“Oh,” I answered, relieved. Angus spotted a leaf blowing across my lawn and convulsed to be put down. After a second’s hesitation, I complied, relieved when he ran off to give chase. “Well. Good luck with the house. It’s very cute.”
“Thank you.”
“Good night.”
“’ Night.”
I took a few steps toward my house, then stopped. “By the way,” I added, turning back to my neighbor, “I did Google you and saw that you’re an embezzler.”
Callahan O’ Shea said nothing.
“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. Hannibal Lecter, at least he’s interesting.”
Callahan smiled at that, an abrupt, wicked smile that crinkled his eyes and lightened his face, and something twisted hard and hot in my stomach and seemed to surge toward my burly neighbor. That smile promised all kinds of wickedness, all sorts of heat, and I found that I was breathing rather heavily through my mouth.
And then I heard the noise, and so did Callahan O’ Shea. A little pattering noise. We both looked down. Angus was back, leg lifted, peeing on the boot he’d tried to eat a few moments before.
Callahan O’ Shea’s smile was gone. He raised his eyes to me. “I don’t know which one of you is worse,” he said, then turned and headed for his house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THIRTEEN MONTHS, TWO WEEKS and four days after Andrew called off our wedding, I thought I was doing fairly well.
The summer after had been pretty rough without the daily presence of my students, but I threw myself into the house and became a gardener. When I was antsy, I tramped through the state forest behind my house, following the Farmington River miles upriver and down, getting chewed on by mosquitoes and scratched by branches, Angus leaping along beside me on his festive leash, pink tongue lapping the river, white fur spattered with mud.
I spent Fourth of July weekend at Gettysburg—the real Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania—with several thousand other reenactors, forgetting the ache in my chest for a few days in the thrill of battle. When I got back, Julian put me to work at Jitterbug’s, teaching basic ballroom. Mom and Dad invited me over often, but, fearful of upsetting me, they were painfully polite to each other, and it was so tense and freakish that I found myself wishing they’d just be normal and fight. Margaret and I drove up the coast of Maine so far north that the sun didn’t set till almost 10:00 p.m. We spent a few quiet days walking the shore, watching the lobster boats bob on their moorings and not talking about Andrew.
Thank God I had the house. Floors to sand, trim to paint, tag sales to attend so I could fill my little wedding cake of a home with sweet, thoughtful things that weren’t associated with Andrew. A collection of St. Nicholas statues that I’d line up on the fireplace mantel come Christmas. Two brass doorknobs carved with Public School, City of New York. I made curtains. I painted walls. I installed light fixtures. I even went on a date or two. Well, I went on one date. That was enough to show me that I didn’t want to get involved with anyone just yet.
School started, and I’d never loved my kids more. They may have had their little foibles, the overindulgences and the horrible speech patterns laden with like and totally and whatever, but they were so fascinating, so full of potential and the future. I lost myself in school, as I always did, watching among the resigned for the spark in one or two, the glow that told me someone connected with the past the way I had when I was a kid, that someone could feel how much history mattered to the present.
Christmas came and went, New Year’s, too. On Valentine’s Day, Julian came over armed with violent movies, Thai food and ice cream, and we laughed till our stomachs ached, both of us pretending to ignore the fact that this should’ve been my first anniversary and that Julian hadn’t been on a date in eight years.
And my heart mended. It did. Time did its work, and Andrew faded to a dull ache that I mostly only thought about when I was lying alone in bed. Was I over him? I told myself I was.
Then, a few weeks before Kitty the Hair Cutting Cousin’s wedding, Natalie and I went out for dinner. I had never told her the real reason Andrew and I had broken up. In fact, Andrew had never even said those words aloud. He didn’t have to.
Natalie picked the place. She was working at Pelli Clarke Pelli in New Haven, one of the top architectural firms in the country. She’d had to work late and suggested the Omni Hotel, which boasted a restaurant with a nice view and good drinks.
When I met her there, I was a little shocked at her transformation. Somewhere along the line, my little sister had gone from beautiful to stunning. Each time I’d seen her in grad school or at home, she’d been dressed in jeans or sweats, typical student clothing, and her long, straight, blond hair was all one length. Then, she looked like a classic American girl next door, wholesome and lovely. But when she started working for real, she invested in some clothes and a stylish haircut, started wearing a little makeup, and wow. She looked like a modern day Grace Kelly.