Too Good to Be True(30)

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Oh, yeah,” I lied. “Sure. I mean, I loved him and all, he really is a great guy, but…you know. He wasn’t The One.” I made quote marks out of my fingers.

“He wasn’t?”

“Nope. I mean, he’s a great guy and all, but…” I paused, pretended to think. “I don’t know. There was something missing.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes thoughtful.

Our dinners came. I’d ordered a steak; Nat had salmon. The potatoes were great. We ate and chatted about movies and our family, books and TV shows. When we got the check, Natalie paid and I let her. Then we stood up. My sister didn’t look in Andrew’s direction, just walked smoothly to the door in front of me.

But I glanced back. Saw Andrew staring at Natalie like a junkie needing a fix, raw and hurting and naked. He didn’t see me looking—he only had eyes for Nat.

I caught up to my sister. “Thanks, Nattie,” I said.

“Oh, Grace, it was nothing,” she answered, perhaps a bit too emotionally for the circumstances.

My heart thudded in my chest on the elevator ride down. I remembered my fourth birthday. Remembered the barrettes. The Saturday-morning cuddling. Her face as I’d left for college. I remembered that hospital waiting room, the smell of old coffee, the glare of the lights as I’d promised God anything, anything, if He’d save my sister. I considered what was in Natalie’s eyes when she looked up at Andrew.

I imagined what kind of character it took to walk away from what might be the love of your life for the sake of another. To feel the big kablammy and not be able to do a thing about it. I wondered if I had the selflessness for an act of that magnitude. I asked myself what kind of heart I really had. What kind of sister I really was.

“I had this very strange thought,” I said as we walked back toward Natalie’s apartment, arm in arm.

“So many of your thoughts are strange,” she said, almost hitting our usual vibe.

“Well, this one is pretty out there, but it feels right,” I said, stopping on the corner of the New Haven Green.

“Natalie, I think you should…” I paused. “I think you should go out with Andrew. I think he might’ve met the wrong sister first.”

Those amazing Natalie eyes flashed again—shock, guilt, sorrow, pain…and hope. Yup. Hope. “Grace, I would never…” she began.

“I know. I really do,” I murmured. “But I think you and Andrew should talk.”

I met Andrew for dinner a few days later. Told him the same thing I told Natalie. The same emotions flashed over his face as had flashed across hers, with one more. Gratitude. He put up a few gentlemanly objections, then caved, as I knew he would. I suggested they meet in person, rather than talk on the phone or e-mail. They took my suggestion. Natalie called me the day after their first meeting, and in tones of gentle wonder, told me how they’d walked through New Haven, ending up shivering on a bench under the graceful trees in Wooster Square, just talking. She asked, repeatedly, if this was really okay, and I assured her it was.

And it was, except for just one problem, so far as I could see. I wasn’t sure I was quite over Andrew myself.

CHAPTER NINE

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Angus shocked me into consciousness with his maniacal barking, clawing at the door as if a steak was being stuffed underneath it.

“What? Who?” I blurted, barely conscious. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was only seven. “Angus! This house better be on fire, or you’re in big trouble.” Usually, my beloved pet was quite content to sleep squarely in the middle of my bed, somehow managing to take up two-thirds of it despite weighing a mere sixteen pounds.

An accidental look in the mirror showed me that my new hair tamer (which cost fifty bucks a bottle) clocked out after 1:00 a.m., which was when I went to bed the night before. So if in fact Angus was saving my life and our photo did appear on the front page of the paper, I’d better do something about that hair before rushing out into the flames. I grabbed an elastic, slapped my hair into a ponytail and felt the door. Cool. Opening it a crack, I smelled no smoke. Drat. There went my chance at meeting a hot fireman who would carry me out of the flames as if I were made of spun sugar. Still, I guessed it was a good thing that my house wasn’t going up in flames.

Angus flew down the stairs like a bullet, doing his trademark Dance of the Visitor at the front door, leaping straight up so that all four paws came off the floor. Oh, yes. Today was Bull Run, and Margaret was coming along.

Apparently she felt the need to rise early, but I needed coffee before I could kill any Johnny Rebs. Or was I killing Bluebellies today?

Scooping up Angus, I opened the door. “Hi, Margaret,” I mumbled, squinting at the light.

Callahan O’ Shea stood on my porch. “Don’t hurt me,” he said.

The bruise around his eye had faded considerably, still there, but yellow and brown had replaced the livid purple.

His eyes were blue, I noted, and the kind that turned down at the corners, making him look a little…sad. Soulful.

Sexy. He wore a faded red T-shirt and jeans, and there it was again, that annoying twinge of attraction.

“So. Here to sue me?” I asked. Angus barked—Yarp!—from my arms.

He smiled, and the twinge became more of a wrench.