Too Good to Be True(36)

Another glance at Mr. Lawrence revealed the same level of attention as before—that is to say, none. Mr.

Lawrence was nonverbal, a tiny, shrunken man with white hair and vacant eyes, hands that constantly plucked at his clothes and the arms of his easy chair. In all the months I’d been reading to him, I had never heard him speak.

Hopefully, he was enjoying our sessions on some level and not mentally screaming for James Joyce. “Well. Back to our story. His mind raced. Dare he take the promise of forbidden passion and sheath his rock-hard desire in the heaven of her soft and hidden treasure?”

“I think he should go for it.”

I jumped, dropping my tawdry paperback. Callahan O’ Shea stood in the doorway, shrinking the size of the room.

“Irish! What are you doing here?” I asked.

“What are you doing here, is a better question.”

“I’m reading to Mr. Lawrence. He likes it.” Hopefully Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t lurch out of his two-year silence and deny that fact. “He’s part of my reading program.”

“Is that right? He’s also my grandfather,” Callahan said, crossing his arms.

My head jerked back in surprise. “This is your grandfather?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well, I read to…to patients sometimes.”

“To everyone?”

“No,” I answered. “Just the patients who don’t get—” My voice broke off midsentence.

“Who don’t get visitors,” Callahan finished.

“Right,” I acknowledged.

I had started my little reading program about four years ago when Mémé first moved here. Having visitors was a huge status symbol at Golden Meadows, and one day I’d wandered into this unit—the secure unit—and found that too many folks were alone, their families too far to visit often or just unable to stand the sadness of this wing.

So I started reading. Granted, My Lord’s Wanton Desire wasn’t a classic—not in literary terms, anyway—but it did seem to keep the attention of my listeners. Mrs. Kim in Room 39 had actually wept when Lord Barton popped the question to Clarissia.

Callahan pushed off from the doorway and came into the room. “Hi, Pop,” he said, kissing the old man’s head.

His grandfather didn’t acknowledge him. My eyes stung a little as Cal looked at the frail old man, who, as always, was neatly dressed in trousers and a cardigan.

“Well, I’ll leave you two alone,” I said, getting up.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for visiting him.” He hesitated, then looked up at me and smiled, and my heart swelled. “He liked biographies, back in the day.”

“Okay,” I said. “Personally, I think the duke and the prostitute are a little more invigorating, but if you say so.” I paused. “Were you guys close?” I found myself asking.

“Yes,” he answered. Callahan’s expression was unreadable, his eyes on his grandfather’s face as the old man plucked at his sweater. Callahan put his hand over the old man’s, stilling the nervous, constant movement. “He raised us. My brother and me.”

I hesitated, wanting to be polite, but curiosity got the better of me. “What happened to your parents?” I asked.

“My mother died when I was eight,” he said. “I never met my father.”

“I’m sorry.” He nodded once in acknowledgment. “What about your brother? Does he live around here?”

Cal’s face hardened. “I think he’s out West. He’s…estranged. There’s just me.” He paused, his face softening as he looked at his grandfather.

I swallowed. Suddenly, my family seemed pretty damn wonderful, despite Mom and Dad’s constant bickering, Mémé’s stream of criticism. The aunts and uncles, mean old Cousin Kitty…and my sisters, of course, that primal, ferocious love I felt for both my sisters. I couldn’t imagine being estranged from either of them, ever.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

Cal looked up, then gave a rueful laugh. “Well. I had a normal enough childhood. Played baseball. Went camping. Fly-fishing. The usual boy stuff.”

“That’s good,” I said. My cheeks burned. The sound of Callahan’s laugh reverberated in my chest. No denying it. I found Mr. O’ Shea way too attractive.

“So how often do you come here?” Callahan asked.

“Oh, usually once or twice a week. I teach Dancin’ with the Oldies with my friend Julian. Every Monday, seventhirty to nine.” I smiled. Maybe he’d drop by. See how cute I looked in my swirly skirts, swishing away, delighting the residents. Maybe— “Dance class, huh?” he said. “You don’t look the type.”

“And what does that mean?” I asked.

“You’re not built like a dancer,” he commented.

“You should probably stop talking now,” I advised.

“Got a little more meat on your bones than those girls you see on TV.”

“You should definitely stop talking now.” I glared. He grinned.

“And aren’t dancers graceful?” he continued. “Not prone to hitting people with rakes and the like?”