Too Good to Be True(47)

“I’m a history teacher,” I said.

“Right. That explains it,” he said, looking more closely at the movies. “Gone With the Wind’s never been opened.

You have more than one copy?”

“Oh, that. My mom gave this to me, but I always thought I should see it on the big screen first, you know? Give the movie its due.”

“So you’ve never seen it?”

“No. I’ve read the book fourteen times, though. Have you?”

“I’ve seen the movie.” He smiled a little.

“On the big screen?”

“Nope. On TV.”

“That doesn’t count,” I said.

“I see.” He smiled a little, and my stomach tightened. We moved the bookcase. He picked up his saw and waited for me to move out of the way. I didn’t.

“So, Cal…why did you embezzle a million dollars?” I asked.

“One point six million,” he said, plugging the saw in. “Why does anyone steal anything?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Why did you?”

He looked at me with those dark blue eyes, weighing his answer. I waited, too. There was something in his face that told a story, and I wanted to hear it. He was sizing me up, wondering what to tell me, how to say it. I waited.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” The front door banged open. Margaret stood there, sweaty and flushed and gorgeous.

“Bad news, campers. Mom’s on her way. I saw her car at Lala’s Bakery. Hurry. I almost set a world record getting here before she did.”

My sister and I bolted for the cellar. “Callahan, give us some help!” Margs ordered.

“What’s wrong?” Cal asked, following us. At the foot of the cellar stairs, he stumbled to a halt. “Oh, my God.” He looked slowly around.

My cellar was the sculpture repository. Mom, alas, was generous with her art, and so my cellar was littered with glass girl parts.

“I love it here,” Callahan said distantly.

“Hush, you. Grab some sculptures and get upstairs. No time for chitchat,” Margaret ordered. “Our mom will have a fit if she knows Grace hides her stuff. I speak from experience.” Grabbing The Home of Life (a uterus) and Nest #12 (ovary), my sister ran lightly back upstairs.

“Do you rent this place out?” Callahan asked.

“Stop,” I said, unable to suppress a grin. “Just bring that upstairs and put it on a shelf or something. Make it look like it belongs.” I shoved Breast in Blue into his hands. It was heavy—I should’ve warned him, and for a second, he bobbled the breast, and I grabbed for it, and so did he, and the end result was that we both were sort of holding it, our hands overlapping as we both supported the sculpture. I looked up into his eyes, and he smiled.

Kablammy.

My knees practically buckled. He smelled like wood and soap and coffee, and his hands were big and warm, and God, the way those blue eyes slanted down, the heat from his body beckoning me to lean in over Breast in Blue and just…you know…just…Really, who cared if he was an ex-con? Stealing, shmealing. Though I was distantly aware that I should probably change my expression from unadulterated lust to something more along the lines of cheerful neighbor, I was paralyzed.

A car horn sounded. Upstairs, Angus burst into a tinny thunderstorm of barking, hurling his body against the front door, from the thumping sound of it.

“Hurry up down there!” Margaret barked. “You know what she’s like!”

The spell was broken. Cal took the sculpture, grabbed another one and went upstairs. I did the same, still blushing.

I shoved Hidden Treasure onto the bookcase and lay Portal in Green on the coffee table, where it splayed most obscenely.

“Hello, there!” Mom called from the porch. “Angus, down. Down. Quiet, honey. No. Stop. Quiet, dear. No barking.”

I picked up my dog and opened the door, my heart still thumping. “Hi, Mom! What brings you here?”

“I have pastries!” she chirped. “Hello, Angus! Who’s a sweet baby? Hi, Margaret, honey. Stuart said we’d find you here. And oh, hello. Who are you?”

I glanced back. Cal stood in the kitchen doorway. “Mom, this is my neighbor, Callahan O’ Shea. Callahan, my mother, the renowned sculptor, Nancy Emerson.”

“A pleasure. I’m a big fan of your work.” Cal shook my mother’s hand, and Mom turned a questioning gaze on me.

“Dad hired him to put in some new windows,” I explained.

“I see,” said Mom suspiciously.

“I need to run next door and then head to the hardware store, Grace. Anything you need?” Cal said, turning to me.

I need to be kissed. “Um, nope. Not that I can think of,” I said, blushing yet again.

“See you later, then. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Emerson.” The three of us watched as he went out the front door.

Mom snapped out of it first. “Well. Margaret, we need to talk. Come on, girls. Let’s sit in the kitchen. Oh, Grace, this shouldn’t go here! It’s not funny. This is serious artwork, honey.”

Callahan O’ Shea had placed Breast in Blue in my fruit bowl amid the oranges and pears. I grinned. Margaret snorted with laughter and opened the pastry bag. “Oh, goody. Poppy seed rolls. Want one, Grace?”