Too Good to Be True(54)

My eyes snapped open. “Great! Good night, bub. Thanks for walking me home.”

And with one more grin that I felt down to my bone marrow, he turned and left, back to the woman who was not his date, leaving me not at all sure if I was greatly relieved or hugely disappointed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“HEY, DAD,” I SAID one evening after school. Dropping by the family domicile was a habit of mine—sometimes you just can’t learn from experience, right? The truth was, taken individually, my parents were great people. My father was methodical and reliable, as dads should be, I thought, and his love of the Civil War gave us a special bond. And my mother was a vibrant, intelligent woman. Growing up, she’d been a devoted mom, the kind who sewed our Halloween costumes and baked cookies from scratch. Granted, my parents had always seemed to do things separately; I had very few memories of them going out just the two of them. They had friends and socialized normally enough, but as far as a deep and abiding love or passion…let’s just say that if it was there, they hid it well.

It worried me. What if that was the kind of marriage I ended up with, stifled and irritated with my spouse all day, wishing I’d chosen another life? Look at Margaret. Look at Mémé and her three husbands, none of whom she ever recalled fondly.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his daily six ounces of red wine (for health reasons only) next to him. I let go of Angus’s leash so my puppy could go see his second favorite person on earth.

“Hello, Pudding,” he said, glancing up from the Wall Street Journal. Then he caught sight of my dog. “Angus!

How are you, buddy?” Angus leaped in the air, barking with love. “Who’s a good boy, huh? Are you a good dog?”

“He’s really not,” I admitted. “He bit my neighbor. The carpenter.”

“Oh, how are the windows coming along?” Dad asked, picking up Angus to better worship.

“They’re done, actually.” And I had to admit, I was disappointed. No more Callahan O’ Shea in my house. “He did a great job. Thanks again, Daddy.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome. Hey, I heard you’re Jackson at Chancellorsville.”

“I get a horse and everything,” I said, smiling modestly. Brother Against Brother’s members included a stableowner who would loan out horses here and there, so long as we passed a riding class. Alas, I was only allowed to ride Snowlight, a fat and elderly white pony with a fluffy mane and a narcoleptic tendency to lie down when hearing loud noises, which made my rallying the troops a bit less dramatic than planned. However, as Colonel Jackson, I was to be shot at this battle, so Snowlight’s narcolepsy would come in handy.

“You were great at Bull Run, by the way,” I said. He nodded in acknowledgment, turning the page of his paper.

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s in the garage,” Dad answered.

“The studio!” Mom’s voice could be heard clearly from the studio—she hated when we referred to it as garage, feeling that we were demeaning her self-expression.

“She’s in the studio! Making her  p**n o statues!” Dad bellowed back, slapping the paper down on the table. “God help me, Grace, if I’d known your mother would have a meltdown when you kids left for college—”

“You know, Dad, you could try to be a little more supportive of Mom’s—”

“It’s not  p**n !” My mother stood in the doorway, her face flushed from the heat of her glassblowing fire. Angus raced into the garage to bark at her artwork.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “How are the, uh, sculptures coming along?”

“Hello, honey,” Mom replied, kissing my cheek. “I’m trying to use a lighter glass. The last uterus I sold weighed nineteen pounds, but these light ones keep breaking. Angus, no! Stay away from that ovary, honey!”

“Angus! Cookie!” I said. My dog raced back into the kitchen, and Mom closed the door behind her, then went to the special doggy cookie jar they kept on hand for my dog (no grandchildren, you understand).

“Here you go, you sweet thing!” Mom cooed. Angus sat, then raised his front paws in the air, nearly causing Mom to faint with joy. “So sweet! Yes, you are! You’re a sweet baby! You’re my little Angus-Pooh!” Finally, she straightened up to look at her biological child. “So what brings you here, Grace?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you guys had talked to Margaret lately,” I said. Angus, miffed that the attention was no longer upon him, trotted off to destroy something. Since her little tear jag in my kitchen, I’d barely spoken to my sister, who’d been drowning herself even more than usual in work.

Mom gave Dad a sour look. “Jim, our daughter is visiting. Think you could drop your paper and pay attention to her?”

Dad just rolled his eyes and continued reading.

“Jim!”

“Mom, it’s okay. Dad’s just relaxing. He’s listening, right, Dad?”

My father nodded, giving my mother a resigned stare.

“Well, about Margaret and Stuart, who knows?” Mom said. “They’ll find their way. Marriage is complicated, honey. You’ll find out someday.” Mom flicked Dad’s paper, earning a glare. “Right, Jim? Complicated.”

“With you it is,” my father grumbled.