Too Good to Be True(55)

“Speaking of marriage, honey, Natalie wanted to make sure everyone was free for brunch on Sunday, did she tell you?”

“Marriage? What?” My voice cracked.

“What?” Mom asked.

“You said, ‘speaking of marriage.’ Are they engaged?”

Dad lowered his paper and peered at me over his bifocals. “Would you be all right with that, Pudding?”

“Um, yeah! Of course! Sure! Did she say? She didn’t tell me anything.”

Mom patted my shoulder. “No, no, she didn’t say anything. But, Grace, sweetie…” She paused. “It seems like it might be coming.”

“Oh, I know! Sure! I hope it does come to marriage. They’re great together.”

“And now you have Wyatt, so it doesn’t sting as much, right?” Mom said.

For a second, I almost blurted out the truth about Wyatt Dunn, saintly doctor. I actually just made that guy up so Nat wouldn’t feel so guilty, Mom, Dad. And oh, by the way, I may have a thing for the ex-con next door. But what would they say to that? I could imagine their faces, the consternation, the worry, the fear that I’d chugged around the bend. The certainty that I wasn’t over Andrew, that I’d been crushed beyond repair, that a crush on Cal indicated my wobbly emotional state. “Right,” I said slowly. “I have Wyatt. And also papers that need grading.”

“And I have to finish my art,” Mom said, once again poking Dad’s paper. “So make your own damn dinner.”

“Fine! I’d love to! Your cooking has really gone down the drain, you know. Ever since you became an artist.”

“Grow up, Jim.” Mom turned to me. “Honey, wait. We want to meet Wyatt.” She reached for the calendar that hung next to the fridge. “Let’s make a date right now.”

“Oh, Mom, you know how it is. He’s so busy. And plus he’s working in Boston a few days a week, um, consulting.

Up at Children’s. Oops, gotta go. See you soon. I’ll get back to you on a date.”

As I drove around town on my errands, Angus on my lap, helping me steer, it seemed like everyone’s story—their how-they-met story—echoed in my head. My own parents had gotten together when Dad was a lifeguard and Mom had been swimming at Lake Waramaug, pretending to drown for her friends. She was sixteen at the time, just goofing around, and had Dad been a less literal person, he probably could’ve seen that. As it was, he hauled her out of the lake and, learning that her lungs were water-free, chastised her so fiercely that she burst into tears.

And just like that, he fell in love.

Margaret and Stuart met during a fire drill at Harvard. It was a frigid January night, and Margs was clad only in her pajamas. Stuart wrapped her in his coat and let her sit on his lap so her feet wouldn’t have to touch the snow.

He carried her back into the dorm (and right into her bed, as the story went).

I wanted a story. I didn’t want to say, “Oh, Daddy and I met on a Web site because we were both so damned desperate we couldn’t think of anything else.” Or, “I tricked Daddy into loving me by pretending I couldn’t pick out my own lightbulb and wearing makeup at all times.”

Andrew and I had had a story. A pretty great story. How many people could say they’d met their husbands while lying dead at Gettysburg, after all? It was damn cute. And of course, I reminded myself harshly, gently pushing Angus’s head out of the way so I could see, Natalie and Andrew had a great story, too. I was engaged to her sister, but one look at Natalie, and I knew I had the wrong Emerson girl! Hahaha!

“Stop it,” I told myself, my voice grating. “You’ll find someone. You will. He doesn’t have to be perfect. Just good enough. And, yes, Natalie and Andrew are probably going to get married. We know this. We are not surprised.

We’ll take the news very well.”

But I couldn’t shake the funk that lowered as I did my errands…grocery store, dry cleaner, wine shop for some good and cheap chardonnay. Everywhere I went, I imagined the story. At the package store: He recommended some wine, we got to talking…I saved the bottle, see, it’s over there, on the shelf. Unfortunately, the man behind the counter at the package store was sixty years old, wedding ring in place, as well as a couple of hundred extra pounds. At the market: We ran into each other at the Ben & Jerry’s case, argued over which was better, Vanilla Heath Bar or Coffee Heath Bar, and we still can’t agree. But, no, the only person in front of Ben & Jerry’s was a girl of about twelve, stocking up on Cinnamon Bun from the look of things. At the cleaners: He was picking up a suit, I needed my Confederate officer’s uniform… Alas, the only one in the cleaner’s was the sweet and tiny woman who owned the place. “Watch you don’t get shot!” she said, handing me my dress grays.

“Getting shot is the whole point,” I said. My smile felt forced.

When I got home, I stashed my groceries, took a box of tampons away from Angus and gave him a chew stick instead, poured a healthy glass of wine and went up to the attic with my uniform. Did I usually stow my uniform in the attic? Well, no, not until winter, usually, but it seemed like a good idea tonight. And I left the light off, because I knew the way by heart.

He was there. Callahan O’ Shea was back on the roof, hands clasped behind his head, looking up at the sky.