Too Good to Be True(66)

“Well, maybe I will.”

I gazed out the window at the river. The sun was sinking into a spectacular pile of buttery clouds, and the sky was pale peach and rose. It was lovely, and I felt myself relaxing.

“Okay, give it a try, Grace,” Julian said, once we’d ordered dinner (he’d ignored the cute waiter) and were sipping our cool and unusual martinis. “Remember Lou from Meeting Mr. Right? We already know rule number one.”

“I’m the most beautiful woman here,” I said obediently.

“Yes, Grace, but you have to feel it. Sit up straight. Stop shlunching.”

“Yes, Mother,” I said, taking another sip.

“Rule number two. Look around the room and smile, because you know that every man here would be lucky to have you, and you can have any man you want.”

I did as told. My eyes stopped on an elderly man, well into his eighties. Sure, he’d be lucky to have me. As proven with Dave of the Leg Bag, I had a certain je ne sais quoi when it came to older men. But would the bartender, who looked hauntingly like a young Clark Gable sans moustache, feel that way?

“‘Believe in yourself,’” Julian intoned. “No, Grace, you’re doing it wrong. Look. What’s the problem?”

I rolled my eyes. “The problem is that it’s stupid, Julian. Put me next to I don’t know, Natalie, for example, or Margaret, for another, and I’m not the most beautiful woman in the room. Ask Andrew if he was lucky to have me, and he’d probably say hell yes! Because if it weren’t for me, he’d never have met his darling bride-to-be.”

“Ooh! Are we having our period? Sit and watch, darling,” Julian said, ignoring my diatribe. I watched sulkily as my buddy sat back in his seat and gazed around the room. Bing, bang, boom. Three women at three different tables stopped midsentence and blushed.

“Sure, you’re great with women,” I said. “But you don’t want to date women. Think I didn’t see you just about crawl under the table when our waiter was fawning all over you? Try it on the guys, Julian.”

He narrowed his lovely eyes at me. “Fine.” His own face grew a little pink, but I had to give him credit for trying.

And sure enough, his eyes met our waiter’s, who snatched a plate from the kitchen counter and practically vaulted over a table to get to us. “Here you are,” he breathed. “Oysters Rockefeller. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Julian said, looking up at him. The waiter’s lips parted. Julian didn’t look away.

Well, well. Would my friend actually break his self-imposed chastity and find Mr. Right after all? Smiling, I took a bite of the oysters—yummy—and decided to check my messages while the two good-looking men gazed soulfully at each other. Gracious! Julian was actually initiating conversation! Would wonders never cease.

I’d turned off my phone in last period today when giving my freshmen a test and hadn’t turned it back on. I wasn’t a cell phone lover, to be honest. Many was the day that I forgot to turn it on at all. But wait. This was odd. I had six messages.

I’d never had six messages before. Was something wrong? Had Mémé died? An unexpected wave of sadness hit me at the idea. Hitting the code for my voice mail, I glanced out the window and waited as Julian and Cambry the waiter flirted.

“You have six new messages. Message one.” My older sister’s voice came on. “Grace, it’s Margaret. Listen, kid, don’t go to Soleil tonight, okay? I’m really sorry, but I think Junie told Mom where you were going when Mom called my office this afternoon. I guess Mom’s all hell-bent for leather to meet Wyatt, and she made a reservation for tonight. With the Carsons. So don’t go there. I’ll pick up the tab somewhere else, just charge it. Call me when you get this.”

The message was left at 3:45.

Oh…my…God.

Message two. “Grace, Margs again. Mom just called me. The dinner is definitely at Soleil, so head somewhere else, okay? Call me.” That one was at 4:15.

Messages three through five were the same, I dimly noted, though Margaret’s language deteriorated as they went on. Horror rose like an icy tide. Message six was as follows. “Grace, where the hell are you? We’re leaving for the stupid restaurant right now. The Carsons, Andrew, Nat, Mom and Dad and Mémé. Call me! Our reservation is at seven.”

I looked at my watch. It was six-fifty-three.

Julian and Cambry were laughing now as Cambry wrote his phone number on a piece of paper. “Julian?” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“One sec, Grace,” said Julian. “Cambry and I—” Then he saw my expression. “What is it?”

“My family is on their way. Here,” I said.

His eyes popped. “Oh, shit.”

Cambry looked at us, confused. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“We need to leave right away,” I said. “Immediately. Family emergency. Here.” I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gift certificate Margaret’s secretary had printed off the Internet. Dread raced through my veins. I couldn’t be found here. I couldn’t! I’d just tell the family we’d gone somewhere else. That was it. No problem.

Just as we stood up to go, I heard the horrible sound of my mother’s nervous society laugh. Ahahaha! Ahahaha!

Oooh…ahahaha. I looked at Julian. “Run,” I whispered.