Too Good to Be True(74)

“Sure. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just that Nat’s never had to wonder, never been lost, never doubted herself, never imagined that life would be anything less than perfect for her. Until she met Andrew and finally found something she couldn’t have, which you ended up giving her. So if I think she’s a little self-centered, that’s why.”

“I think you’re jealous of her,” I said, smarting.

“Of course I’m jealous of her, dummy,” Margaret said fondly. Honestly, I would never figure Margaret out. “Hey,”

she added, “what were you doing up on that roof with Hottie the Hunk Next Door?”

I took a deep breath. “We were just looking at the sky. Talking.”

Margaret squinted at me. “Are you interested in him, Grace?”

I could feel myself blushing. “Sort of. Yes. Definitely. I am.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Margs gave me her pirate smile.

“So?”

“So nothing. He’s a huge improvement on Andrew the Pale. God, imagine screwing Callahan O’ Shea. Just his name practically gives me an orgasm.” She laughed, and I smiled reluctantly. Margaret stood up and patted my shoulder. “Just make sure you’re not doing it to show Andrew that there’s a man who wants what’s in your pants, okay?”

“Wow. That’s so romantic, I think I might cry.”

She grinned again like the pirate she should’ve been. “Well, I’m beat. I have to write a brief and then I’m hitting the hay. ’Night, Gracie.” She handed me my wee doggie, who rested his head on my shoulder and sighed with devotion. “And, Grace, one more thing as long as I’m doing the big sister shtick.” She sighed. “Look. I know you’re trying to move on and all that crap, and I don’t blame you. But no matter how great Cal looks without a shirt, he’s always going to have a prison record, and these things have a habit of following a person around.”

“I know,” I admitted. Ava and I had both made it to the second round of interviews for the chairmanship, much to my surprise. I still wasn’t entirely hopeful, but Margs was right. Callahan O’ Shea’s past would matter at Manning.

Maybe it shouldn’t, but it would.

“Just be sure you know what you want, kiddo,” Margs said. “That’s all I’m saying. I think Cal’s pretty damn fun, and you could probably use some fun. But keep in mind that you’re a teacher at a prep school, and this just might matter to the good people at Manning. Not to mention Mom and Dad.”

I didn’t answer. As usual, Margaret was right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I’VE BEEN COMMISSIONED to do a sculpture of a baby in utero for Yale New Haven’s Children Hospital,” Mom announced the next night at dinner. We were at the family domicile—me, Margaret, Mémé, Mom and Dad —eating dinner.

“That sounds nice, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of her excellent pot roast.

“It’s coming along beautifully, if I do say so myself,” she agreed.

“Which you do say, every half hour,” Dad muttered.

“I almost died in childbirth,” Mémé announced. “They had to put me under. When I came to three days later, they told me I had a beautiful son.”

“My kind of labor and delivery,” Margaret murmured, knocking back her wine.

“The problem with the sculpture is that the baby’s head keeps breaking off—”

“Less than reassuring for the expectant mothers, I’m guessing,” Margaret interjected.

“—and I can’t find a way to keep it on,” Mom finished, glaring at Margs.

“How about duct tape?” Dad suggested. I bit down a laugh.

“Jim, must you constantly belittle my work? Hmm? Grace, stop shlunching, honey. You’re so pretty, why do you shlunch?”

“You can always tell breeding by good posture,” Mémé said, fishing the onion out of her martini and popping it into her mouth. “A lady never hunches. Grace, what is wrong with your hair today? You look like you just stepped out of the electric chair.”

“Oh, do you like it, Mémé? It cost a fortune, but, yes, electrocution was just the look I was going for. Thanks!”

“Mother,” Dad said, “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”

Mémé raised a sparse eyebrow. “Oh, you remembered, did you? I thought you forgot. No one has said a word about it.”

“Of course I remembered,” Dad said wearily.

“Has he ever forgotten, Eleanor?” Mom asked sharply in a rare show of solidarity with Dad.

“Oh, he forgot once,” Mémé said sourly.

“When I was six,” Dad sighed.

“When he was six. I thought he’d at least make me a card, but, no. Nothing.”

“Well, I thought we’d take you out to dinner on Friday,” Dad said. “You, Nancy and me, the girls and their boys.

What do you think? Does that sound nice?”

“Where would we go?”

“Somewhere fabulously expensive where you could complain all night long,” Margaret said. “Your idea of heaven, right, Mémé?”

“Actually,” I said on impulse, “I can’t come. Wyatt’s presenting a paper in New York, and I said I’d go down to the city with him. So sorry, Mémé. I hope you have a lovely night.”