Too Good to Be True(77)
“Ouch! My sciatica! Not so fast, Nancy!”
“Just stop talking and do it, handsome.”
Oh, please, God. I’ll become a nun. Really. Don’t you need nuns? Make them stop. At the sound of another groan, I tried to go to my happy place…a meadow full of wildflowers, guns firing, cannons booming, Confederate and Yankee soldiers dropping like flies…but no.
“Oh, baby,” my mother crooned.
I could not stay in here and listen to my parents doing the wild thing, but just as I was about to burst forth and stop them in the name of decency, my mother (or God) intervened.
“Not here, big boy. Let’s get a room.”
Thank you, Lord! Oh, and about that nun thing…how about a nice fat donation to Heifer International instead?
I waited a few more minutes, taking cleansing breaths, then risked another look. They were gone.
The door burst open and I flinched, but it was just Julian.
“Everything okay?” Julian exclaimed. “Did she find you? She didn’t say a word, just scooted out the door.” Julian took a better look at me. “Grace, you’re white as a ghost! What happened?”
I made a strangled noise. “Um…you might want to burn that desk.”
Then, eager to leave this office and never return, I sidled past him, waved to Kiki, who was still dancing with the straight guy, and headed for home. As I drove, shuddering, feeling that Satan had cigarette-burned a hole into my soul, there was part of me that was…shudder…quite happy that my parents…gack…could still get it on. That there was more than irritation and obligation driving their marriage, no matter how yucky it was for their child. I rolled down the window and took a few gulps of the clean spring air. Perhaps a strong dose of hypnotherapy could erase this night from my mind forever.
But yes. It was good to know that my parents still, er, loved each other.
Shudder. I pulled into my driveway.
Callahan’s house was still dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE NEXT DAY, I found myself once again sitting in the bosom of my family—Margs, Natalie and the sexpot formerly known as my mother were dress shopping at Birdie’s Bridal.
Well, Mom and Natalie were dress shopping. Margaret and I were drinking strawberry margaritas from a thermos Margs had thoughtfully brought along as we sat in the dressing room, waiting for Natalie to emerge in another dress. Actually, dressing room was a misnomer. Dressing hall, really, because Birdie’s had couches, an easy chair, coffee table and a huge, curtained area for the bride to try on dresses before coming out to dazzle her entourage.
“You’ve earned this,” Margaret muttered, taking a slug herself straight from the thermos.
“I really have,” I agreed. Mom and Nat were behind the curtain, Mom fussing away. “A little tuck in here, move your arm, honey, there…”
Mom seemed so normal today. I wondered if she was thinking about almost shtupping Dad at Jitterbug’s last night. Blecch. Or perhaps she was remembering the day she and I went wedding dress shopping. Margaret had had a deposition, Nat was still at Stanford, so it was just Mom and me, and we’d had a lovely time. Granted, I bought the first dress I tried on…not really the princess bride–type, to be honest, and one white dress looked about as good as another. (I’d kind of been hoping for a hoop skirt, sort of like the one Ms. Mitchell described Scarlett wearing in Chapter Two of Gone With the Wind, but Mom’s look of incredulity had squashed that one.) I barely remembered what my actual wedding dress really looked like, aside from being white and simple. I’d have to sell it on eBay. Wedding dress: Never been worn.
“Ooh, that one’s pretty, too!” I chirruped as Nat emerged from behind the curtain. She looked like a bride should …flushed, beaming, eyes sparkling, sweetly modest.
“The first one was better,” Margaret said. “I don’t like those froufrou things along the neckline.”
“Froufrou’s out,” I seconded, taking another slug of my drink.
“I don’t know,” Natalie murmured, staring at herself. “I kind of like froufrou.”
“It’s nice froufrou,” I amended hastily.
“You look beautiful,” Mom announced staunchly. “You could wear a garbage bag and you’d look beautiful.”
“Yes, Princess Natalie,” Margaret said, rolling her eyes. “You could wear toad skins and you’d be beautiful.”
“Sack cloth and ashes, I was thinking,” I added, earning a gratifying snort from my older sister.
Nat grinned, but her eyes were distant. “I don’t care what I wear. I just want to be married,” she murmured.
“Blecch,” said Margaret. I grinned.
“Of course you do,” Mom said, patting her shoulder. “I felt the same way. So did Margaret.”
“Did I?” Margaret mused.
Mom, belatedly aware that perhaps there were other feelings to be considered, glanced at me with a nervous smile. I smiled back. Once, yes, I’d felt that way about marriage. Once, being married to Andrew was all that I’d wanted, too. Nights of movies and Scrabble games, weekends spent antiquing or on the battlefield, leisurely sex on a bed strewn with sections of the New York Times. A couple of kids down the road. Long summers spent vacationing on Cape Cod or driving across country. Yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah.