Too Good to Be True(92)

Okay. Let’s move on.”

Margaret, lurking nearby, raised an eyebrow. I yearned for more wine and ignored her and Mémé, who was once again labeling the Irish as beggars and thieves.

Chimera Art Gallery was littered with body parts. Apparently, Mom wasn’t the only one who was doing anatomy these days, and she was quite irritable that another artist was also featured (joints…ball-and-socket, gliding and cartilaginous, not nearly as popular as Mom’s more, ah, intimate items, most of which looked like they belonged in a sex shop). I dragged my eyes off Yearning in Green (use your imagination) and sidled over to Callahan, who was talking to my father.

“So! You’re a carpenter!” Dad boomed in the hearty voice he used on blue-collar workers, a little loud and with an occasional grammatical lapse to show that he, too, was just an average joe.

“Dad, you hired Cal to replace my windows, remember? So you already know he’s a carpenter.”

“Restoration specialist?” Dad suggested hopefully.

“Not really, no,” Callahan answered evenly, resisting Dad’s efforts to glam him up. “I wouldn’t say a specialist in anything, though. Just basic carpentry.”

“He does beautiful work,” I added. Cal gave me a veiled look.

“What I wouldn’t give to trade in my law books for a hammer!” Dad trumpeted. I snorted—in my memory, at least, it had always been Mom who did the needed household repairs; Dad couldn’t even hang a picture. “You always a carpenter?” my father continued, dropping a verb to demonstrate his camaraderie with the working man.

“No, sir. I used to be an accountant.” Cal looked at me again. I gave him a little smile and slipped my hand in his.

My mom, apparently having overheard, pounced on us. “So you had a revelation, Callahan?” she asked, caressing a nearby sculpture in a most  p**n ographic way. “The same happened with me. There I was, a mother, a housewife, but inside, an artist was struggling for recognition. In the end, I just had to embrace my new identity.”

“Dance hall hussy?” I muttered to Margaret. I’d told Margs about our parents’ attempted tryst—why should I suffer alone?—and she snorted. Mom shot me a questioning look but dragged Cal over to Want, describing the wonders of self-expression. Callahan tossed me a wink. Good. He was relaxing.

“Hey, guys! We made it!” My younger sister’s mellifluous voice floated over the hum of the crowd.

Natalie and Andrew were holding hands. “Hi, Grace!” my younger sister said, leaping over to hug me.

“What about me?” Margaret growled.

“I was getting there!” Nat said, grinning. “Hello, Margaret, I love you just as much as I love Grace, okay?”

“As you should,” Margs grumbled. “Hi, Andrew.”

“Hi, ladies. How’s everyone?”

“Everyone’s suffering, Andrew, so join the crowd,” I said with a smile. “Nice of you guys to come.”

“We wanted to meet Callahan officially,” Natalie said. “You and Wyatt were together for what, two months? And I never got to even shake his hand.” Nat looked over at Cal. “God, Grace, he is really gorgeous. Look at those arms. He could pick up a horse.”

“Hello, I’m standing right here,” Andrew said to my sister. I smiled at my wineglass, a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. That’s right, Andrew, I thought. That big, strong, gorgeous man is your replacement. I wondered what Cal would think of my ex. Cal glanced over at me, smiled, and the glow became a lovely ache. I smiled back, and Cal returned his attention to my mom.

“Crikey, look at her,” Nat said to Margaret. “She’s in love.”

I blushed. Andrew caught my eye, a questioning eyebrow raised.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Nat,” Margs replied. “Grace, you’re in deep, poor slob. And hey, speaking of poor slobs, Andrew, make yourself useful and get us more wine.”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew answered obediently.

“By the way,” I said, “Mom wants you to pick out a wedding present. A sculpture.” I lifted an eyebrow.

“Oh, sweetie, let’s pick fast,” Natalie said. “The smallest one, whatever it is. My God, look at that. Portals of Heaven. Wow. That is large.” They meandered off.

Dad approached Margs and me. “Gracie-Pudding,” he said, “can I have a word?”

Margaret heaved a sigh. “Rejected again. People wonder why I’m so mean. Fine. I’ll just go browse the labias.”

Dad flinched at the word and waited till she was out of hearing range.

“Yes, Dad?” I said, picking up a shoulder joint to admire. Oops. It came apart in my hands.

“Well, Pudding, I just have to ask myself if maybe you broke things off prematurely with the doctor,” Dad said, watching me fumble the joint parts. “Sure, he has to work a lot, but think of what he’s working on! Saving children’s lives! Isn’t that the kind of man you want? A carpenter…he…well, not to be snobby or anything, honey…”

“You’re sounding pretty snobby, Dad,” I said, trying to fit the humerus (or was it the ulna? I got a B-in biology) back into the socket. “Of course, you think being a teacher is akin to being a field hand, so…”