Too Good to Be True (7 page)

“Okay, Grace,” I told myself aloud, “we’re crossing the line. Let’s find you a boyfriend and be done with it, shall we? Angus, move it, sweetie. Mommy has to go up to the attic with this crap, or you’ll chew through it in a heartbeat, won’t you? Because you’re a very naughty boy, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. That’s my toothbrush you have in your mouth. I am not blind, young man.”

I dragged the trash bag full of stuff down the hall to the attic stairs. Drat. The light was out, and I didn’t feel like tromping downstairs to get another. Well, I was only stashing the stuff till I could make a trip to the dump.

Up the narrow flight of stairs I went, the close, sharp smell of cedar tickling my nose. Like many Victorian homes, mine had a full-size attic, ten-foot ceilings and windows all around. Someday, I imagined, I’d put up some insulation and drywall and make this a playroom for my lovely children. I’d have a bookshelf that ran all the way around the room. An art area near the front window where the sun streamed in. A train table over there, a dress-up corner here. But for now, it held just some old pieces of furniture, a couple of boxes of Christmas ornaments and my Civil War uniforms and guns. Oh, and my wedding dress.

What does one do with a never-been-worn, tailored-just-for-you wedding dress? I couldn’t just throw it out, could I? It had cost quite a bit. Granted, if I did find some flesh-and-blood version of Wyatt Dunn, maybe I’d get married, but would I want to use the dress I bought for Andrew? No, of course not. Yet there it still sat in its vacuum-packed bag, out of the sun so it wouldn’t fade. I wondered if it still fit. I’d packed on a few pounds since The Dumping. Hmm. Maybe I should try it on.

Great. I was becoming Miss Havisham. Next I’d be eating rotten food and setting the clocks to twenty till nine.

Something gnawed my ankle bone. Angus. I didn’t hear him come up the stairs. “Hi, little guy,” I said, gathering him up and removing a sesame noodle from his little head. Apparently, he’d gotten into the Chinese food. He whined affectionately and wagged. “What’s that? You love my hair? Oh, thank you, Angus McFangus. Excuse me? It’s Ben & Jerry’s time? Why, you little genius! You’re absolutely right. What do you think? Crème Brûlée or Coffee Heath Bar?” His little tail wagged even as he bit my earlobe and tugged painfully. “Coffee Heath Bar it is, boy. Of course you can share.”

I disentangled him, then turned to go, but something outside caught my eye.

A man.

Two stories below me, my grumpy, bruised neighbor was lying on his roof, in the back where it was nearly flat. He’d put on more clothes (alas), and his white T-shirt practically glowed in the dark. Jeans. Bare feet. I could see that he was just…just lying there, hands behind his head, one knee bent, looking up at the sky.

Something contracted down low in my stomach, my skin tightened with heat. Suddenly, I could feel the blood pulsing in parts too long neglected.

Slowly, so as not to attract attention, I eased the window up a crack. The sound of springtime frogs rushed in, the smell of the river and distant rain. The damp breeze cooled my hot cheeks.

The moon was rising in the west, and my neighbor, too irritable to tell me his name, was simply lying on the roof, staring at the deep, deep blue of the night sky.

What kind of man did that?

Angus sneezed in disgust, and I jumped back from the window lest Surly Neighbor Man hear.

Suddenly, everything shifted into focus. I wanted a man. There, right next door, was a man. A
manly
man. My girl parts gave a warm squeeze.

Granted, I didn’t want a fling. I wanted a husband, and not just any husband. A smart, funny, kind and moral husband. He’d love kids and animals, especially dogs. He’d work hard at some honorable, intellectual job. He’d like to cook. He’d be unceasingly cheerful. He’d adore me.

I didn’t know a thing about that guy down there. Not even his name. All I knew was that I felt something—lust, let’s be honest—for him. But that was a start. I hadn’t felt anything for any man in a long, long time.

Tomorrow, I told myself as I closed the window, I was going to find out my neighbor’s name. And I’d invite him to dinner, too.

CHAPTER SIX

“S
O ALTHOUGH
S
EWELL
P
OINT
wasn’t a major battle, it had the potential to greatly affect the outcome of the war. Obviously, Chesapeake Bay was a critical area for both sides. So. Ten pages on the blockade and its effects, due on Monday.”

My class groaned. “Ms. Em!” Hunter Graystone protested. “That’s, like, ten times what any other teacher gives.”

“Oh, you poor little kittens! Want me to prop you up while you type?” I winked. “Ten pages. Twelve if you fight me.”

Kerry Blake giggled. She was texting someone. “Hand it over, Kerry,” I said, reaching out for her phone. It was a new model, encrusted with bling.

Kerry raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow at me. “Ms. Emerson, do you, like,
know
how much that
cost?
Like, if my father knew you
took
it, he’d be, like…totally unhappy.”

“You can’t use your phone in class, honey,” I said for what had to be the hundredth time this month. “You’ll get it back at the end of the day.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. Then, catching Hunter’s eye, she flipped her hair back and stretched. Hunter grinned appreciatively. Tommy Michener, painfully and inexplicably in love with Kerry, froze at the display, which caused Emma Kirk to droop. Ah, young love.

Across the hall, I heard a burst of sultry laughter from Ava Machiatelli’s Classical History class. Most Manning students
loved
Ms. Machiatelli. Easy grades, false sympathy for their busy schedules resulting in very little homework, and the most shallow delving into history since…well, since Brad Pitt starred in
Troy.
But like Brad Pitt, Ava Machiatelli was beautiful and charming. Add to this her low-cut sweaters and tight skirts, and you had Marilyn Monroe teaching history. The boys lusted after her, the girls took fashion notes from her, the parents loved her since their kids all got A’s. Me…not such a fan.

The chimes sounded, marking the end of the period. Manning Academy didn’t have bells—too harsh for the young ears of America’s wealthiest. The gentle Zen chimes had the same effect as electric shock therapy, though—my seniors lunged out of their seats toward the door. On Mondays, Civil War was the last class before lunch.

“Hang on, kids,” I called. They stopped, sheeplike. They may have been, for the most part, overindulged and too sophisticated for their tender ages, but they were obedient, I had to give them that. “This weekend, Brother Against Brother is reenacting the Battle of Bull Run, also known as First Manassas, which I’m sure you know all about, since it was in your reading homework from Tuesday. Extra credit to anyone who comes, okay? E-mail me if you’re interested, and I’d be happy to pick you up here.”

“As if,” Kerry said. “I don’t need extra credit that bad.”

“Thanks, Ms. Em,” Hunter called. “Sounds fun.”

Hunter wouldn’t come, though he was one of my more polite students. His weekends were spent doing things like having dinner with Derek Jeter before a Yankees game or flying to one of his many family homes. Tommy Michener might, since he seemed to like history—his papers were always sharp and insightful—but more than likely, peer pressure would keep him home, miserably lusting after Kerry, Emma Kirk’s wholesome appeal lost on him.

“Hey, Tommy?” I called.

He turned back to me. “Yeah, Ms. Em?”

I waited a beat till everyone else was gone. “Everything okay with you these days?”

He smiled a bit sadly. “Oh, yeah. Just the usual crap.”

“You can do better than Kerry,” I said gently.

He snorted. “That’s what my dad says.”

“See? Two of your favorite grown-ups agree.”

“Yeah. Well, you can’t pick who you fall for, can you, Ms. Em?”

I paused. “Nope. You sure can’t.”

Tommy left, and I gathered up my papers. History was a tough subject to teach. After all, most teenagers barely remembered what had happened last month, let alone a century and a half ago, but still. Just once, I wanted them to
feel
how history had impacted the world we lived in. Especially the Civil War, my favorite part of American history. I wanted them to understand what had been risked, to imagine the burden, the pain, the uncertainty President Lincoln must have experienced, the loss and betrayal felt by the Southerners who had seceded—

“Hello, there, Grace.” Ava stood in my doorway, doing her trademark sleepy smile, followed by three slow, seductive blinks. There was one…and the second…and there was three.

“Ava! How are you?” I said, forcing a smile.

“I’m quite well, thank you.” She tipped her head so that her silky hair fell to one side. “Have you heard the news?”

I hesitated. Ava, unlike myself, had her ear to the ground when it came to Manning’s politics. I was one of those teachers who dreaded schmoozing with the trustees and wealthy alumni, preferring to spend my time planning classes and tutoring the kids who needed extra help. Ava, on the other hand, worked the system. Add that to the fact that I didn’t live on campus (Ava had a small house at the edge of campus, and speculation was that she’d slept with the Dean of Housing to get it), and she definitely heard things.

“No, Ava. What news is that?” I asked, trying to keep my tone pleasant. Her blouse was so low-cut that I could see a Chinese symbol tattooed on her right boob. Which meant that every child who came through her classroom could see it, too.

“Dr. Eckhart’s stepping down as chairman of the history department.” She smiled, catlike. “I heard it from Theo. We’ve been seeing a lot of each other.” Super. Theo Eisenbraun was the chairman of the Manning Academy board of trustees.

“Well. That’s interesting,” I said.

“He’ll announce it later this week. Theo’s already asked me to apply.” Smile. Blink. Blink. And…wait for it…blink again.

“Great. Well, I have to run home for lunch. See you later.”

“Too bad you don’t live on campus, Grace. You’d seem so much more committed to Manning if you did.”

“Thanks for caring,” I said, shoving my papers into my battered leather bag. Ava’s news had hit a nerve. Yes, Dr. Eckhart was old, but he’d been old for a long time. He was the one who’d hired me six years ago, the one who stood by me when a parent pressured me to raise little Peyton or Katharine’s grade, the one who heartily approved of my efforts to engage my kids. I’d think he’d have told me if he was leaving. Then again, it was hard to say. Private schools were odd places, and Ava’s information was usually on the money, I had to give her that.

Kiki met me outside Lehring Hall. “Hey, Grace, want to grab some lunch?”

“I can’t,” I said. “I have to run home before Colonial History.”

“It’s that dog of yours, isn’t it?” she said suspiciously. Kiki was the proud owner of the mysteriously named Mr. Lucky, a diabetic Siamese cat who was blind in one eye, missing several teeth and prone to hairballs and irritable bowel syndrome.

“Well, yes, Angus was a little bound up, if you must know, and I don’t want to come home tonight and find that his colon just couldn’t hold on anymore.”

“Dogs are so gross.”

“I won’t dignify that with an answer, except to say that there are double coupons for Fresh Step at Stop & Shop.”

“Oh, thanks!” Kiki said. “I’m actually running low. Hey, Grace, did I tell you I met someone?”

As we walked to our cars, Kiki extolled the virtues of some guy named Bruce, who was kind, generous, soulful, funny, sexy, intelligent, hardworking and completely honest.

“And when did you meet this guy?” I asked, shifting my papers to open my car door.

“We had coffee on Saturday. Oh, Grace, I think this guy is it. I mean, I know I’ve said that before, but he’s perfect.”

I bit my tongue. “Good luck,” I said, making a mental note to pencil in some conciliatory time for Kiki about ten days from now, when Bruce would more than likely have changed his phone number and my friend would be crying on my couch. “Hey, Kiki, have you heard anything about Dr. Eckhart?”

She shook her head. “Why? Did he die?”

“No,” I answered. “Ava told me he’s retiring.”

“And Ava knows this because she slept with him?” Kiki, like Ava, lived on campus, and they hung out together sometimes.

“Now, now.”

“Well, if he is, that’s great for you, Grace! Only Paul has more seniority, right? You’d apply for the job, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s a little early to be talking about that,” I said, sidestepping the question. “I just wondered if you’d heard. See you later.”

I pulled carefully out of the parking lot—Manning students tended to drive cars worth more than my annual salary, and nicking one would not be advisable—and headed through Farmington back to the twisted streets of Peterston, thinking about Dr. Eckhart. If it was true, then yes, I’d apply to be the new chairman of our department. To be honest, I thought Manning’s history curriculum was too stodgy. Kids needed to feel the importance of the past, and, yes, sometimes they needed it jammed down their throats. Gently and lovingly, of course.

I pulled into my driveway and saw the true reason for my trip home, Angus’s bowels not withstanding. My neighbor stood in his front yard by a power saw or some such tool. Shirtless. Shoulder muscles rippling under his skin, biceps thick and bulging…hard…golden…
Okay, Grace! That’s enough!

“Howdy, neighbor,” I said, wincing as the words left my mouth.

He turned off his saw and took off the safety glasses. I winced. His eye was a mess. It was open a centimeter or two—progress from being swollen completely shut yesterday—and from what I could see, the white of his eye was quite bloodshot. A purple-and-blue bruise covered him from brow to cheekbone.
Hello, bad boy!
Yes, granted, I’d given him the bruise—actually, make that plural, because I saw a faint stripe of purplish-red along his jaw, right where I’d hit him with the rake—but still. He had all the rough and sultry appeal of Marlon Brando in
On the Waterfront.
Clive Owen in
Sin City.
Russell Crowe in everything he did.

“Hi,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. The motion made his arms curve most beautifully.

“How’s your eye?” I asked, trying not to stare at his broad, muscular chest.

“How does it look?” he grumbled.

Okay, so he wasn’t over that. “So, listen, we got off to a bad start,” I said with what I hoped was a rueful smile. From inside my house, Angus heard my voice and began barking with joy.
Yarp! Yarp! Yarp! Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarp!
“Can we start over? I’m Grace Emerson. I live next door.” I swallowed and stuck out my hand.

My neighbor looked at me for a moment, then came toward me and took my hand. Oh, God. Electricity shot up my arm like I’d grabbed a downed wire. His hand was most definitely a working-man’s hand. Callused, hard, warm…

“Callahan O’ Shea,” he said.

Ohh. Oh, wow. What a
name.
Regions of my anatomy, long neglected, made themselves known to me with a warm, rolling squeeze.

Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarp!
I realized I was staring at Callahan O’ Shea (sigh!) and still holding on to his hand. And he was smiling, just a little bit, softening the bad-boy look quite nicely.

“So,” I said, my voice weak, letting go of his hand reluctantly. “Where’d you move from?”

“Virginia.” He was staring at me. It was hard to think.

“Virginia. Huh. Where in Virginia?” I said.
Yarpyarpyarp yarpyarp!
Angus was nearly hysterical now.
Quiet, baby,
I thought.
Mommy’s lusting.

“Petersburg,” he said. Not the most vociferous guy, but that was okay. Muscles like that…those eyes…well, the unbruised, unbloodshot eye…if the other one was like that, I was in for a treat.

“Petersburg,” I repeated faintly, still staring. “I’ve been there. Quite a few Civil War battles down there. Assault on Petersburg, Old Men and Young Boys. Yup.”

He didn’t respond.
Yarp! Yarp! Yarp!
“So what were you doing in Petersburg?” I asked.

He folded his arms. “Three to five.”

Yarpyarpyarpyarp!
“Excuse me?” I asked.

“I was serving a three-to five-year sentence at Petersburg Federal Prison,” he said.

It took a few beats of my heart for that to register.
Ka-bump…ka-bump…ka…
God’s nightgown!

“Prison?” I squeaked. “And um…wow! Prison! Imagine that!”

He said nothing.

“So…when…when did you get out?”

“Friday.”

Friday.
Friday.
He just got out of the clink! He was a criminal! And just what crime did he commit, huh? Maybe I hadn’t been so far off with the pit-digging after all! And I had clubbed him! Holy Mother of God! I clubbed an ex-con and sent him to jail! Sent him to…oh, God…sent him to jail the night after he got out. Surely this would not endear me to Callahan O’ Shea, Ex-Con. What if he wanted revenge?

My breath was coming in shallow gasps. Yes, I was definitely hyperventilating a bit.
Yarpyarpyarpyarpyarpyarp!
Finally, the
flight
part of the
fight or flight
instinct kicked in.

“Wow! Listen to my dog! I better go. Bye! Have a good day! I have to…I should call my boyfriend. He’s waiting for me to call. We always call at noon to check in. I should go. Bye.”

I managed not to run into my house. I did, however, lock the door behind me. And dead bolt it. And check the back door. And lock that. As well as the windows. Angus raced around the house in his traditional victory laps, but I was too stunned to pay him the attention he was accustomed to.

Three to five years! In prison! I was living next to an ex-con! I almost invited him over for dinner!

I grabbed the phone and stabbed in Margaret’s cell phone number. She was a lawyer. She’d tell me what to do.

“Margs, I’m living next to an ex-con! What should I do?”

“I’m on my way into court, Grace. An ex-con? What was he in for?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I need you.”