Too Good to Be True

The final message was from Officer Butch Martinelli of the Peterston Police Department asking me to return his call. Oh, crap. I’d almost forgotten about that. The clubbing. Beads of sweat jumped out on my forehead. I dialed the number immediately and asked for the good sergeant.

“Yes, Ms. Emerson. I have some information on the man you assaulted last night.”

Assaulted. I assaulted someone. The guy was a burglar last night; now he was the vic. “Right,” I said, my voice squeaking. “I didn’t exactly assault him—more of a… misplaced act of self-defense.” Because he said hi, and we can’t have that, can we?

“He’s legit,” the officer continued, ignoring me. “Apparently, he just bought the house, long-distance, and the key was supposed to be left for him, but it wasn’t. He was looking for it—that’s why he was wandering around.” The officer paused. “We kept him overnight, because we couldn’t verify the story until this morning. We just released him about an hour ago.”

I closed my eyes. “Um… is he okay?”

“Well, nothing’s broken, though he does have quite a shiner.”

“Oh, good God!” What a way to make friends! Another thought occurred to me. “Um, Officer Butch?”

“Yes?”

“If he was legit, why did you arrest him? And keep him overnight? That’s kind of above and beyond the call, isn’t it?”

Officer Butch didn’t answer.

“Well, I guess you can do a whole bunch of things without just cause now, right?” I babbled. “Patriot Act, the death of civil liberties. Well, I mean…”

“We take 911 calls very seriously, ma’am. It appeared that you were engaged in a physical dispute with the man. We felt it was worth checking out.” Disapproval dripped from his tone. “Ma’am.”

“Right. Of course, Officer. Sorry. Thanks for calling.”

I peered out my dining-room window toward the house next door. No signs of life. That was good, because though I clearly needed to apologize, the idea of seeing my new neighbor made me nervous. I hit him. He spent the night in jail because of me. Not exactly my best foot forward.

So, okay, I’d have to apologize. I’d make the poor man some brownies. Not just any brownies, but my Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies, a sure way to soothe any wounded soul.

I opted against calling any of my family members back. They could think that I was with Wyatt, as I’d been with Julian. Except instead of parting ways, Wyatt and I had gone to the movies. Yes. We’d seen a flick, come home and were now, in fact, shagging. Then perhaps we were planning to go out for an early dinner. Which would be, I admitted, a very nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

“Come on, Angus, me boy-o,” I said. He followed me into the kitchen and flopped on the floor, rolling on his back to watch me upside down as I got to work on those brownies. Ghirardelli’s chocolate, nothing but the best for the man I sent to jail, a pound of butter, six eggs. I melted, stirred, blended, then set the timer. Spent thirty minutes checking my e-mail and responding to three parents who were protesting their kids’ grades and wanting to know what their little prodigy would have to do to get an A in my class. “Work harder?” I suggested to the computer. “Think more?” I typed in a more politically correct response and hit Send.

When the brownies were done, I took them out of the oven. Looking over at the house next door, I decided that, yes, I could wait a little longer. I had papers to correct, after all. The bathroom could use a scrubbing. The brownies needed to cool, anyway. No need to race over and face the music.

Somewhere around 8:00 p.m., I woke up from where I’d dozed off over Suresh Onabi’s paper on the Declaration of Independence, Angus asleep on my chest, half of a page damp and chewed in his mouth. “Down we go, boy,” I said, setting him to the floor and retrieving what he’d eaten. Drat. My policy was that if my dog ate the homework, I’d have to assume the kid did perfectly.

Standing up, I peered out the dining-room window. There were no lights on next door. My heart seemed to be beating rather fast, my palms a little sweaty. I reminded myself that last night was simply an unfortunate misunderstanding. Surely we could all just get along. I arranged the brownies on a nice plate and took a bottle of wine from the kitchen rack, stashed Angus in the cellar so he wouldn’t get out and bite the guy and headed over with my peace offerings. Brownies and wine. Breakfast of champions. What man could resist?

Walking up to 36 Maple Street was quite intimidating, really… the crumbling walkway, the broken-down house, the long grass which, who knew, could be full of snakes or something, the utter silence that hovered over the house like a malevolent, hungry animal. Relax, Grace. Nothing to fear. Just being a good neighbor and apologizing for the head-whacking.

The front porch of the house sagged wearily, the steps soft and rotting. Still, they supported my weight as I carefully and quietly negotiated them. I gave the front door a little knock with my elbow, as my hands were full, and waited. My heart clattered in my chest. I remembered that little… tug… I felt when I took a look at the not-burglar as he sat handcuffed on my porch… his boyish cowlick, the broad shoulders. And in that second before I hit him… he had a nice face. Hi, he’d said. Hi.

There was no answer to my feeble knock. I imagined what I most wanted to happen. That he’d open the door, and some soft music—let’s make it South American guitar, shall we?—would drift out. My neighbor’s face, which will sport only the slightest bruise under one eye, barely noticeable, will light in recognition. “Oh, hey, my neighbor!” he’ll exclaim with a grin. I’ll apologize, he’ll laugh it off. The scent of roasting chicken and garlic will waft out. “Would you like to come in?” I’ll agree, apologizing once more for my unfortunate mistake, which he’ll simply wave off. “It could happen to anyone,” he’ll say. We’ll chat, immediately comfortable with each other. He’ll mention that he loves dogs, even hyperactive terriers with behavior issues. A glass of wine will be poured for the lovely girl next door.

See? In my mind, this guy and I were well on the way to becoming great friends, quite possibly more. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be home right now, so he remained unaware of this pleasant fact.

I knocked again, albeit quietly, because I actually felt a little relieved that I didn’t have to see him, pleasant fantasies aside. Setting my offerings in front of the door, I eased back down the rotting steps.

Now that I knew he wasn’t home, I took a better look around. The streetlight gave an eerie, peachy glow to the yard. I’d never been over here before, but obviously, I’d wondered about the house. It had been neglected for a while… roof tiles were missing, and plastic covered an upstairs window. The latticework under the porch gapped like a mouthful of missing teeth.

It was a beautiful, soft night. The damp smell of distant rain filled the air, mixing with the coppery smell of the river, and far away, the song of springtime peepers graced the night. This house could be really charming, I thought, if someone restored it. Maybe my neighbor was here to do that very thing. Maybe it would become a gem.

The crumbling cement path that led from the street continued around the side of the house. No sign of the guy. However, a rake lay right across the walkway. Someone could trip over that, I thought. Trip, fall, hit head on the concrete birdbath just a few feet away, lie bleeding in the grass… Hadn’t he suffered enough?

I went over and picked it up. See? Already being a great neighbor.

“Are these from you?”

The voice so startled me that I whirled around. Unfortunately, I was still holding the rake in my hand. Even more unfortunately, the wooden handle caught him right along the side of his face. He staggered back, stunned, the bottle of wine I’d just left at his door slipping from his grasp and shattering on the path with a crash. The scent of merlot drifted up around us, canceling out the smells of spring.

“Oops,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Jesus Christ, lady,” my new neighbor cursed, rubbing his cheek. “What is your problem?”

I winced as I looked him in the face. His eye was still swollen, and even in the dim light, I could see the bruise. Pretty damn impressive.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he bit out.

“Uh, well… Welcome to the neighborhood,” I squeaked. “Um… Are you… are you okay?”

“No, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you need some ice?” I asked, taking a step toward him.

“No.” He took a defensive step back.

“Look,” I said, “I’m so, so sorry. I just came over to… well, to say I’m sorry.” The irony of further wounding him while on a mission of mercy hit me, and I gave a nervous laugh, sounding remarkably like Angus when he vomited up grass.

The man said nothing, merely glared, and I found myself thinking that the beat-up look was kind of… hot. He was wearing jeans and a light-colored T-shirt, and, yes, he had very nice arms. Big, powerful, thick muscles, not the overly defined, ripped kind that smacked of too many hours at a heavily mirrored gym. No. These were blue-collar arms. Iron-worker arms. Man-who-can-fix-car arms. An image of Russell Crowe in L.A. Confidential flashed to mind. Remember when he’s sitting in the backseat at the very end of the movie, and his jaw is wired shut and he can’t talk? I found that very horny.

I swallowed again. “Hi. I’m Grace,” I said, trying to start over. “I wanted to apologize about… last night. I’m so sorry. And of course, I’m sorry again, for all this. Very sorry.” I glanced down at his feet, which were bare. “I think you’re bleeding. You might’ve stepped in glass.”

He looked down, then turned an impassive gaze to me. Call me paranoid, but he looked quite disgusted.

That was all it took. Bruised, bleeding, smelling like a wino, and the pièce de résistance, disgust. I was undeniably attracted to this guy. Heat rose to my cheeks, making me glad for the dim light.

“Well,” I said slowly. “Listen. I’m really sorry. It looked like you were breaking in… that’s all.”

“Maybe you should be sober the next time you call the police,” he returned.

My mouth fell open. “I was! I was sober.” I paused. “Mostly.”

“Your hair was all wild, you smelled like gin, and you hit me in the face with a walking stick. Does that sound mostly sober to you?”

Sweat broke out on my back. “It was a field hockey stick, actually, and my hair is always like that. As you can see.”

He rolled his eyes. Well, the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Apparently that movement hurt, because he winced.

“It’s just…you looked suspicious, that’s all. I wasn’t drunk. Buzzed, maybe, okay. A tiny bit, yes.” I swallowed. “But it was past midnight, and you definitely didn’t have a key, did you? So… you know. It looked suspicious. That’s all. I’m sorry you spent the night in jail. Very, very sorry.”

“Fine,” he grunted.

Okay, well, that wasn’t exactly as nice as my wine-drinking, South American guitar fantasy, but it was something. “So,” I said, determined that we would part on good terms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he said, crossing his arms and staring.

Sweet. “Okay. Nice meeting you, whatever your name is. Have a good night.” He still said nothing. Very carefully, I put the rake down, forced a smile, walked past the shards of broken glass, past him, painfully aware of my every move. The walk home, though it was only a matter of yards, felt very long. I should’ve cut through the yard, but there was the question of the long, snake-concealing grass.

He didn’t say another word, and from the corner of my eye, I could see that he hadn’t moved, either. Fine. He wasn’t friendly. I wouldn’t invite him to the neighborhood picnic in June. So there.

For a second, I imagined telling Andrew about this. Andrew, whose sharp sense of humor had always made me laugh, would’ve howled over this apology gone wrong. But no. Andrew didn’t get to hear my stories anymore. To quash the Andrew image, I instead summoned to mind Wyatt Dunn. Gentle, dark-haired Wyatt, who’d have to possess a lovely sense of humor and kind, kind heart, being a children’s doctor and all.

Just as had been true in the old days of my painful adolescence, the imaginary boyfriend took away some of the sting imparted by the surly neighbor whose head I’d just bruised for the second time.

And while I knew all too well that Wyatt Dunn was a fake, I also knew that someday I was going to find someone wonderful. Hopefully. Probably. Someone better than Andrew, possibly better looking than my grouchy neighbor, and just as great as Wyatt, and just thinking about this made me feel a little more chipper.

CHAPTER FOUR

ANDREW AND I HAD MET at Gettysburg—well, the reenactment of the battle here in fair Connecticut. He was assigned to be a nameless Confederate soldier, instructed to shout, “May God condemn this War of Northern Aggression!” then fall dead in the first cannon barrage. I was Colonel Buford, quiet hero of Gettysburg’s first day, and my dad was General Meade. It was the biggest reenactment in three states, and there were hundreds of us (don’t be so surprised, these things are very popular). That year, I was the secretary of Brother Against Brother, and before the battle, I’d been running around with a clipboard, making sure everyone was ready. Apparently, I was adorable… at least, that’s what I was told later by one Andrew Chase Carson.

Eight hours after we started and when a sufficient number of bodies littered the field, Dad allowed the dead to rise, and a Confederate soldier approached me. When I pointed out that most Civil War soldiers didn’t wear Nikes, the man laughed, introduced himself and asked me out for coffee. Two weeks later, I was in love.

In every way, it was the relationship I had always imagined. Andrew was wry and quiet, appealing rather than good-looking, with an infectious laugh and cheerful outlook. He was on the scrawny side, had a sweetly vulnerable neck, and I loved hugging him, the feel of his ribs creating in me the overwhelming urge to feed and protect him. Like me, he was a history buff—he was an estate attorney at a big firm in New Haven, but he’d majored in history at NYU. We liked the same food, the same movies, read the same books.

How was the sex, you ask? It was fine. Regular, hearty enough, quite enjoyable. Andrew and I found each other attractive, had mutual interests and excellent conversations. We laughed. We listened to the other’s tales about work and family. We were really, really happy. I thought so, anyway.

If there was a hesitation on Andrew’s part, I only noticed it in hindsight. If certain things were said with the smallest edge of uncertainty, I didn’t see it. Not until later.

Natalie was at Stanford during the time of Andrew, having finished up at Georgetown the year before. Since her near-death experience, she’d become only more precious to me, and my little sister continued to delight our family with her academic achievements. My own intellect was on the vague side, not counting American history… I was good at Trivial Pursuit and able to hold my own at cocktail parties, that sort of thing. Margaret, on the other hand, was razor sharp, scary intelligent. She’d graduated second from Harvard Law and headed up the criminal defense department at the firm where my dad was a partner, making him prouder than he could say.

Nat was a blend. Softly brilliant, quietly gifted, she chose architecture, a perfect mix of art, beauty and science. I talked to her at least a couple of times a week, e-mailed her daily and visited her when she opted to stay in California for the summer. How she loved hearing about Andrew! How delighted she was that her big sister had met The One!

“What does it feel like?” she asked one night during one of our phone calls.

“How does what feel?” I said.

“Being with the love of your life, silly.” I could hear the smile in her voice and grinned back.

“Oh, it’s great. It’s so… perfect. And easy, too, you know? We never fight, not like Mom and Dad.” Being different from my parents was a clear sign that Andrew and I were on the right track.

Nat laughed. “Easy, huh? But passionate, too, right? Does your heart beat faster when he comes into the room? Do you blush when you hear his voice on the phone? Does your skin tingle when he touches you?”

I paused. “Sure.” Did I feel those things? Sure, I did. Of course I did. Or I had, those dizzying new feelings having matured to something more… well, comfortable.

Seven months into the relationship, I moved into Andrew’s apartment in West Hartford. Three weeks later, we were watching Oz on HBO—okay, not the most romantic show, but still, we were cuddled together on the couch, and that was nice. Andrew turned to me and said, “I think we should probably get married, don’t you?”

He bought me a lovely ring. We told our families and chose Valentine’s Day, six months away, as our wedding day. My parents were pleased—Andrew seemed so solid and reliable, so trustworthy. He was a corporate lawyer, very steady work, very well paid, which put to ease my father’s worries that my teacher’s salary would render me eventually homeless. Andrew, an only child, was doted on by his parents, and while they weren’t quite as ecstatic as my parents, they were friendly enough. Margaret and he talked law, Stuart seemed to enjoy his company. Even Mémé liked him as much as she liked any human.

Only Natalie hadn’t met him, stranded out there at Stanford as she was. She spoke to Andrew on the phone when I called to tell her we were engaged, but that was it.

Finally, she came home. It was Thanksgiving, and when Andrew and I arrived at the family domicile, Mom greeted us at the door in her usual flurry of complaints about how early she’d had to get up to put the “damn bird” in the oven, how she’d dry-heaved stuffing it, how useless my father was. Dad was watching a football game and ignoring Mom, Stuart was playing the piano in the living room while Margaret read.

And then Natalie came flying down the stairs, arms outstretched, and grabbed me in a huge hug. “Gissy!” she cried.

“Hey, Nattie Bumppo!” I exclaimed, squeezing her hard.

“Don’t kiss me, I have a cold,” she said, pulling back. Her nose was red, her skin a little dry, she was clad in sweatpants and an old cardigan belonging to our father, and yet she still managed to look more beautiful than Cinderella at the ball, her silken blond hair tied up in a high ponytail, her clear blue eyes unaccented by makeup.

Andrew took one look at her and literally dropped the pie he was holding.

Of course, the pie plate was slippery. Pyrex, you know? And Nat’s face flushed that way because…well, because she had a cold, and isn’t flushing and blushing part of a cold? Of course it was. Later, of course, I admitted it wasn’t any slippery Pyrex. I knew the kablammy when I saw it.

Natalie and Andrew sat at opposite ends of the Thanksgiving table. When Stuart broke out the Scrabble board and asked them if they wanted to play after dinner, Andrew accepted and Natalie instantly declined. The next day, we all went bowling, and they didn’t speak. Later, we went to the movies, and they sat as far away from each other as possible. They avoided going into a room if the other was there.

“So what do you think?” I asked Natalie, pretending that all was normal.

“He’s great,” she said, her face going nuclear once more. “Very nice.”

That was good enough for me. I didn’t need to hear more. Why talk about Andrew, after all? I asked her about school, congratulated her on winning an internship with Cesar Pelli and once again marveled at her perfection, her brains, her kind heart. After all, I’d always been my sister’s biggest fan.

Andrew and Natalie saw each other again at Christmas, where they leaped away from the mistletoe like it was a glowing rod of uranium, and I pretended not to be disturbed. There couldn’t be anything between them, because he was my fiancé and she was my baby sister. When Dad told Nat to take Andrew down the back hill on our old toboggan and neither of them could find a way to get out of it, I laughed when they crashed and rolled, becoming entangled in each other. No, no, nothing there.

Nothing, my ass.

I wasn’t about to say anything. Each time the irritating little voice in my soul brought it up, usually at 3:00 a.m., I told her she was wrong. Andrew was right here with me. He loved me. I’d reach out and touch his knobby elbow, that sweet neck of his. We had something real. If Nat had a crush on him… well. Who could blame her?

My wedding was in ten weeks, then eight, then five. Invitations went out. Menu finalized. Dress altered.

And then, twenty days before our wedding, Andrew came home from work. I had a pile of tests beside me on the kitchen table, and he’d very thoughtfully brought home some Indian food. He even dished it out, spooning the fragrant sauce over the rice, just as I liked it. And then came the awful words.

“Grace…there’s something we need to talk about,” he said, staring at the onion kulcha. His voice was shaking. “You know I care about you very much.”

I froze, not looking up from the exams, the words as ominous as Sherman’s in Georgia. The moment I’d successfully avoided thinking about was upon me. Knowing I would never look at Andrew the same way, I couldn’t take a normal breath. My heart thundered sickly.

He cared about me. I don’t know about you, girls, but when a guy says I care about you very much, it seems to me that the shit is about to rain down. “Grace,” he whispered, and I managed to look at him. As our untouched garlic naan cooled, he told me that he didn’t quite know how to say this, but he couldn’t marry me.

“I see,” I said distantly. “I see.”

“I’m so sorry, Grace,” he whispered, and to his credit, his eyes filled with tears.

“Is it Natalie?” I asked, my voice quiet and unrecognizable.

His gaze dropped to the floor, his face burned red, and his hand shook as he ran it through his soft hair. “Of course not,” he lied.

And that was that.

We’d just bought the house on Maple Street, though we weren’t living there yet. As part of our divorce settlement or whatever you want to call it—blood money, guilt, emotional damages—he let me keep his portion of the down payment. Dad reworked my finances to tap into a few mutual funds that my grandfather had left me, reduced the size of my mortgage so I could swing it alone, and I moved in. Alone.

Natalie was wrecked when she found out. Obviously, I didn’t tell her the reason for our breakup. She listened to me lie as I detailed the reasons for our breakup… just wasn’t right…not really ready…figured we should be sure.

She asked only one quiet little question when I was done. “Did he say anything else?”

Because she must have known it wasn’t me doing the breaking up. She knew me better than anyone. “No,” I answered briskly. “It just… wasn’t meant to be. Whatever.”

Natalie had no part of this, I assured myself. It was just that I hadn’t really found The One, no matter how deceptively perfect Andrew had looked, felt, seemed. Nope, I thought as I sat in my newly painted living room in my newly purchased house, power-eating brownies and watching Ken Burns’s documentary on the Civil War till I just about had it memorized. Andrew just wasn’t The One. Fine. I’d find The One, wherever he was, and, hey. Then the world would know what love was, goddamn it.

Natalie finished her degree and moved back East. She got a nice little apartment in New Haven and started work. We saw each other often, and I was glad. It wasn’t like she was the other woman… she was my sister. The person I loved best in the world. My birthday present.

CHAPTER FIVE

On Sunday, I had the misfortune of attending my mother’s opening at Chimera’s, a painfully progressive art gallery in West Hartford.