Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [110]
“Ouch. That’s really…wow. Sad,” Cal said. I punched him in the shoulder. “No hitting, Grace!” he laughed. “You need to get those violent urges looked at. God. I never got beat up in prison, but I move in next to you, and look at me. Hit by sticks, bitten by your dog, my poor truck dented…”
“Such a baby. I’d think prison would’ve toughened you up a bit. Made you a man and all that.”
“It wasn’t that kind of prison.” He smiled and opened his truck door for me. “We did have tennis lessons. No shivving, though. Sorry to disappoint you, honey.”
Honey. I sort of flowed into the truck. Honey. Callahan O’Shea called me honey.
Ten minutes later, we were on the Interstate, heading west. I took out a paper and started to read.
“Do you like being a teacher?” Callahan asked.
“I do,” I answered immediately. “The kids are fantastic at this age. Of course, I want to kill them half the time, but the other half, I just love them. And they are sort of the point of teaching.”
“Most people don’t love teenagers, do they?” He smiled, then checked the rearview mirror as we merged.
“Well, it’s not the easiest age, no. Little kids, who doesn’t love them, right? But teenagers—they’re just starting to show signs of who they could be. That’s really great to watch. And of course, I love what I teach.”
“The Civil War, right?” Callahan asked.
“I teach all areas of American history, actually, but yes, the Civil War is my specialty.”
“Why do you love it? Kind of a horrible war, wasn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I answered. “But there was never a war where people cared more about their cause. It’s one thing to fight a foreign country, a culture that you don’t know, cities that you’ve never visited, maybe. But the Civil War…imagine what would drive you to raise troops against your own country, the way Lincoln did. The South was fighting for rights as individual states, but the North was fighting for the future of the nation. It was heartbreaking because it was so personal. It was us. I mean, when you compare Lincoln with someone like—”
I heard my voice rising, becoming that of a television preacher on Sunday morning. “Sorry,” I said, blushing.
Callahan reached over and squeezed my hand, grinning. “I like hearing about it,” he said. “And I like you, Grace.”
“So it’s more than the fact that I was the first woman you saw out of prison,” I said.
“Well, we can’t discount that,” he said somberly. “Imprinting, they call it, right, Teacher?”
I swatted his arm. “Very funny. Now leave me alone. I have papers to grade.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
And grade them I did. Cal drove smoothly, not interrupting, commenting only when I read a snippet out loud. He asked me to check his MapQuest directions once or twice, which I did, quite amiably. It was surprisingly comfortable.
About an hour later, Callahan pulled off the highway. A sign announced that we’d arrived in Easting, New York, population 7512. We drove down a street lined with a pizzeria, hair salon, package store and a restaurant called Vito’s. “So, Mr. O’Shea, why have you brought me to Easting, New York?” I asked.
“You’ll see it in about a block if these directions are right,” he said, pulling into a parking space on the street. Then he hopped out and opened my door. I made a mental note to thank Mr. Lawrence the next time I read to him. Callahan O’Shea had beautiful manners. He took my hand and grinned.
“You look very confident,” I said.
“I am,” he answered, kissing my hand. All the qualms I’d felt about his past and my chances at the chairman job vanished, replaced with a tight band of happiness squeezing my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so light. Maybe, in fact, I’d never felt this good.
Then I saw where Cal was taking me, lurched to a halt and burst into tears.
“Surprise,” he said, sliding his arms around me in a hug.
“Oh, Cal,” I snuffled into his shoulder.
A small movie theater stood just down the block, brick entrance, wide windows, the smell of popcorn already seducing