Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [37]
I spent Fourth of July weekend at Gettysburg—the real Gettysburg, in Pennsylvania—with several thousand other reenactors, forgetting the ache in my chest for a few days in the thrill of battle. When I got back, Julian put me to work at Jitterbug’s, teaching basic ballroom. Mom and Dad invited me over often, but, fearful of upsetting me, they were painfully polite to each other, and it was so tense and freakish that I found myself wishing they’d just be normal and fight. Margaret and I drove up the coast of Maine so far north that the sun didn’t set till almost 10:00 p.m. We spent a few quiet days walking the shore, watching the lobster boats bob on their moorings and not talking about Andrew.
Thank God I had the house. Floors to sand, trim to paint, tag sales to attend so I could fill my little wedding cake of a home with sweet, thoughtful things that weren’t associated with Andrew. A collection of St. Nicholas statues that I’d line up on the fireplace mantel come Christmas. Two brass doorknobs carved with Public School, City of New York. I made curtains. I painted walls. I installed light fixtures. I even went on a date or two. Well, I went on one date. That was enough to show me that I didn’t want to get involved with anyone just yet.
School started, and I’d never loved my kids more. They may have had their little foibles, the overindulgences and the horrible speech patterns laden with like and totally and whatever, but they were so fascinating, so full of potential and the future. I lost myself in school, as I always did, watching among the resigned for the spark in one or two, the glow that told me someone connected with the past the way I had when I was a kid, that someone could feel how much history mattered to the present.
Christmas came and went, New Year’s, too. On Valentine’s Day, Julian came over armed with violent movies, Thai food and ice cream, and we laughed till our stomachs ached, both of us pretending to ignore the fact that this should’ve been my first anniversary and that Julian hadn’t been on a date in eight years.
And my heart mended. It did. Time did its work, and Andrew faded to a dull ache that I mostly only thought about when I was lying alone in bed. Was I over him? I told myself I was.
Then, a few weeks before Kitty the Hair Cutting Cousin’s wedding, Natalie and I went out for dinner. I had never told her the real reason Andrew and I had broken up. In fact, Andrew had never even said those words aloud. He didn’t have to.
Natalie picked the place. She was working at Pelli Clarke Pelli in New Haven, one of the top architectural firms in the country. She’d had to work late and suggested the Omni Hotel, which boasted a restaurant with a nice view and good drinks.
When I met her there, I was a little shocked at her transformation. Somewhere along the line, my little sister had gone from beautiful to stunning. Each time I’d seen her in grad school or at home, she’d been dressed in jeans or sweats, typical student clothing, and her long, straight, blond hair was all one length. Then, she looked like a classic American girl next door, wholesome and lovely. But when she started working for real, she invested in some clothes and a stylish haircut, started wearing a little makeup, and wow. She looked like a modern day Grace Kelly.
“Hi, Bumppo!” I said, hugging her proudly. “You look gorgeous!”
“So do you,” she returned generously. “Every time I see you, I think I’d sell my soul for that hair.”
“This hair is the devil’s hair. Don’t be silly,” I said, but I was pleased. Only Natalie could be sincere about that, the sweet angel.
I ordered my standard, generic G&T, not being a really sophisticated drinker. Nat ordered a dirty martini. “What kind of vodka would you like?” the waiter asked.
“Belvedere if you’ve got it,” she answered with a smile.
“We do. Excellent choice,” he said, obviously smitten. I smiled,