Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [45]
Jeff and I were meeting for a drink in Farmington, and then I was moving onto appetizers with Leon. Leon was a science teacher, so I already knew we’d have lots to talk about… in fact, our three e-mails thus far had been about teaching, the joys and the potholes, and I was looking forward to hearing more about his personal life.
I drove to the appointed place, one of those chain places near a mall that have a lot of faux Tiffany and sports memorabilia. I recognized Jeff from his picture—he was short and kind of cute, brown hair, brown eyes, an appealing dimple in his left cheek. We gave each other that awkward lean-in hug where we weren’t sure how far to go and ended up touching cheeks like society matrons. But Jeff acknowledged the awkwardness with a little smile, which made me like him. We followed the maitre d’ to a little table, ordered a glass of wine and started in on the small talk, and it was then that things started to go south.
“So, Jeff, I’ve been wondering about your job. What exactly do you do?” I asked, sipping my wine.
“I own my own business,” he said.
“Right. What kind?” I asked.
“Entertainment.” He smiled furtively and straightened the salt and pepper shakers.
I paused. “Ah. And how exactly do you entertain?”
He grinned. “Like this!” he said, leaning back. Then, with a flourish and a sudden, sharp flick of his hands, he set the table on fire.
Later, after the firefighters had put out the flames and deemed it safe to return to the restaurant, a large portion of which was covered in the foamy fire retardant that had doused the “entertainment,” Jeff turned beseechingly to me. “Doesn’t anyone love magic anymore?” he asked, looking at me, as confused as a kicked puppy.
“You have the right to remain silent,” a police officer duly recited.
“I didn’t mean the fire to be so big,” Jeff informed the cop, who didn’t seem to care much.
“So you’re a magician?” I asked, fiddling with the burnt end of a lock of my hair, which had been slightly singed.
“It’s my dream,” he said as the officer cuffed him. “Magic is my life.”
“Ah,” I said. “Best of luck with that.”
Was it me, or did a lot of men leave in handcuffs when I was around? First Callahan O’Shea, now Jeff. I had to hand it to Callahan—he looked a lot better in restraints than poor Jeff, who resembled a crated ferret. Yes, when it came to handcuffs, Callahan O’Shea was—I stopped that train of thought. I had another date. Leon the teacher was next in line, so on I went, glad that the firefighters of Farmington were so efficient that I wasn’t even late.
Leon was much more promising. Balding in that attractive Ed Harris way, wonderful sparkling blue eyes and a boyish laugh, he seemed delighted in me, which of course I found very appealing. We talked for a half hour or so, filling each other in on our teaching jobs, bemoaning helicopter parents and extolling the bright minds of children.
“So, Grace, let me ask you something,” he said, pushing our potato skins aside to touch my hand, making me glad I’d splurged on a manicure/pedicure this week. His face grew serious. “What would you say is the most important thing in your life?”
“My family,” I answered. “We’re very close. I have two sisters, one older, one—”
“I see. What else, Grace? What would come next?”
“Um, well… my students, I guess. I really love them, and I want so much for them to be excited about history. They—”
“Uh-huh. Anything else, Grace?”
“Well,” I said, a bit miffed at being cut off twice now, “sure. I mean, I volunteer with a senior citizen group, we do ballroom dancing with my