Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [46]
“Are you religious?” Leon asked.
I paused. I was definitely one of those who’d classify herself as spiritual rather than religious. “Sort of. Yes, I mean. I go to church, oh, maybe once a month or so, and I—”
“I’m wondering what your feelings are on God.”
I blinked. “God?” Leon nodded. “Um, well God is… well, He’s great.” I imagined God rolling His eyes at me. Come on, Grace. I said, “Let there be light,” and bada-bing! There was light! Can’t you do better than “He’s great,” for God’s sake? Get it? For God’s sake? (I always imagined God had a great sense of humor. He’d have to, right?)
Leon’s bright (fanatical?) blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, He is great. Are you a Christian? Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”
“Well… sure.” Granted, I couldn’t ever remember anyone in my family (Mayflower descendants, remember?) ever using the term personal savior… We were Congregationalists, and things tended to stay a little more philosophical. “Jesus is also so… good.” And now I had Jesus, raising His head as He hung on the Cross. Wow. Thanks, Grace. This is what I get for dying up here?
“Jesus is my wingman,” Leon said proudly. “Grace, I’d like to take you to my church so you can experience the true meaning of holiness.”
Check, please! “Actually, Leon, I have a church,” I said. “It’s very nice. I can’t say I’m interested in going anywhere else.”
The fanatical blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t get the impression you’ve truly embraced God, Grace.” He frowned.
Okay. Enough was enough. “Well, Leon, let’s be honest. You’ve known me forty-two minutes. How the hell would you know?”
At the H-E-double hockey sticks word, Leon reared back. “Blasphemer!” he hissed. “I’m sorry, Grace! We do not have a future together! You’re going straight to you-know-where.” He stood up abruptly.
“Judge not,” I reminded him. “Nice meeting you, and good luck with finding someone,” I said. I was pretty sure God would be proud. Not just a quote from the Good Book, but turning the other cheek and everything.
Safely in my car, I saw with dismay that it was only eight o’clock. Only eight, and already I’d been in a fire and condemned to hell… and still no boyfriend. I sighed.
Well. I knew a good cure for loneliness, and its name was Golden Meadows. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in Room 403.
“Her white satin chemise slid to the floor in a seductive whisper.” I paused, glanced at my one-person audience, then continued. “His eyes grew cobalt with desire, his loins burning at the sight of her creamy décolletage. ‘I am yours, my lord,’ she said, her lips ripe with sultry promise. Reaching for her breast, his mind raced… Okay, that’s a dangling participle if I ever heard one. His mind did not, I assure you, reach for her breast.”
Another glance at Mr. Lawrence revealed the same level of attention as before—that is to say, none. Mr. Lawrence was nonverbal, a tiny, shrunken man with white hair and vacant eyes, hands that constantly plucked at his clothes and the arms of his easy chair. In all the months I’d been reading to him, I had never heard him speak. Hopefully, he was enjoying our sessions on some level and not mentally screaming for James Joyce. “Well. Back to our story. His mind raced. Dare he take the promise of forbidden passion and sheath his rock-hard desire in the heaven of her soft and hidden treasure?”
“I think he should go for it.”
I jumped, dropping my tawdry paperback. Callahan O’Shea stood in the doorway, shrinking the size of the room. “Irish! What are you doing here?” I asked.
“What are you doing here, is a better question.”
“I’m reading to Mr. Lawrence. He likes it.” Hopefully Mr. Lawrence wouldn’t lurch out of his two-year silence and deny that fact. “He’s part of my reading program.”
“Is that right? He’s also my grandfather,” Callahan said, crossing his arms.
My head jerked back in surprise. “This is your grandfather?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh. Well, I read to… to patients sometimes.”
“To everyone?”
“No,