Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [6]
“Aw, listen to you, you big softy. Your sisterly concern brings tears to my eyes.”
She grinned. “Well? Tell your big sis.”
I took a long pull from my gin and tonic. “I’m getting a little tired of people saying how brave I am, like I’m some marine who jumped on a grenade. Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
“I wish I was single all the time,” Margs answered as her husband approached.
“Hey, Stuart!” I said fondly. “I didn’t see you at school today.” Stuart was the school psychologist at Manning and had in fact alerted me to the history department opening six years ago. He sort of lived the stereotype…oxford shirts covered by argyle vests, tasseled loafers, the required beard. A gentle, quiet man, Stuart had met Margaret in graduate school and been her devoted servant ever since.
“How are you holding up, Grace?” he asked, handing me a fresh version of my signature drink, a gin and tonic with lemon.
“I’m great, Stuart,” I answered.
“Hello, Margaret, hello, Stuart!” called my aunt Reggie from the dance floor. Then she saw me and froze. “Oh, hello, Grace, don’t you look pretty. And chin up, dear. You’ll be dancing at your own wedding one day soon.”
“Gosh, thanks, Aunt Reggie,” I answered, giving my sister a significant look. Reggie gave me a sad smile and drifted away to gossip.
“I still think it’s freakish,” Margs said. “How Andrew and Natalie could ever… Gentle Jesus and His crown of thorns! I just cannot wrap my brain around that one. Where are they, anyway?”
“Grace, how are you? Are you just putting up a good front, honey, or are you really okay?” This from Mom who now approached our table. Dad, pushing his ancient mother in her wheelchair, trailed behind.
“She’s fine, Nancy!” he barked. “Look at her! Doesn’t she seem fine to you? Leave her alone! Don’t talk about it.”
“Shut it, Jim. I know my children, and this one’s hurting. A good parent can tell.” She gave him a meaningful and frosty look.
“Good parent? I’m a great parent,” Dad snipped right back.
“I’m fine, Mom. Dad is right. I’m peachy. Hey, doesn’t Kitty look great?”
“Almost as pretty as at her first wedding,” Margaret said.
“Have you seen Andrew?” Mom asked. “Is it hard, honey?”
“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Really. I’m great.”
Mémé, my ninety-three-year-old grandmother, rattled the ice in her highball glass. “If Grace can’t keep a man, all’s fair in love and war.”
“It’s alive!” Margaret said.
Mémé ignored her, gazing at me with disparaging, rheumy eyes. “I never had trouble finding a man. Men loved me. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.”
“And you still are,” I said. “Look at you! How do you do it, Mémé? You don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”
“Please, Grace,” my father muttered wearily. “It’s gas on a fire.”
“Laugh if you want, Grace. At least my fiancé never threw me over.” Mémé knocked back the rest of her Manhattan and held out her glass to Dad, who took it obediently.
“You don’t need a man,” Mom said firmly. “No woman does.” She leveled a significant look at my father.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Dad snapped.
“It means what it means,” Mom said, her voice loaded.
Dad rolled his eyes. “Stuart, let’s get another round, son. Grace, I stopped by your house today and you really need new windows. Margaret, nice job on the Bleeker case, honey.” It was Dad’s way to jam in as much into a conversation as possible, sort of get things over with so he could ignore my mother (and his). “And, Grace, don’t forget about Bull Run next weekend. We’re Confederates.”
Dad and I belonged to Brother Against Brother, the largest group of Civil War reenactors in three states. You’ve seen us…we’re the weirdos who dress up for parades and stage battles in fields and at parks, shooting each other with blanks and falling in delicious agony to the ground. Despite the fact that Connecticut didn’t see a whole lot of Civil War action (alas), we fanatics in Brother Against Brother ignored